Congratulations – or perhaps condolences – are in order. You’ve done it. You’ve fallen for a theatre kid. Maybe it was their ability to deliver an impassioned monologue about the human condition at the ADC Bar. Maybe it was their inexplicable but unwavering devotion to Stephen Sondheim. Maybe it was just the eyeliner. Either way, you’re here now, and you’re in deep. It’s the kind of decision that makes you understand why #Camfession44413 once suggested theatre kids should be banned from all public places.

Dating in Cambridge is already a nightmare. Between supervisions, society obligations, and an academic workload designed to slowly drain the soul, finding time for romance is an Olympic-level achievement. And yet, somehow, you’ve managed not just to date, but to date a theatre kid. Incredible. Or foolish.

You may have thought dating a theatre kid would be just like dating any other Cambridge student. You were wrong. While your NatSci friends disappear into the lab and your Engling mates rage against the latest reading list, your theatre-obsessed significant other is preparing for their real degree: student theatre. And guess what? You’re now an unpaid intern – speed-walking from Sidgwick to the ADC with a latte in one hand and their crumpled script in the other, sitting through endless tech runs, and somehow still paying for your own ticket.

“If you fail to provide adequate notes, be prepared for a wounded silence over post-show drinks”

Before long, your tiny college room transforms into a cluttered shrine to the performing arts. A dog-eared Twelfth Night sits on the desk, an annotated Waiting for Godot beside your bed. Then the props appear: a suspiciously bloodstained ruff, a selection of wigs, and a sword that may or may not be real. By the time you find yourself drinking tea out of a mug that reads “All the world’s a stage”, it’s too late. It starts with the scripts.

With your room fully commandeered, your social life follows suit. Remember when your evenings were spent in pubs, procrastinating essays, or enjoying the occasional formal? Those days are gone. Now, your entire calendar revolves around rehearsals, performances, and a never-ending stream of student productions. Your weekends? Late-night performances in obscure college basements. Your weeknights?

Previews, dress rehearsals, opening nights, and of course, the compulsory post-show congratulation. You will watch plays about things you did not know plays could be about. A three-hour devised piece exploring the concept of time. A one-man show performed entirely in mime. A gritty reinterpretation of The Importance of Being Earnest set in a college buttery. By the third show of the term, you’ll stop questioning why you’re here. By the fifth, you’ll develop the ability to nod sagely when someone says, “the lighting design was really saying something”.

Best believe your compliments will never be normal again. A simple “You were great!” will be met with disdain. Instead, you must master the art of the specific compliment: “That wasn’t just acting – that was a full spiritual possession. Do you need an exorcist or an Olivier?” or “Your presence on stage was palpable, like an Old Testament prophet – but make it Brecht.” Or there’s my favourite: “I felt the weight of your character’s childhood trauma in the way you held that chair.” If you fail to provide adequate notes, be prepared for a wounded silence over post-show drinks.

“Just when you think you might get a break, you realise there is no escape, only intermission”

As if that weren’t enough, theatre kids do not have normal friendship groups. They have troupes. And within these troupes, there are factions, feuds, and rivalries that make Hamlet look like a mere punch up in Revs. Someone will be locked in an eternal battle with the director. Someone else will be locked deep in tension with the assistant stage manager. And at least one couple will break up just before opening night and continue playing romantic leads opposite each other anyway.

You will hear all of it. You will have to take sides. You will accidentally become entangled in a production because they’re “desperate for a walk-on role” and suddenly, you’re playing ‘Man in Pub #2’ in an edgy eco-anarcho-minimalist-queer-bourgeois reworking of Macbeth. Just when you think you might get a break, you realise there is no escape, only intermission. By now, you may be wondering, “Is it worth it?” The exhaustion, the emotional turmoil, the sheer number of existential monologues whispered to you at 3 a.m.?

Yes. Because theatre kids, for all their chaos, love big. They are passionate, ridiculous, and capable of making a pub trip feel like an afterparty at The Globe. They will quote Oscar Wilde to you over breakfast, convince you to sit through a three-hour opera, and, if you’re lucky, let you take the final bow in their personal drama.

You signed up for this. Welcome to the show.