★ kozy

The sky was bleached white. 

That was the first thing you noticed as you stepped onto the carpet. Not the crowd, not the cameras, not even the frenzied call of your name. Just the sheer volume of light. The way it crashed against your skin like static. The way it pulsed in and out of rhythm with your heart.

You didn’t flinch. Not like you had at your first premiere, when everything was too loud, too bright, and the sound of your name had felt like accomplishment enough. Not like the nights that followed either, when the noise had stayed in your head and the lights burned behind your eyes long after you were home.

Now? Now, you knew better. You knew the angle of your chin, the set of your shoulders, the exact width of a smile that looked effortless. You knew how to move, how to navigate the chaos like muscle memory, every step rehearsed until instinct took over. Not because the light had changed, but because it hadn’t, so you did.

Maybe that was the only reason you’d made it through the week at all. It had been long. Heavier than you wanted to admit. Full of headlines you ignored and memories you’d thought you buried deeper than you actually did. But at least here on the carpet, there was order, predictably, questions you could answer without thinking and a script to keep you safe.

A reporter shoved a mic at you the second you reached the crowd. You caught the movement in time, the mic grazing past what would have otherwise been a bruised chin. Your brows rose in surprise, then narrowed in irritation, before you smoothed them out just as a photo could have caught either.

Somewhere, a camera was already waiting.

“Sorry, Y/N! Just a quick question,” the culprit in front called out, his voice sharp and easy, and not the least bit sorry. You half considered ignoring him for his rudeness alone, but then you saw his grin. Confident. Expectant. Already imagining tomorrow's headline: Rude celebrity snubs press, if you didn’t play along. 

With a sigh, you resolved yourself to the situation, catching your assistant's glance. First at you, then at the nearest camera, then back again. His expression was a quiet plea: Smile. Remember. Smile. 

You did, not because you wanted to, but because you could already imagine the phone calls he’d get if you didn’t. You turned toward the reporters, as if the decision had been yours all along.

“Hi, yes. Of course.”

The man beamed, satisfied at the sight before him: Hollywood’s newest It Girl, all polish and bone, wrapped in an outfit delicate enough to imply elegance and, more importantly, restraint. “So,” he began, leaning in like he owned the space, “How are you feeling tonight? Nervous? Scared?”

You sighed, just softly enough not to be heard, and wondered how this question could have possibly been worth a near-bruised chin. Still, you answered. A soundbite you’d rehearsed in the car. Something about being honored, about the incredible cast, about the privilege of storytelling. But before you even finished, another voice was cutting in. “And how surreal does that feel?”

This reporter was closer. You didn’t remember anyone stepping forward, but now a camera was nearly shoved in your face. Not that the reporter was asking a real question, of course. More like a prompt to be charming. To be grateful. To look small in the face of something big, as if all of this had been handed to you instead of fought for. Sacrificed for. 

You smiled wider. Another answer surfaced on cue, delivered with the exact cadence of humility and grace your team trained you for.

 “Wild. There's no other word for it.”

The cameras flashed, blinding you. You tilted your head, letting them catch your good side.

“Y/N! Film talk aside. Is there anyone out there you’d want to thank while you’re here?" a new voice shouted from further back, loud enough to cut through the noise. Someone cursed as they were shoved aside; someone else jostled your elbow as they fought to reclaim their spot.

You pretended to think, letting the silence draw out just enough to fake sincerity, “My team, of course.” An easy answer, safe enough to escape headlines. “Both my agency and my family and friends who’ve supported me along the way.”

Your assistant gave you an approving nod. You turned toward another reporter.

The same voice came again, sharper this time, “Anyone you’d like to thank by name, though? Maybe someone you’d like to shout out? Or—” A pause. A click of a camera. Then: “People say you’ve been spotted out with Lara from Katseye. Is there something going on there? Should we be watching for a personal announcement soon?”

You paused, almost impressed at how quickly a harmless question had turned into an excuse to dig into your life. And to bring up Katseye of all people…your smile thinned, annoyance flickering behind your eyes. The beginnings of a headache pressed sharply into your temples, a faint echo of that night. Of voices sharp in the dark. Hands trembling where no one could see. Names that were meant to stay buried.

You shoved the memory right back where it belonged. Locked it down hard. The carpet was supposed to be an escape, a distraction from it all. There was no room for thoughts like those here. You wouldn’t allow it.

“Who else should I thank, you asked?” You wondered aloud for the cameras, smooth and noncommittal. “That’s a hard one…” Experience taught you that sometimes if you ignored a question long enough, it would die on its own. The reporter who asked it would just have to take the hint.

He didn’t.

“Are you saying there’s nothing between you and Lara Raj? Or should we take that smile as confirmation, enough?”

You clenched your jaw. You’d always known pushiness paid the bills, but that didn’t make it any easier to tolerate. 

A hand tapped your shoulder, then. Too familiar, too entitled. Wrong in every way a touch shouldn’t be. You shook off the touch, but the feeling stayed anyway. 

“No, definitely not. But first—Hold on, guys, let's take a few steps back, okay?” You chuckled, easy, stepping away to make space to breathe. The crowd stepped forward with you in the same breath. The air suddenly felt tighter than it had any right to.

“Is there someone else then?” “Is that why you’ve been missing from projects?” “The people have been wondering?” 

And there it was again, that word, people, like it was a claim. Like you owed them proof of something you’d never offered in the first place. Like your heart was a room they’d paid admission to, and you had the nerve to keep the lights off. Another camera swung toward your face. Someone’s elbow brushed your arm. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make your skin crawl anyways.

You shifted your attention to new reporters who weren’t shouting. Trying to block out the ones who were, “There’s simply too many people to thank. I owe my success to everyone.”

Your meek attempt at a plea fell on deaf ears. The crowd turned on you. 

“Come on, don’t hold out!” “Give us a name!” “Who is Y/N L/N seeing?” “Does she have someone special back home?” “A best friend?” “A secret lover?” “Costar? “Give us something to work with.”

The voices began to bleed together, one after another, until they stopped sounding like questions altogether and started to feel like demands. You shot a worried glance at your assistant, but he was nowhere to be seen, “Guys, come on, one at a time!” 

Your words were swallowed by the noise, as the crowd pressed closer.

“Please.”

A sharp pinch bloomed between your brows again, and your jaw clenched so tight, it began to hurt. But worse, was knowing that you were losing the crowd completely. 

Because truthfully, you should have known what to say. You should have known how to handle these sorts of questions. You always did. But the voices were louder than they should have been, the questions sharper, cutting in a way they had not done so in a long time, like someone had stripped you of your usual defenses and left you exposed beneath the lights. The gnawing in your head came back tenfold, falling in sync with the relentless pulse of the flashes and new mics shoved toward your face: every burst of light scattering the lines you’d practiced for moments exactly like this.

And in the chaos your mind scrambled for polished answers that were no longer there, media training washed away until all that was left was one name. One terrible, haunting name. 

Uninvited. Unwelcome.

Manon.

Not part of any script. And certainly, not someone you should have remembered. Not here. Not now. Not when even the simple act of remembering her made the dull ache behind your eyes sharpen, pressing like a bruise you could never stop touching, no matter how much it hurt.

You swallowed hard, almost choking on the shape of a name that didn’t belong, a half-formed answer on your tongue when—

“Alright, that’s enough for tonight,” Your assistant finally cut in, stepping between you and the crowd with a too-bright smile. Usually, that would have earned him a cutting glare for doing so. Tonight, you were simply grateful. 

Mercifully, like a tide pulling back, the questions faltered immediately, replaced by groans of protest and the rapid clicks of cameras chasing you as your assistant ushered you toward the glowing exit. You forced a smile, pretending to be disappointed to leave, pretending you weren’t clinging to the interruption like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling. 

The cameras dulled as you stepped off the carpet, their heat and static fading with every stride you took further from the entrance, keeping with them the echo of what you almost let slip, and the outline of what you didn’t.

When the two of you finally got far enough away for you to breathe again, your assistant paused just abrupt enough to get your attention. Then, with a tenderness that almost felt insulting, he leaned in.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet enough to miss nearby ears, a flicker of genuine worry breaking through his usual nervous energy. It was unusual. And entirely out of character for him.

You stared at him for a long beat before answering, like you had to first translate the question into something you were allowed to say. “Yeah.” You forced a laugh that sounded almost real. “I just got tripped up there for a second.” 

You let the lie settle heavy between you, willing it into something you might believe, too.

He did not seem to buy it. His gaze lingered, quiet and weighted, like he’d been noticing more than you wanted him to. It made your skin crawl, and you forced yourself to hold still. You looked past him anyway, pretending you didn’t feel the question he didn’t ask, the truth he left sitting between you like something fragile.

He opened his mouth again when he realized, like he might try once more, like he wanted to push. But nothing ever came.

Accepting his silence, you turned on your heel and smoothed the fabric of your pants, giving yourself one last second to pull yourself together before heading for the tent where the rest of the cast waited, hoping, with whatever will you had left, that the ghost of unspoken names wouldn’t follow you in.

—

By the time you made it home, the day had already bled you dry.

The door shut behind you with a soft, expensive click. Too quiet. Too controlled. The kind of silence that felt curated rather than earned. The apartment lights came on automatically, bright and harsh, illuminating clean lines and pale surfaces that still didn’t feel like yours. Not that anything here ever did.

The place was luxurious in the way things were when they were chosen for you. Floor to ceiling windows. Neutral tones. Furniture arranged with intention rather than comfort. It had been presented as a gift, though you’d learned quickly that gifts like this came with expectations attached. A bribe disguised as generosity. A reminder that you were valued, and watched, and meant to be preserved exactly as you were.

Oscar winner, Y/N L/N lived here. Whatever scraps of you left over simply occupied the space.

You toed off your shoes by the door and paused, glancing around. Minimalist. Almost sterile. And still, somehow, too cluttered. Like too many things were asking something of you at once. You made a mental note to get rid of the chair by the window. You never sat in it anyway.

The kitchen gleamed in greeting.

You opened the fridge and cool light spilled over your bare feet. It was stocked to the brim, courtesy of your assistant, neat rows of things most people would have killed for. Artisan salads sealed in clear containers, still crisp. Pre-cut fruit arranged by color. Fancy yogurt with gold foil lids. Fresh pasta from that place everyone talked about. A cake box with a bakery logo you recognized from a brand email last week. Even leftovers from a restaurant you vaguely remembered nodding at during a conversation you barely heard.

It all looked incredible. It probably tasted even better.

You stared at it for a long moment before reaching past everything and grabbing a bottle of water from the door. Arrowhead. Gross. 

You twisted the cap, took a sip, and closed the fridge without a second glance.

The living room awaited you like it always did. Too open. Too exposed. The couch faced the television, and there, folded neatly at one end, was a blanket. A pillow tucked beside it. Evidence of your recent migration.

You hadn’t slept in your bedroom in days. Maybe longer. The bed felt inhospitable lately, like it was waiting for something you couldn’t give it. Though it wasn’t as if it really mattered. Sleep barely came either way. You sank onto the couch and pulled the blanket over your legs out of habit more than comfort. The fabric smelled faintly like detergent and something else you couldn’t place. You turned the television on without thinking.

Like clockwork, there you were.

The screen filled with your own face, perfectly lit, perfectly framed. Sitting across from a host whose smile was just wide enough to signal warmth without sincerity. She was laughing at something you’d said earlier, nodding along like she was in on the joke.

“And you just look incredible,” she said, eyes flicking down and back up again. “Really. Glowing. Is there anything you don’t nitpick about yourself?”

You watched yourself smile in response. A polite curve of the lips. Measured. Controlled. You noticed things you hadn’t let yourself notice before. The way your shoulders were held just a touch too rigid. How your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. How your answers landed flat, careful not to take up too much space.

You remembered how tired you’d been when you filmed this. How the makeup artist had asked if you wanted a break and how you’d said no without even looking up.

The host kept talking. Compliments piled up, one after another, bright and easy and meaningless. You reached for the remote when the screen cut to a trailer clip, the opening notes swelling dramatically.

You turned it off before it got too far, the silence rushing back in, heavier this time. Your phone was in your hand before you realized you’d picked it up. Muscle memory. You opened Twitter. Not your main. Your spam. The place that was supposed to feel quieter.

Your timeline was flooded anyway. Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal. Someone called you untouchable. Someone else said you were the standard. Your PR team had clearly been busy. 

You scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled. The words blurred together until they stopped meaning anything at all.

Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal.

Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal. 

Perfect. Golden.

Empty.

Your phone buzzed again, sharp against your palm, and this time you didn’t flinch when you saw Lara’s name.

She’d sent a video. A reaction clip. Ten minutes long. You didn’t know how she even got ahold of your number, but she did. You hesitated, then pressed play anyway.

The screen filled with familiar faces, all of them crowded together, laughing, leaning into one another. The Katseye girls were watching the finished music video, reacting in real time. You noticed that they looked tired in the good way. Proud in the way that came from effort paying off.

You watched as they pointed things out to each other, rewinding moments, gasping at transitions. Compliments flew freely, unguarded. Someone whistled. Someone clapped. They looked happy. Every now and then, someone threw a not so subtle comment your way. Praising the direction. The concept. The vision. You let the words wash right past you. 

Your gaze drifted to the right side of the frame. A place you’d been careful not to look too closely at.

Manon was sitting there, half turned toward the screen, chin resting on her hand. She’d been quieter than the others today, eyes focused, lips held in a line that didn’t give much away. You pretended not to notice the dark circles under her eyes. She seemed to pretend as well. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything as the other girls chatted around her. Just sat there. Watching.

You told yourself you were just taking stock, the way you did with everything on camera, angles and expressions and who was talking and who wasn’t. A quick check, nothing more. But even then, you couldn’t pretend to ignore the dull ache that tightened in your chest as you did. The way your eyes snagged on every sharp corner of her face, the way they lingered on the softer lines too. It was the kind of noticing that only came from having spent too long looking at someone until the details stopped being details and started being familiar. You filed it away on instinct, that small, reflexive flare of care you didn’t have permission to feel anymore.

Then, so softly you almost missed it, Manon spoke.

“Yeah. It was good.” The other girls seemed just as surprised as you were. 

Four words. That was it. Not much of a compliment, barely a sentence at that. Still, you found yourself swallowing hard, something tight loosening in your chest, just a fraction. Not relief. Not happiness. Something closer to pride. The kind you didn’t want, didn’t trust, but felt anyway.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it, brief and stupidly soft. You cursed yourself at the betrayal of it, then sat there long after the video ended. The screen dimmed, then asked if you’d like to replay the clip again. Your thumb moved in response, but it never pressed down. Eventually the question faded on its own.

—

The sun rose the next day like it always did. You groaned regardless.

Your phone was already full when you checked it. Messages stacked neatly into obligation. Gym. Press. Meeting with ambassadors. A follow up call that wasn’t labeled urgent but might as well have been. The word break hadn’t been in your vocabulary for a very long time. Routine had etched itself into your bones, and become something you followed even when you no longer remembered choosing it.

The letter arrived at one P.M. exactly.

You knew the time because you had just finished another appointment, shoes still in your hand as you left the exam room. The doctor had warned you of the usual. More water. Less energy drinks. And for the love of god, food that actually nourished your body.

You nodded along like you were going to listen.

Both of you knew you wouldn’t.

They kept you longer than planned this time. A bag of fluids hung beside the bed, clear and unassuming, the slow drip familiar enough that you barely noticed when it started. If the media had known how often you ended up here, they would have torn you apart for it. Headlines about fragility and irresponsibility. Concern disguised as cruelty. Which was exactly why they never would.

A nurse stopped by to check your fluids. You shifted your arm so she could see the IV line, untangled and running clean. She gave you a small nod and you smiled back in acknowledgement. The hospital had become something like a second home since the first accident. Quiet hallways. Neutral walls. Staff who didn’t ask questions anymore. There had been a time, once, when you’d joked about never wanting to step foot in a place like this unless it was to deliver your children.

You and Manon had only been dating three months then.

Most people probably would have been startled by a comment like that. Too fast. Too much. Too you. But Manon hadn’t even flinched. She’d laughed, bright and unafraid, and said something about how dramatic you were, and how she loved you more for it. You had known, even then, that she wasn’t scared of being loved by you.

Things had clearly changed, but there was no one to blame but you. 

By the time the IV was finished, you felt steadier. Lighter. Like you could breathe without effort again. You thanked the nurse, promised yourself you’d eat something later, and stepped back into the day like nothing had happened.

The letter was waiting when you got into the car.

Neat, crisp white card paper. Delicate, ornate flowers pressed into the corners. It felt less like a letter and more like an invitation meant to be kept. Inside was a postcard, heavy in your hand. A handwritten ‘you’re invited’ inked in black cursive.

A music video launch party. Livestream with fans first, then a private event after.

The handwriting was unmistakably Sophia’s. Careful, slightly slanted. At the bottom, the other girls had signed their names, clustered together in different styles. It was cute. Almost endearing. You felt bad knowing you were going to say no.

“You’re going,” Your assistant spoke up at that moment. 

You looked up sharply, brows knitted in immediate protest. You hadn’t even noticed him entering the car, but before you could open your mouth to speak, he had begun talking again. Said you’d be part of the livestream itself. As the debuting director. Unorthodox, sure, but beneficial for both teams. The surprise would generate buzz. Fans would love it. Haters would talk. Everyone would watch.

You tried to tell him you didn’t care when your phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

You tapped it open without thinking and froze.

‘Soon…’

Just that one word and four dots. A countdown ticking below. Your story.

Within seconds, the likes began to pour in, fans asking what the countdown was for. Even more speculating on their own. 

You exhaled slowly: the decision clearly having already been made for you. Your assistant watched your face carefully as you did. Then shook his head, almost in disappointment, “What did you think was going to happen, Y/N.” He said, not unkindly. “You chose this. Remember.”

You did. That was the problem.

The next few days passed in a blur. Meetings. Fittings. Calls taken on speaker while you stared out windows you didn’t remember arriving at. There were times when you’d pull the video sent up again and rewind to the moment Manon spoke. Between appointments. In the backseat. In bathroom stalls with the sink running. Never to actually play it, just to remember you could. Not that you ever would. Then suddenly, you were back at Geffen.

It had been a while since you’d last been here, though six weeks hardly felt like enough time for the place to feel unfamiliar. Lara was waiting near the entrance when you arrived, leaning against the wall like she owned it.

“Hey, superstar,” she said, grin already in place.

Megan appeared shortly behind her, offering a quick hug before steering you down the maze of hallways. They talked as they walked, filling the space with easy noise. Dance practice. A potential tour. A livestream that earned the two of them an hour of media training.

You followed along, smiling when prompted, nodding at the right moments.

Still, an unsettling weight began to gather in your stomach the closer you got to set. You told yourself you were imagining things, that you were just tired, just wired, just being dramatic. But the dread felt very real. 

Eventually, you reached your destination.

The dance room had been rearranged.

Chairs were set up in a loose arc, cameras already positioned. It was strange to think the last time you’d stood here, it had been to go over choreography notes. Blocking. Transitions. Stranger still how small the room felt now, how suffocating the cameras were despite years of familiarity. Someone handed you a diagram of the seating arrangement: 

Lara. Megan. Yoonchae. Sophia. Daniela. Manon. You.

You stopped short when you saw it. 

Manon did too.

Her surprise was briefer than yours, quickly smoothed over, but you caught it anyway. She looked away the moment your eyes grazed hers, fixing her attention somewhere over your shoulder instead. You might have been hurt, if you weren’t more grateful. You weren’t sure you could’ve held yourself together if she hadn’t.

It was the first time you’d been in the same room since that night, six weeks since Meret had slipped from your mouth and split something open you’d sworn was already buried. Six weeks since regret you were never meant to carry came flooding up anyway, dragging ruined pieces of what was never meant to break. Six weeks since the most terrifying part became the quietest truth: it had felt right, even as it cut.

The couch they guided everyone towards was clearly meant for five. You offered to sit on the floor when you realized, already lowering yourself when Sophia insisted you stay. Objections were waved away. People were shuffled around. By some miracle, everyone fit.

You and Manon, though, didn’t exactly get a choice in the ‘how’. 

She pressed into you the moment she sat. You tried not to think about how her warmth came with it, even when her elbow nudged into your side, almost sharp with it, a small, steady pressure that bordered on painful, and you would have been more surprised if it didn't bruised.

Your body adjusted anyway, making room on instinct. Like it remembered her, like it had been trained to accommodate her weight and angles without complaint. It felt almost mockingly familiar, the echo of tangled limbs, of closeness that used to be effortless.

She shifted, maybe sensing your stiffness, and her hair brushed your arm as she did, soft strands tickling your skin in little, absent-minded strokes that made your throat tighten. Nothing meant. Nothing offered. Just contact, accidental and unavoidable, and still your nerves lit up like it mattered.

And then her scent, a waft of it every time she breathed or moved, catching at you like a hand at the back of your neck. You held your breath without meaning to, like taking her in too fully would make it disappear. The perfume was different than you remembered, or maybe it was just new on her, brighter at first, then deeper underneath, but it still hit the same tender place in you. Still overwhelming, because it was her. Because it meant she was close enough to breathe in. 

The livestream started with great excitement.

The numbers climbed exactly as you’d expected. One hundred thousand. Two. Five. Seven. The comments flooded in faster than you could read. Katseye followed their script, practiced and bright. You followed yours too, answering questions, reacting on cue.

The collaboration went viral before the live even finished. 

You could tell without checking anything, in just the way a staffer’s phone lit up again and again and again, in the way someone off-camera mouthed ‘trending’ like a prayer. Almost sacred. In even the simple way the room seemed to get brighter as the others realized the same. 

Not that any of it mattered. Not to you. 

Through it all, you only found yourself stealing glances at Manon, an indulgence you’d never been strong enough to break. You half expected, mostly hoped, that she’d look at you, not like she once had, before everything broke, or when a future without each other had seemed impossible. Not even like she had while filming, when you’d been nothing more than an irritant, a thorn in her side. But a glance. Any acknowledgment, really, that you existed to her.

She didn’t look over. Not once.

You tried to pretend you didn’t notice, tried even harder to pretend it didn’t sting. You kept your face arranged the way you’d been taught, your posture easy, your hands still. Made sure to bury deep any flicker of need that might’ve slipped past. But your body betrayed you anyway, with an ache so old it felt humiliating, so hungry for even a sliver of something from Manon that heat rose in your throat like shame. The silence she gave you was so clean it almost felt deliberate and you wondered if this was the punishment you’d earned. 

All you knew was that when the live ended and she stood, peeling herself from the couch like it cost her nothing at all, something in you twisted so sharply it stole the breath right from your lungs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you found yourself unable to run away from the truth: left only with the memory of what it felt like to lose the one person all of this had ever been for, all over again.

—

The phantom cold of an ice pack washed over your skin.

A hand pressed it more firmly to your head, the chill biting sharp enough to make your breath catch. Someone hovered close, voice slow and practiced, asking the same questions like a prayer they’d learned by rote.

“Are you nauseous?” “Any ringing?” “Can you follow my finger?” “Are you seeing double again?”

You tried to shake your head. The motion sent pain ricocheting behind your eyes, bright and immediate, like a camera flash going off inside your skull. Your stomach rolled, then steadied. You swallowed hard, forcing your face into something calm.

“I’m fine,” You said anyway, lips cracking around the words.

The medic made a noise that said she didn’t believe you. She lifted your chin with two fingers and shone a light into your eyes. The tent smelled like alcohol wipes and sweat and the dusty sweetness of fabric that had been packed away too long. Outside, you could still hear the muffled thrum of set, the distant snap of someone clapping a slate, voices folding into each other, always urgent, always moving.

“You are not fine,” She said, soft but firm. “You took a hit, you insisted on finishing the take, and then you tried to walk it off. That is not how concussions work.”

You barely heard her.

All you could see was the watch on her wrist, the creeping numbers that meant you were running out of time, and the memory of last week’s call with Manon, missed and rotten in your chest. You’d been out of the country, stuck between airports and schedules and an agent who kept saying in ten minutes, in ten minutes, as if ten minutes was a currency you could just keep withdrawing. You’d stood in a fluorescent kiosk, palms sweating, trying to buy a SIM card you couldn’t get to work, trying to make your phone obey, trying not to imagine Manon staring at a blank screen, waiting until she hated herself for waiting.

You’d apologized so many times after that, all soft voices and excuses, until the apologies started to sound like lies too.

So this week you hadn’t allowed yourself to miss it.

Albeit, you never thought that one bad decision would land you in the infirmary. Still.

The tent flap snapped open.

Your assistant slipped in first, breathless, cheeks flushed from running. He was a funny man. Always in a suit and tie. Always looking disheveled, anyways. Your agent followed close behind, expression tight in that way that always meant she’d been polite to someone and resented it.

“Oh my God,” Your assistant said, taking in the ice pack, the medic’s light, the way your fingers shook where they were knotted together in your lap. “You can’t do this. You cannot do this again.”

You attempted something like a smile, but you think only one side lifted.

“I’m fine,” You repeated, because it was the only sentence you had that didn’t require you to feel what was happening, “ 'Tis just a bump.”

Your agent’s gaze cut over you like a blade assessing damage. She had the kind of intensity that was terrifying, even to you, even after a year. “That is not ‘just a bump,’ and you are not fine.” She sighed, long and deep, brimming with disappointment. “This is the third incident in two months, Y/N.” The last part, you hypothesize, was the real crime. “When will you learn?”

Defensiveness swelled through you, “It’s not an incident,” You said too quickly. The tent swayed at the edges of your vision. You blinked hard. “It was a slip.”

“It was careless,” Your agent corrected. Harsh. “And you have been careless lately.”

Your assistant leaned closer, voice dropping as if a whisper made it less serious. “She’s right you know. You need to sleep. You need to eat. You can’t keep living on espresso and spite.”

“I eat,” You lied.

The medic gave a small, unimpressed sound, like she’d heard every lie a thousand times.

Your assistant tried again, going for humor, as if hoping that might land better. “You know, if you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to have to tell your girlfriend.” He warned. You sat straighter at the mere mention of Manon.

Your agent’s head snapped toward him, as if just remembering the object of her ire. “Oh yes,” She said, her tone turning clipped and ugly, “the little girlfriend.”

The words hit like a slap.

Your assistant went still. The medic looked up from where she was checking your pulse, brows pinching together, suddenly aware she’d stepped into something private and vicious. Your stomach tightened, not from nausea this time, but from anger, clean and immediate.

“She’s not little,” You snapped, voice flat. The conversation entirely too rehashed and tired by now. 

Your agent lifted one shoulder as if the whole subject bored her. “She’s a distraction.”

“She’s a person,” You corrected, and it came out sharper than you meant. 

Your phone buzzed in your hand, breaking through the spell. You brought it up to your gaze.

Manon’s name filled the screen, grounding and unbearable all at once. Everything else fell away. Despite your better judgement, you ignored the white dots in your peripheral and answered the call before anyone could object. From beside you, your agent rolled her eyes when she realized and turned away, as if refusing to be a witness to this softness. She ducked out through the flap with a huff, the cold air following her out. Your medic sighed so loudly your assistant startled in place. You barely noticed.

Manon’s face appeared a second later, familiar in a way that made your chest ache, in a way it only ever did around her. Her hair was pulled back in a quick knot, strands escaping at her temples. No doubt the result of a long day of training. Even through the screen, you could see the fatigue sitting under her eyes, the kind you couldn’t powder away. 

Behind her, the background was nondescript, pale walls, a corner of a bed, the faint hum of somewhere communal. A place where privacy had to be created, not given. 

But none of it mattered, because when she saw you, she smiled, that soft, contagious smile you used to spend hours trying to memorize, only to be caught breathless every single time it returned, and you knew everything would be okay. You could never quite prepare yourself for it. You weren’t sure you ever wanted to. 

“Hey,” She said, soft and careful, like she’d been practicing that gentleness all day and saving it. “There you are.”

The relief was so immediate it almost made you dizzy.

“Hey,” You echoed back, and your voice betrayed you by warming without permission.

Manon’s gaze flicked as she took you in, quick and precise, scanning your face the way it always did when she was trying to read what you weren’t saying. You felt a twinge of worry.

“How are you?” She asked.

You adjusted the angle of your phone without thinking. You tilted it up so the ice pack disappeared. You shifted so the medic’s knee was out of frame. The cables, the medical kit, the small white tent walls, all of it stayed hidden behind your careful cropping.

“I’m good,” You said too fast. “Just busy. Long day on set. You know how it gets. How are you? How’s everything going over there?”

Manon didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her eyes stayed on you, sharp with concern. You watched her watch you. She always had a way of seeing past your defenses and right into your fractures, even when you didn’t want her to. She was the only one who ever did. Ever cared to. It was one of the many reasons you loved her. 

For a heartbeat, you thought she might push, might ask why your pupils looked uneven, why your smile was a fraction too fixed. 

You begged that she wouldn’t. You couldn’t take another question tonight. Not from her. Not when you’d already missed last week, and could still remember the tightness in her voice when she had said ‘it’s okay, I get it,’ when you’d known she didn’t.

So in a fit of desperation that had become too common, you did what you’d started doing more and more. You turned it around.

“Actually,” You blurted, forcing brightness into your tone, “I got something for your birthday today.”

Manon blinked, almost startled at the sudden change, then huffed out a small laugh. “My birthday isn’t anytime soon.”

You grinned, unable to help it, remembering the small trinket you had managed to purchase earlier that day, “It’s never too early.”

Her eyes softened, and the suspicion eased, replaced by something gentler, something you recognized as her choosing, for a moment, to let you hold her, even through a screen. You swallowed hard around the ache of it all, around the thought that if she were here you could tuck her into the curve of your body and finally, finally breathe again. The confession never left your mouth, but its weight settled heavy atop your throat. 

“I’m beginning to think you might like my birthday more than I do,” She teased, and it was not untrue.

You shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe, I do.” You admitted, and it came out as honest as anything you’d said all week.

Manon laughed then, a loud, unfiltered laugh. Real and perfect in a way that sat easy on her face. It made your vision blur, not from pain, but something worse. Something like want.

The medic moved again at your side, more insistent now, holding the ice pack up like she was done negotiating. Your assistant hovered just out of frame, hands half lifted as if he wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you. 

You kept your expression steady, even as you waved them away. Manon’s gaze narrowed anyway.

“Hey. Are you sure everything's okay?” She asked, softly. “You look…”

She hesitated, and you watched the thought cross her face, the decision forming. In that small, suspended moment, you knew she knew. You could see it in the slight tilt of her head, in the way her gaze fixed on you, softened, then sharpened. But then, like she was choosing mercy over truth, the fight bled from her eyes just as quickly. 

“I don’t know,” She said finally, and her smile returned, smaller. “Just tired. You look tired.”

You swallowed, throat tight. 

“Long day, that’s all.”

You watched her let herself believe the lie, watched the weight of the decision lift off her shoulders, and you didn’t understand why you almost wished she hadn’t.

“Okay.”

The conversation settled into its familiar rhythm after that. You asked about rehearsals. She complained about choreography that felt like punishment. You made her laugh by imitating someone important, careful not to name names. She told you a small win, a compliment from a coach, a moment when something clicked, and you praised her like your words could build a bridge across the miles.

And you both pretended.

She pretended she wasn’t living in hell reinvented.You pretended you weren’t halfway across the world, helpless, counting bruises you couldn’t see and injuries you wouldn’t admit to.

Every so often, her eyes would flick again, catching on something in your face. But every time, she chose to let it go all the same.

Eventually the call had to end, the conversation winding down the way it always did, the both of you reluctant to be the one who ended it, both of you aware of time like it was a third person sitting between you.

“Go sleep,” You finally told her, catching her lids fluttering  more with every passing second.

“I will if you will,” She shot back, and her eyes softened, like she knew you wouldn’t.

You smiled anyway.

“I love you,” She said, sudden and simple, like she wanted to anchor the words before the screen could go dark.

“I love you too,” You said back, and you meant it so much it almost made you sick.

Her smile turned smaller, more private. She glanced down, then back up, like she was deciding whether to say the next part. You waited with the patience that only ever came around her.

Then, right before the call ended, she leaned closer to her phone and whispered, “And I miss you. I miss you so much.” The words spilled out like a secret. 

They tumbled out and struck something in you that you’d kept hidden, buried deep so you wouldn’t drive yourself crazy, and you could only choke back the sudden burn of tears. The screen went black before you could respond, and you knew someone had probably taken her phone.

Still, you stared at your reflection for a long time after the call ended, the outline of your own face ghosted over the dark glass, eyes too bright, mouth still shaped around her name without meaning to be.

“I miss you too, Meret,” You finally whispered under your breath. So quietly the medic wouldn’t hear, so quietly your assistant wouldn’t either, as if scared saying it out loud might make it true in a way you couldn’t survive. You wished then you’d told her the truth, wished you could have confessed how hard everything had been: the exhaustion, the distance, the way your own life had started to feel like something you were sprinting through with your eyes half closed.

But then you pictured her face, the way her eyes would soften, the way her mouth would pull tight with worry, the way she would try to fix it, try to fix you, even from miles away when she was already fighting to hold herself together. And the selfishness slipped away.

The headache surged again, and this time you didn’t wave the ice pack away when the medic shoved it onto you. You let it press cold against your skull, let the sting bite, and when the words “let’s get you to the hospital” were said, you let yourself remember who all of this was for. Who all of this had ever been for.

—

The sky was bleached white. 

That was the first thing you noticed as you stepped onto the carpet. Not the crowd, not the cameras, not even the frenzied call of your name. Just the sheer volume of light. The way it crashed against your skin like static. The way it pulsed in and out of rhythm with your heart.

You didn’t flinch. Not like you had at your first premiere, when everything was too loud, too bright, and the sound of your name had felt like accomplishment enough. Not like the nights that followed either, when the noise had stayed in your head and the lights burned behind your eyes long after you were home.

Now? Now, you knew better. You knew the angle of your chin, the set of your shoulders, the exact width of a smile that looked effortless. You knew how to move, how to navigate the chaos like muscle memory, every step rehearsed until instinct took over. Not because the light had changed, but because it hadn’t, so you did.

Maybe that was the only reason you’d made it through the week at all. It had been long. Heavier than you wanted to admit. Full of headlines you ignored and memories you’d thought you buried deeper than you actually did. But at least here on the carpet, there was order, predictably, questions you could answer without thinking and a script to keep you safe.

A reporter shoved a mic at you the second you reached the crowd. You caught the movement in time, the mic grazing past what would have otherwise been a bruised chin. Your brows rose in surprise, then narrowed in irritation, before you smoothed them out just as a photo could have caught either.

Somewhere, a camera was already waiting.

“Sorry, Y/N! Just a quick question,” the culprit in front called out, his voice sharp and easy, and not the least bit sorry. You half considered ignoring him for his rudeness alone, but then you saw his grin. Confident. Expectant. Already imagining tomorrow's headline: Rude celebrity snubs press, if you didn’t play along. 

With a sigh, you resolved yourself to the situation, catching your assistant's glance. First at you, then at the nearest camera, then back again. His expression was a quiet plea: Smile. Remember. Smile. 

You did, not because you wanted to, but because you could already imagine the phone calls he’d get if you didn’t. You turned toward the reporters, as if the decision had been yours all along.

“Hi, yes. Of course.”

The man beamed, satisfied at the sight before him: Hollywood’s newest It Girl, all polish and bone, wrapped in an outfit delicate enough to imply elegance and, more importantly, restraint. “So,” he began, leaning in like he owned the space, “How are you feeling tonight? Nervous? Scared?”

You sighed, just softly enough not to be heard, and wondered how this question could have possibly been worth a near-bruised chin. Still, you answered. A soundbite you’d rehearsed in the car. Something about being honored, about the incredible cast, about the privilege of storytelling. But before you even finished, another voice was cutting in. “And how surreal does that feel?”

This reporter was closer. You didn’t remember anyone stepping forward, but now a camera was nearly shoved in your face. Not that the reporter was asking a real question, of course. More like a prompt to be charming. To be grateful. To look small in the face of something big, as if all of this had been handed to you instead of fought for. Sacrificed for. 

You smiled wider. Another answer surfaced on cue, delivered with the exact cadence of humility and grace your team trained you for.

 “Wild. There's no other word for it.”

The cameras flashed, blinding you. You tilted your head, letting them catch your good side.

“Y/N! Film talk aside. Is there anyone out there you’d want to thank while you’re here?" a new voice shouted from further back, loud enough to cut through the noise. Someone cursed as they were shoved aside; someone else jostled your elbow as they fought to reclaim their spot.

You pretended to think, letting the silence draw out just enough to fake sincerity, “My team, of course.” An easy answer, safe enough to escape headlines. “Both my agency and my family and friends who’ve supported me along the way.”

Your assistant gave you an approving nod. You turned toward another reporter.

The same voice came again, sharper this time, “Anyone you’d like to thank by name, though? Maybe someone you’d like to shout out? Or—” A pause. A click of a camera. Then: “People say you’ve been spotted out with Lara from Katseye. Is there something going on there? Should we be watching for a personal announcement soon?”

You paused, almost impressed at how quickly a harmless question had turned into an excuse to dig into your life. And to bring up Katseye of all people…your smile thinned, annoyance flickering behind your eyes. The beginnings of a headache pressed sharply into your temples, a faint echo of that night. Of voices sharp in the dark. Hands trembling where no one could see. Names that were meant to stay buried.

You shoved the memory right back where it belonged. Locked it down hard. The carpet was supposed to be an escape, a distraction from it all. There was no room for thoughts like those here. You wouldn’t allow it.

“Who else should I thank, you asked?” You wondered aloud for the cameras, smooth and noncommittal. “That’s a hard one…” Experience taught you that sometimes if you ignored a question long enough, it would die on its own. The reporter who asked it would just have to take the hint.

He didn’t.

“Are you saying there’s nothing between you and Lara Raj? Or should we take that smile as confirmation, enough?”

You clenched your jaw. You’d always known pushiness paid the bills, but that didn’t make it any easier to tolerate. 

A hand tapped your shoulder, then. Too familiar, too entitled. Wrong in every way a touch shouldn’t be. You shook off the touch, but the feeling stayed anyway. 

“No, definitely not. But first—Hold on, guys, let's take a few steps back, okay?” You chuckled, easy, stepping away to make space to breathe. The crowd stepped forward with you in the same breath. The air suddenly felt tighter than it had any right to.

“Is there someone else then?” “Is that why you’ve been missing from projects?” “The people have been wondering?” 

And there it was again, that word, people, like it was a claim. Like you owed them proof of something you’d never offered in the first place. Like your heart was a room they’d paid admission to, and you had the nerve to keep the lights off. Another camera swung toward your face. Someone’s elbow brushed your arm. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make your skin crawl anyways.

You shifted your attention to new reporters who weren’t shouting. Trying to block out the ones who were, “There’s simply too many people to thank. I owe my success to everyone.”

Your meek attempt at a plea fell on deaf ears. The crowd turned on you. 

“Come on, don’t hold out!” “Give us a name!” “Who is Y/N L/N seeing?” “Does she have someone special back home?” “A best friend?” “A secret lover?” “Costar? “Give us something to work with.”

The voices began to bleed together, one after another, until they stopped sounding like questions altogether and started to feel like demands. You shot a worried glance at your assistant, but he was nowhere to be seen, “Guys, come on, one at a time!” 

Your words were swallowed by the noise, as the crowd pressed closer.

“Please.”

A sharp pinch bloomed between your brows again, and your jaw clenched so tight, it began to hurt. But worse, was knowing that you were losing the crowd completely. 

Because truthfully, you should have known what to say. You should have known how to handle these sorts of questions. You always did. But the voices were louder than they should have been, the questions sharper, cutting in a way they had not done so in a long time, like someone had stripped you of your usual defenses and left you exposed beneath the lights. The gnawing in your head came back tenfold, falling in sync with the relentless pulse of the flashes and new mics shoved toward your face: every burst of light scattering the lines you’d practiced for moments exactly like this.

And in the chaos your mind scrambled for polished answers that were no longer there, media training washed away until all that was left was one name. One terrible, haunting name. 

Uninvited. Unwelcome.

Manon.

Not part of any script. And certainly, not someone you should have remembered. Not here. Not now. Not when even the simple act of remembering her made the dull ache behind your eyes sharpen, pressing like a bruise you could never stop touching, no matter how much it hurt.

You swallowed hard, almost choking on the shape of a name that didn’t belong, a half-formed answer on your tongue when—

“Alright, that’s enough for tonight,” Your assistant finally cut in, stepping between you and the crowd with a too-bright smile. Usually, that would have earned him a cutting glare for doing so. Tonight, you were simply grateful. 

Mercifully, like a tide pulling back, the questions faltered immediately, replaced by groans of protest and the rapid clicks of cameras chasing you as your assistant ushered you toward the glowing exit. You forced a smile, pretending to be disappointed to leave, pretending you weren’t clinging to the interruption like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling. 

The cameras dulled as you stepped off the carpet, their heat and static fading with every stride you took further from the entrance, keeping with them the echo of what you almost let slip, and the outline of what you didn’t.

When the two of you finally got far enough away for you to breathe again, your assistant paused just abrupt enough to get your attention. Then, with a tenderness that almost felt insulting, he leaned in.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet enough to miss nearby ears, a flicker of genuine worry breaking through his usual nervous energy. It was unusual. And entirely out of character for him.

You stared at him for a long beat before answering, like you had to first translate the question into something you were allowed to say. “Yeah.” You forced a laugh that sounded almost real. “I just got tripped up there for a second.” 

You let the lie settle heavy between you, willing it into something you might believe, too.

He did not seem to buy it. His gaze lingered, quiet and weighted, like he’d been noticing more than you wanted him to. It made your skin crawl, and you forced yourself to hold still. You looked past him anyway, pretending you didn’t feel the question he didn’t ask, the truth he left sitting between you like something fragile.

He opened his mouth again when he realized, like he might try once more, like he wanted to push. But nothing ever came.

Accepting his silence, you turned on your heel and smoothed the fabric of your pants, giving yourself one last second to pull yourself together before heading for the tent where the rest of the cast waited, hoping, with whatever will you had left, that the ghost of unspoken names wouldn’t follow you in.

—

By the time you made it home, the day had already bled you dry.

The door shut behind you with a soft, expensive click. Too quiet. Too controlled. The kind of silence that felt curated rather than earned. The apartment lights came on automatically, bright and harsh, illuminating clean lines and pale surfaces that still didn’t feel like yours. Not that anything here ever did.

The place was luxurious in the way things were when they were chosen for you. Floor to ceiling windows. Neutral tones. Furniture arranged with intention rather than comfort. It had been presented as a gift, though you’d learned quickly that gifts like this came with expectations attached. A bribe disguised as generosity. A reminder that you were valued, and watched, and meant to be preserved exactly as you were.

Oscar winner, Y/N L/N lived here. Whatever scraps of you left over simply occupied the space.

You toed off your shoes by the door and paused, glancing around. Minimalist. Almost sterile. And still, somehow, too cluttered. Like too many things were asking something of you at once. You made a mental note to get rid of the chair by the window. You never sat in it anyway.

The kitchen gleamed in greeting.

You opened the fridge and cool light spilled over your bare feet. It was stocked to the brim, courtesy of your assistant, neat rows of things most people would have killed for. Artisan salads sealed in clear containers, still crisp. Pre-cut fruit arranged by color. Fancy yogurt with gold foil lids. Fresh pasta from that place everyone talked about. A cake box with a bakery logo you recognized from a brand email last week. Even leftovers from a restaurant you vaguely remembered nodding at during a conversation you barely heard.

It all looked incredible. It probably tasted even better.

You stared at it for a long moment before reaching past everything and grabbing a bottle of water from the door. Arrowhead. Gross. 

You twisted the cap, took a sip, and closed the fridge without a second glance.

The living room awaited you like it always did. Too open. Too exposed. The couch faced the television, and there, folded neatly at one end, was a blanket. A pillow tucked beside it. Evidence of your recent migration.

You hadn’t slept in your bedroom in days. Maybe longer. The bed felt inhospitable lately, like it was waiting for something you couldn’t give it. Though it wasn’t as if it really mattered. Sleep barely came either way. You sank onto the couch and pulled the blanket over your legs out of habit more than comfort. The fabric smelled faintly like detergent and something else you couldn’t place. You turned the television on without thinking.

Like clockwork, there you were.

The screen filled with your own face, perfectly lit, perfectly framed. Sitting across from a host whose smile was just wide enough to signal warmth without sincerity. She was laughing at something you’d said earlier, nodding along like she was in on the joke.

“And you just look incredible,” she said, eyes flicking down and back up again. “Really. Glowing. Is there anything you don’t nitpick about yourself?”

You watched yourself smile in response. A polite curve of the lips. Measured. Controlled. You noticed things you hadn’t let yourself notice before. The way your shoulders were held just a touch too rigid. How your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. How your answers landed flat, careful not to take up too much space.

You remembered how tired you’d been when you filmed this. How the makeup artist had asked if you wanted a break and how you’d said no without even looking up.

The host kept talking. Compliments piled up, one after another, bright and easy and meaningless. You reached for the remote when the screen cut to a trailer clip, the opening notes swelling dramatically.

You turned it off before it got too far, the silence rushing back in, heavier this time. Your phone was in your hand before you realized you’d picked it up. Muscle memory. You opened Twitter. Not your main. Your spam. The place that was supposed to feel quieter.

Your timeline was flooded anyway. Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal. Someone called you untouchable. Someone else said you were the standard. Your PR team had clearly been busy. 

You scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled. The words blurred together until they stopped meaning anything at all.

Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal.

Perfect. Golden. Phenomenal. 

Perfect. Golden.

Empty.

Your phone buzzed again, sharp against your palm, and this time you didn’t flinch when you saw Lara’s name.

She’d sent a video. A reaction clip. Ten minutes long. You didn’t know how she even got ahold of your number, but she did. You hesitated, then pressed play anyway.

The screen filled with familiar faces, all of them crowded together, laughing, leaning into one another. The Katseye girls were watching the finished music video, reacting in real time. You noticed that they looked tired in the good way. Proud in the way that came from effort paying off.

You watched as they pointed things out to each other, rewinding moments, gasping at transitions. Compliments flew freely, unguarded. Someone whistled. Someone clapped. They looked happy. Every now and then, someone threw a not so subtle comment your way. Praising the direction. The concept. The vision. You let the words wash right past you. 

Your gaze drifted to the right side of the frame. A place you’d been careful not to look too closely at.

Manon was sitting there, half turned toward the screen, chin resting on her hand. She’d been quieter than the others today, eyes focused, lips held in a line that didn’t give much away. You pretended not to notice the dark circles under her eyes. She seemed to pretend as well. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything as the other girls chatted around her. Just sat there. Watching.

You told yourself you were just taking stock, the way you did with everything on camera, angles and expressions and who was talking and who wasn’t. A quick check, nothing more. But even then, you couldn’t pretend to ignore the dull ache that tightened in your chest as you did. The way your eyes snagged on every sharp corner of her face, the way they lingered on the softer lines too. It was the kind of noticing that only came from having spent too long looking at someone until the details stopped being details and started being familiar. You filed it away on instinct, that small, reflexive flare of care you didn’t have permission to feel anymore.

Then, so softly you almost missed it, Manon spoke.

“Yeah. It was good.” The other girls seemed just as surprised as you were. 

Four words. That was it. Not much of a compliment, barely a sentence at that. Still, you found yourself swallowing hard, something tight loosening in your chest, just a fraction. Not relief. Not happiness. Something closer to pride. The kind you didn’t want, didn’t trust, but felt anyway.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it, brief and stupidly soft. You cursed yourself at the betrayal of it, then sat there long after the video ended. The screen dimmed, then asked if you’d like to replay the clip again. Your thumb moved in response, but it never pressed down. Eventually the question faded on its own.

—

The sun rose the next day like it always did. You groaned regardless.

Your phone was already full when you checked it. Messages stacked neatly into obligation. Gym. Press. Meeting with ambassadors. A follow up call that wasn’t labeled urgent but might as well have been. The word break hadn’t been in your vocabulary for a very long time. Routine had etched itself into your bones, and become something you followed even when you no longer remembered choosing it.

The letter arrived at one P.M. exactly.

You knew the time because you had just finished another appointment, shoes still in your hand as you left the exam room. The doctor had warned you of the usual. More water. Less energy drinks. And for the love of god, food that actually nourished your body.

You nodded along like you were going to listen.

Both of you knew you wouldn’t.

They kept you longer than planned this time. A bag of fluids hung beside the bed, clear and unassuming, the slow drip familiar enough that you barely noticed when it started. If the media had known how often you ended up here, they would have torn you apart for it. Headlines about fragility and irresponsibility. Concern disguised as cruelty. Which was exactly why they never would.

A nurse stopped by to check your fluids. You shifted your arm so she could see the IV line, untangled and running clean. She gave you a small nod and you smiled back in acknowledgement. The hospital had become something like a second home since the first accident. Quiet hallways. Neutral walls. Staff who didn’t ask questions anymore. There had been a time, once, when you’d joked about never wanting to step foot in a place like this unless it was to deliver your children.

You and Manon had only been dating three months then.

Most people probably would have been startled by a comment like that. Too fast. Too much. Too you. But Manon hadn’t even flinched. She’d laughed, bright and unafraid, and said something about how dramatic you were, and how she loved you more for it. You had known, even then, that she wasn’t scared of being loved by you.

Things had clearly changed, but there was no one to blame but you. 

By the time the IV was finished, you felt steadier. Lighter. Like you could breathe without effort again. You thanked the nurse, promised yourself you’d eat something later, and stepped back into the day like nothing had happened.

The letter was waiting when you got into the car.

Neat, crisp white card paper. Delicate, ornate flowers pressed into the corners. It felt less like a letter and more like an invitation meant to be kept. Inside was a postcard, heavy in your hand. A handwritten ‘you’re invited’ inked in black cursive.

A music video launch party. Livestream with fans first, then a private event after.

The handwriting was unmistakably Sophia’s. Careful, slightly slanted. At the bottom, the other girls had signed their names, clustered together in different styles. It was cute. Almost endearing. You felt bad knowing you were going to say no.

“You’re going,” Your assistant spoke up at that moment. 

You looked up sharply, brows knitted in immediate protest. You hadn’t even noticed him entering the car, but before you could open your mouth to speak, he had begun talking again. Said you’d be part of the livestream itself. As the debuting director. Unorthodox, sure, but beneficial for both teams. The surprise would generate buzz. Fans would love it. Haters would talk. Everyone would watch.

You tried to tell him you didn’t care when your phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

You tapped it open without thinking and froze.

‘Soon…’

Just that one word and four dots. A countdown ticking below. Your story.

Within seconds, the likes began to pour in, fans asking what the countdown was for. Even more speculating on their own. 

You exhaled slowly: the decision clearly having already been made for you. Your assistant watched your face carefully as you did. Then shook his head, almost in disappointment, “What did you think was going to happen, Y/N.” He said, not unkindly. “You chose this. Remember.”

You did. That was the problem.

The next few days passed in a blur. Meetings. Fittings. Calls taken on speaker while you stared out windows you didn’t remember arriving at. There were times when you’d pull the video sent up again and rewind to the moment Manon spoke. Between appointments. In the backseat. In bathroom stalls with the sink running. Never to actually play it, just to remember you could. Not that you ever would. Then suddenly, you were back at Geffen.

It had been a while since you’d last been here, though six weeks hardly felt like enough time for the place to feel unfamiliar. Lara was waiting near the entrance when you arrived, leaning against the wall like she owned it.

“Hey, superstar,” she said, grin already in place.

Megan appeared shortly behind her, offering a quick hug before steering you down the maze of hallways. They talked as they walked, filling the space with easy noise. Dance practice. A potential tour. A livestream that earned the two of them an hour of media training.

You followed along, smiling when prompted, nodding at the right moments.

Still, an unsettling weight began to gather in your stomach the closer you got to set. You told yourself you were imagining things, that you were just tired, just wired, just being dramatic. But the dread felt very real. 

Eventually, you reached your destination.

The dance room had been rearranged.

Chairs were set up in a loose arc, cameras already positioned. It was strange to think the last time you’d stood here, it had been to go over choreography notes. Blocking. Transitions. Stranger still how small the room felt now, how suffocating the cameras were despite years of familiarity. Someone handed you a diagram of the seating arrangement: 

Lara. Megan. Yoonchae. Sophia. Daniela. Manon. You.

You stopped short when you saw it. 

Manon did too.

Her surprise was briefer than yours, quickly smoothed over, but you caught it anyway. She looked away the moment your eyes grazed hers, fixing her attention somewhere over your shoulder instead. You might have been hurt, if you weren’t more grateful. You weren’t sure you could’ve held yourself together if she hadn’t.

It was the first time you’d been in the same room since that night, six weeks since Meret had slipped from your mouth and split something open you’d sworn was already buried. Six weeks since regret you were never meant to carry came flooding up anyway, dragging ruined pieces of what was never meant to break. Six weeks since the most terrifying part became the quietest truth: it had felt right, even as it cut.

The couch they guided everyone towards was clearly meant for five. You offered to sit on the floor when you realized, already lowering yourself when Sophia insisted you stay. Objections were waved away. People were shuffled around. By some miracle, everyone fit.

You and Manon, though, didn’t exactly get a choice in the ‘how’. 

She pressed into you the moment she sat. You tried not to think about how her warmth came with it, even when her elbow nudged into your side, almost sharp with it, a small, steady pressure that bordered on painful, and you would have been more surprised if it didn't bruised.

Your body adjusted anyway, making room on instinct. Like it remembered her, like it had been trained to accommodate her weight and angles without complaint. It felt almost mockingly familiar, the echo of tangled limbs, of closeness that used to be effortless.

She shifted, maybe sensing your stiffness, and her hair brushed your arm as she did, soft strands tickling your skin in little, absent-minded strokes that made your throat tighten. Nothing meant. Nothing offered. Just contact, accidental and unavoidable, and still your nerves lit up like it mattered.

And then her scent, a waft of it every time she breathed or moved, catching at you like a hand at the back of your neck. You held your breath without meaning to, like taking her in too fully would make it disappear. The perfume was different than you remembered, or maybe it was just new on her, brighter at first, then deeper underneath, but it still hit the same tender place in you. Still overwhelming, because it was her. Because it meant she was close enough to breathe in. 

The livestream started with great excitement.

The numbers climbed exactly as you’d expected. One hundred thousand. Two. Five. Seven. The comments flooded in faster than you could read. Katseye followed their script, practiced and bright. You followed yours too, answering questions, reacting on cue.

The collaboration went viral before the live even finished. 

You could tell without checking anything, in just the way a staffer’s phone lit up again and again and again, in the way someone off-camera mouthed ‘trending’ like a prayer. Almost sacred. In even the simple way the room seemed to get brighter as the others realized the same. 

Not that any of it mattered. Not to you. 

Through it all, you only found yourself stealing glances at Manon, an indulgence you’d never been strong enough to break. You half expected, mostly hoped, that she’d look at you, not like she once had, before everything broke, or when a future without each other had seemed impossible. Not even like she had while filming, when you’d been nothing more than an irritant, a thorn in her side. But a glance. Any acknowledgment, really, that you existed to her.

She didn’t look over. Not once.

You tried to pretend you didn’t notice, tried even harder to pretend it didn’t sting. You kept your face arranged the way you’d been taught, your posture easy, your hands still. Made sure to bury deep any flicker of need that might’ve slipped past. But your body betrayed you anyway, with an ache so old it felt humiliating, so hungry for even a sliver of something from Manon that heat rose in your throat like shame. The silence she gave you was so clean it almost felt deliberate and you wondered if this was the punishment you’d earned. 

All you knew was that when the live ended and she stood, peeling herself from the couch like it cost her nothing at all, something in you twisted so sharply it stole the breath right from your lungs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you found yourself unable to run away from the truth: left only with the memory of what it felt like to lose the one person all of this had ever been for, all over again.

—

The phantom cold of an ice pack washed over your skin.

A hand pressed it more firmly to your head, the chill biting sharp enough to make your breath catch. Someone hovered close, voice slow and practiced, asking the same questions like a prayer they’d learned by rote.

“Are you nauseous?” “Any ringing?” “Can you follow my finger?” “Are you seeing double again?”

You tried to shake your head. The motion sent pain ricocheting behind your eyes, bright and immediate, like a camera flash going off inside your skull. Your stomach rolled, then steadied. You swallowed hard, forcing your face into something calm.

“I’m fine,” You said anyway, lips cracking around the words.

The medic made a noise that said she didn’t believe you. She lifted your chin with two fingers and shone a light into your eyes. The tent smelled like alcohol wipes and sweat and the dusty sweetness of fabric that had been packed away too long. Outside, you could still hear the muffled thrum of set, the distant snap of someone clapping a slate, voices folding into each other, always urgent, always moving.

“You are not fine,” She said, soft but firm. “You took a hit, you insisted on finishing the take, and then you tried to walk it off. That is not how concussions work.”

You barely heard her.

All you could see was the watch on her wrist, the creeping numbers that meant you were running out of time, and the memory of last week’s call with Manon, missed and rotten in your chest. You’d been out of the country, stuck between airports and schedules and an agent who kept saying in ten minutes, in ten minutes, as if ten minutes was a currency you could just keep withdrawing. You’d stood in a fluorescent kiosk, palms sweating, trying to buy a SIM card you couldn’t get to work, trying to make your phone obey, trying not to imagine Manon staring at a blank screen, waiting until she hated herself for waiting.

You’d apologized so many times after that, all soft voices and excuses, until the apologies started to sound like lies too.

So this week you hadn’t allowed yourself to miss it.

Albeit, you never thought that one bad decision would land you in the infirmary. Still.

The tent flap snapped open.

Your assistant slipped in first, breathless, cheeks flushed from running. He was a funny man. Always in a suit and tie. Always looking disheveled, anyways. Your agent followed close behind, expression tight in that way that always meant she’d been polite to someone and resented it.

“Oh my God,” Your assistant said, taking in the ice pack, the medic’s light, the way your fingers shook where they were knotted together in your lap. “You can’t do this. You cannot do this again.”

You attempted something like a smile, but you think only one side lifted.

“I’m fine,” You repeated, because it was the only sentence you had that didn’t require you to feel what was happening, “ 'Tis just a bump.”

Your agent’s gaze cut over you like a blade assessing damage. She had the kind of intensity that was terrifying, even to you, even after a year. “That is not ‘just a bump,’ and you are not fine.” She sighed, long and deep, brimming with disappointment. “This is the third incident in two months, Y/N.” The last part, you hypothesize, was the real crime. “When will you learn?”

Defensiveness swelled through you, “It’s not an incident,” You said too quickly. The tent swayed at the edges of your vision. You blinked hard. “It was a slip.”

“It was careless,” Your agent corrected. Harsh. “And you have been careless lately.”

Your assistant leaned closer, voice dropping as if a whisper made it less serious. “She’s right you know. You need to sleep. You need to eat. You can’t keep living on espresso and spite.”

“I eat,” You lied.

The medic gave a small, unimpressed sound, like she’d heard every lie a thousand times.

Your assistant tried again, going for humor, as if hoping that might land better. “You know, if you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to have to tell your girlfriend.” He warned. You sat straighter at the mere mention of Manon.

Your agent’s head snapped toward him, as if just remembering the object of her ire. “Oh yes,” She said, her tone turning clipped and ugly, “the little girlfriend.”

The words hit like a slap.

Your assistant went still. The medic looked up from where she was checking your pulse, brows pinching together, suddenly aware she’d stepped into something private and vicious. Your stomach tightened, not from nausea this time, but from anger, clean and immediate.

“She’s not little,” You snapped, voice flat. The conversation entirely too rehashed and tired by now. 

Your agent lifted one shoulder as if the whole subject bored her. “She’s a distraction.”

“She’s a person,” You corrected, and it came out sharper than you meant. 

Your phone buzzed in your hand, breaking through the spell. You brought it up to your gaze.

Manon’s name filled the screen, grounding and unbearable all at once. Everything else fell away. Despite your better judgement, you ignored the white dots in your peripheral and answered the call before anyone could object. From beside you, your agent rolled her eyes when she realized and turned away, as if refusing to be a witness to this softness. She ducked out through the flap with a huff, the cold air following her out. Your medic sighed so loudly your assistant startled in place. You barely noticed.

Manon’s face appeared a second later, familiar in a way that made your chest ache, in a way it only ever did around her. Her hair was pulled back in a quick knot, strands escaping at her temples. No doubt the result of a long day of training. Even through the screen, you could see the fatigue sitting under her eyes, the kind you couldn’t powder away. 

Behind her, the background was nondescript, pale walls, a corner of a bed, the faint hum of somewhere communal. A place where privacy had to be created, not given. 

But none of it mattered, because when she saw you, she smiled, that soft, contagious smile you used to spend hours trying to memorize, only to be caught breathless every single time it returned, and you knew everything would be okay. You could never quite prepare yourself for it. You weren’t sure you ever wanted to. 

“Hey,” She said, soft and careful, like she’d been practicing that gentleness all day and saving it. “There you are.”

The relief was so immediate it almost made you dizzy.

“Hey,” You echoed back, and your voice betrayed you by warming without permission.

Manon’s gaze flicked as she took you in, quick and precise, scanning your face the way it always did when she was trying to read what you weren’t saying. You felt a twinge of worry.

“How are you?” She asked.

You adjusted the angle of your phone without thinking. You tilted it up so the ice pack disappeared. You shifted so the medic’s knee was out of frame. The cables, the medical kit, the small white tent walls, all of it stayed hidden behind your careful cropping.

“I’m good,” You said too fast. “Just busy. Long day on set. You know how it gets. How are you? How’s everything going over there?”

Manon didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her eyes stayed on you, sharp with concern. You watched her watch you. She always had a way of seeing past your defenses and right into your fractures, even when you didn’t want her to. She was the only one who ever did. Ever cared to. It was one of the many reasons you loved her. 

For a heartbeat, you thought she might push, might ask why your pupils looked uneven, why your smile was a fraction too fixed. 

You begged that she wouldn’t. You couldn’t take another question tonight. Not from her. Not when you’d already missed last week, and could still remember the tightness in her voice when she had said ‘it’s okay, I get it,’ when you’d known she didn’t.

So in a fit of desperation that had become too common, you did what you’d started doing more and more. You turned it around.

“Actually,” You blurted, forcing brightness into your tone, “I got something for your birthday today.”

Manon blinked, almost startled at the sudden change, then huffed out a small laugh. “My birthday isn’t anytime soon.”

You grinned, unable to help it, remembering the small trinket you had managed to purchase earlier that day, “It’s never too early.”

Her eyes softened, and the suspicion eased, replaced by something gentler, something you recognized as her choosing, for a moment, to let you hold her, even through a screen. You swallowed hard around the ache of it all, around the thought that if she were here you could tuck her into the curve of your body and finally, finally breathe again. The confession never left your mouth, but its weight settled heavy atop your throat. 

“I’m beginning to think you might like my birthday more than I do,” She teased, and it was not untrue.

You shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe, I do.” You admitted, and it came out as honest as anything you’d said all week.

Manon laughed then, a loud, unfiltered laugh. Real and perfect in a way that sat easy on her face. It made your vision blur, not from pain, but something worse. Something like want.

The medic moved again at your side, more insistent now, holding the ice pack up like she was done negotiating. Your assistant hovered just out of frame, hands half lifted as if he wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you. 

You kept your expression steady, even as you waved them away. Manon’s gaze narrowed anyway.

“Hey. Are you sure everything's okay?” She asked, softly. “You look…”

She hesitated, and you watched the thought cross her face, the decision forming. In that small, suspended moment, you knew she knew. You could see it in the slight tilt of her head, in the way her gaze fixed on you, softened, then sharpened. But then, like she was choosing mercy over truth, the fight bled from her eyes just as quickly. 

“I don’t know,” She said finally, and her smile returned, smaller. “Just tired. You look tired.”

You swallowed, throat tight. 

“Long day, that’s all.”

You watched her let herself believe the lie, watched the weight of the decision lift off her shoulders, and you didn’t understand why you almost wished she hadn’t.

“Okay.”

The conversation settled into its familiar rhythm after that. You asked about rehearsals. She complained about choreography that felt like punishment. You made her laugh by imitating someone important, careful not to name names. She told you a small win, a compliment from a coach, a moment when something clicked, and you praised her like your words could build a bridge across the miles.

And you both pretended.

She pretended she wasn’t living in hell reinvented.You pretended you weren’t halfway across the world, helpless, counting bruises you couldn’t see and injuries you wouldn’t admit to.

Every so often, her eyes would flick again, catching on something in your face. But every time, she chose to let it go all the same.

Eventually the call had to end, the conversation winding down the way it always did, the both of you reluctant to be the one who ended it, both of you aware of time like it was a third person sitting between you.

“Go sleep,” You finally told her, catching her lids fluttering  more with every passing second.

“I will if you will,” She shot back, and her eyes softened, like she knew you wouldn’t.

You smiled anyway.

“I love you,” She said, sudden and simple, like she wanted to anchor the words before the screen could go dark.

“I love you too,” You said back, and you meant it so much it almost made you sick.

Her smile turned smaller, more private. She glanced down, then back up, like she was deciding whether to say the next part. You waited with the patience that only ever came around her.

Then, right before the call ended, she leaned closer to her phone and whispered, “And I miss you. I miss you so much.” The words spilled out like a secret. 

They tumbled out and struck something in you that you’d kept hidden, buried deep so you wouldn’t drive yourself crazy, and you could only choke back the sudden burn of tears. The screen went black before you could respond, and you knew someone had probably taken her phone.

Still, you stared at your reflection for a long time after the call ended, the outline of your own face ghosted over the dark glass, eyes too bright, mouth still shaped around her name without meaning to be.

“I miss you too, Meret,” You finally whispered under your breath. So quietly the medic wouldn’t hear, so quietly your assistant wouldn’t either, as if scared saying it out loud might make it true in a way you couldn’t survive. You wished then you’d told her the truth, wished you could have confessed how hard everything had been: the exhaustion, the distance, the way your own life had started to feel like something you were sprinting through with your eyes half closed.

But then you pictured her face, the way her eyes would soften, the way her mouth would pull tight with worry, the way she would try to fix it, try to fix you, even from miles away when she was already fighting to hold herself together. And the selfishness slipped away.

The headache surged again, and this time you didn’t wave the ice pack away when the medic shoved it onto you. You let it press cold against your skull, let the sting bite, and when the words “let’s get you to the hospital” were said, you let yourself remember who all of this was for. Who all of this had ever been for.

—