Hey, theater. It’s been a while. You up?

I know we agreed to see other people. We decided that space was better for both of us, and that we had tried to force it for too long.

And it looks like you’re doing great. I’m trying my best to be happy for you, every time I see you taking another soprano for “Little Women” or “Bye Bye Birdie.” You know, our old haunts.

Do they sing you the same songs that I always sang you — “Somewhere That’s Green” from “Little Shop of Horrors,” or “What I Did For Love” from “A Chorus Line?”

You’ve always had a type, and I was never it. We called it quits because you were getting high all the time, and I was only a mezzo-soprano — clearly, you were out of my league, and we wanted different things. After a few years, you became career-driven; what started off as something fun and passionate was suddenly serious.

But theater, I miss you. I miss the joy of seeing hundreds of people pay money to watch us make our magic together. I miss the heat of your spotlights, and I miss every time we’d climax on the act one finale. I miss bending over for curtain call, to uproarious, adoring applause, and I miss trying out new positions with you, from Ursula in “The Little Mermaid” to the Second Murderer in “Macbeth.”

I tried to forget about you — I tried for a whole year. But every now and then, a friend will bring you up, or I’ll meet someone you’ve been seeing lately. And then I can’t stop thinking about you.

I’m sorry to come crashing back into your life like this. I’m not even sure what I really want from you. But every now and then, I get a little bit lonely, and I think about what might’ve been had you and I been more serious about each other.

At the end of the day, I just have to remind myself why I left you.

Remember “The Wizard of Oz?” No, I bet you wouldn’t, would you? You take everybody to “The Wizard of Oz.” I’ll refresh your memory — you invited me over with promises of Glinda, or even Dorothy. You asked me to send you headshots. But when it came time for the cast list to drop, it wasn’t anywhere near where it was supposed to be. You cast me as the tornado.

The tornado.  

You didn’t even want me to speak; you wanted me in and out in an instant, a one-scene stand that nobody would remember.

Doesn’t ring a bell? What about the time we went rough and messy, with “High School Musical?”

Yeah, I try to forget that one, too.

Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I started to get the sense that I was always going to want you more than you were ever going to want me.

I don’t want you to think that I’m petty, or that I wanted too much from you. I didn’t need a big part in every show, or even in most shows — but I think the parts you gave me were a symptom of our incompatibility. I wanted to blame it on all the other girls, I really did, but they deserved every bit of your love, and you deserved to have people that could support your dreams. That doesn’t mean I’m not sad about it.

But I think, in the process of writing this, I’ve realized that I really am better off without you. You were there for me at a time in my life when I needed you — I was shy, wanted to meet people and wasn’t sure what I was passionate about. I’m a better person because we spent so many years together, and I’m grateful to you.

Do you think we could still be friends? Maybe we can meet up sometime and catch up. I heard you’re still hanging around “The Phantom of the Opera” — maybe I could come by sometime. You could introduce me to some of your new friends, and I could show you mine — I know you’d get along really well with improv, and you and writing probably would have more in common than you’d think. It doesn’t make sense for us to cut the music just because we’ve reached the sad part of our show; there’s still plenty of other songs we could sing.

Oh, by the way, I think I left some of my costumes in your dressing room. I might come by to pick them up, but don’t expect any kind of encore.

“Cutting Room Floor” columns are one-off, arts-oriented pieces written by Daily Cal staff members.