rue

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you push through the heavy backstage doors, already hating every single thing about this place. your boots—scuffed and well-loved—drag irritably over scattered cables and cheap carpeting. somewhere behind you, equipment clangs loudly as crew members shout frantic instructions at each other, voices edged with panic and unnecessary drama. your camera bag bumps clumsily against your hip, already feeling heavier than usual.

it’s exactly the kind of chaos you’ve spent the past decade trying to avoid—loud, bright, cluttered with glitter and empty promises, all soundtracked by the aggressively synthetic bassline leaking through the venue walls. this job had been pitched as a last-minute emergency, a favor for a friend who owed you money and knew better than to call unless desperation was involved. it’s painfully clear why the previous photographer quit. you might have to ask for double.

“oh, thank god you’re here.” margot’s voice slices through the noise as she hurries toward you, clipboard in hand, headset clamped firmly over her slick black hair. she’s professionally calm, but her eyes betray the hint of controlled anxiety—like cracks in a porcelain mask.

you stop walking, dropping your bag unceremoniously at your feet. “that bad, huh?”

she sighs, eyes flicking briefly toward the stage door. “well, let’s just say, sabrina isn’t used to waiting.”

you roll your eyes, irritation already prickling the edges of your nerves. “guess she’s about to learn.”

margot’s mouth twists briefly in amusement before settling back into a careful neutral. “come on, i’ll introduce you. play nice.”

“no promises.”

you trail after margot, barely registering the crew bustling around you, bodies rushing past in coordinated panic. you avoid making eye contact with anyone, determined not to engage more than necessary. the hallway to sabrina’s dressing room is lined with fluorescent bulbs, harshly lighting walls plastered with glossy, airbrushed photos of sabrina carpenter—every inch the manufactured starlet. you nearly laugh at the absurdity of your life choices.

margot knocks lightly before opening the door without waiting for a response. the dressing room inside is cluttered but expensive: silk robes tossed carelessly across plush chairs, an untouched platter of fruit, mirrors lined with lights that reflect brightly against spotless makeup brushes. it smells of overpriced perfume and bottled perfection.

in the middle of the room, back to the door, stands sabrina carpenter. she’s shorter than you expected, dressed casually in faded jeans and a black tank top, blonde hair tumbling loose down her back. she’s typing quickly on her phone, visibly annoyed. she doesn’t immediately turn around when the door opens.

“sabrina, your photographer’s finally arrived,” margot says pointedly.

sabrina pauses, just a beat, fingers hovering over her screen. she turns slowly, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours in a practiced glare, clearly meant to intimidate. “finally?”

her voice is softer than you expected, edged with that familiar irritation of someone accustomed to punctuality from others, but never having to offer it herself. your gaze flicks briefly over her, unimpressed, as you lean casually against the doorframe, crossing your arms loosely.

“traffic,” you reply, your voice lazy, entirely unbothered.

a brief silence falls over the room, sabrina’s eyes widening slightly, clearly unused to anyone meeting her annoyance with such blunt indifference. margot clears her throat, awkwardly attempting to break the sudden quiet.

“right. sabrina, this is—”

“i know who she is,” sabrina interrupts, clearly irritated by your casual dismissal. “i’ve seen her work.”

you raise an eyebrow, sensing the faint hostility beneath her carefully controlled tone. “funny. i’ve never heard your music.”

sabrina’s eyes sharpen instantly, narrowing dangerously, though something else flickers beneath the surface—curiosity, maybe even reluctant amusement. margot’s eyes dart anxiously between the two of you, already sensing trouble.

“well,” margot says, overly bright and tense, attempting damage control. “glad everyone’s acquainted. showtime in thirty minutes. let’s make it count.”

you and sabrina both remain silent, neither moving first, tension sparking in the empty space between you. finally, sabrina breaks the stare, looking down at her phone again with forced disinterest. “just don’t get in my way.”

your lips curl slightly, amused despite yourself, as you push away from the doorframe. “trust me, i have no interest in that.”

as you turn to leave the dressing room, camera bag swinging lazily over your shoulder, you feel sabrina’s gaze burning stubbornly into your back, refusing to fade until you disappear into the noise and chaos outside the door.

her gaze burns stubbornly into your back, refusing to fade until you disappear into the noise and chaos outside the door.

the hallway swallows you whole again, bright lights and harried stage crew reminding you exactly why pop music felt like nails scraping down your spine. you consider, briefly, that you should at least pretend to be grateful for this paycheck. but the sharp satisfaction from sabrina’s irritation still lingers on your tongue—unexpectedly enjoyable.

you barely make it ten steps down the hallway when margot’s clipped footsteps catch up, pulling you back by lightly gripping your elbow. the headset around her neck blinks with scattered lights, her eyes sharper now that sabrina isn’t watching.

“was that really necessary?” she whispers harshly, glancing back at sabrina’s room. “you couldn’t pretend, for like five seconds, that you don’t despise pop music?”

you shrug, adjusting the strap of your camera bag with purposeful nonchalance. “you hired me because i’m good at my job, margot. not because i play pretend.”

she sighs, clearly conflicted between irritation and respect for your bluntness. finally, her shoulders sag slightly in reluctant agreement. “just—try not to antagonize her too much. sabrina’s used to being loved.”

“maybe that’s her problem,” you reply flatly.

margot bites her lip, clearly holding back a laugh, but her eyes flash a warning. “seriously. careful.”

you wave her off. “i’ve handled worse.”

“somehow, i doubt that,” margot mutters, already turning away toward the stage. “meet us stage left in fifteen.”

as margot disappears into the chaotic current of crew and assistants, you find yourself staring back toward the dressing room door, half-expecting sabrina to storm out, ready to continue your terse little interaction. but the door remains stubbornly closed, leaving you oddly disappointed. irritation flickers in your chest, quickly dismissed as nonsense.

ten minutes later, you return quietly to sabrina’s dressing room, more out of curiosity than duty, camera already in hand. when you enter, she’s absorbed again in her phone, lips moving silently as if memorizing lyrics. she doesn’t look up immediately, clearly intent on ignoring you, her body language dripping with pointed disdain. you quietly snap a single candid photo, the shutter clicking softly.

her head jerks up instantly. “really? paparazzi shots backstage?”

“just doing my job,” you reply lazily, framing another shot.

she turns deliberately toward you, irritation brightening her blue eyes, posture stiffening defensively. “do you get off on being difficult?”

“do you always assume everyone has to like you?” you counter smoothly, lowering the camera to meet her gaze directly. “because, believe it or not, some people actually don’t.”

her eyes narrow, the sarcasm dripping from her voice sharper now. “and i suppose indie photographers are too sophisticated for us shallow pop stars?”

you tilt your head, deliberately considering her with exaggerated slowness, your voice dripping mock sincerity. “at least you said it, not me.”

she scoffs, shaking her head incredulously, frustration evident in the way her fingers tighten around the phone. “god, you really don’t care, do you?”

you offer a casual, half-hearted shrug. “i’m here to shoot photos, not feed your ego.”

“is it possible for you to just do your job without insulting mine?” she snaps back.

“probably not,” you reply easily, lifting your camera again. “but if you keep glaring like that, i’ll at least get some interesting shots.”

she opens her mouth, clearly wanting to retort, but the stagehand interrupts from the open doorway. “miss carpenter, five minutes.”

sabrina bites down sharply on whatever remark she planned to throw your way, instead brushing past you with an irritated toss of her blonde hair. you watch her reflection flicker across the mirrors as she gathers her composure, practiced calm smoothing across her face like porcelain armor.

“just stay out of my way,” she repeats, voice quiet but unsteady, eyes stubbornly fixed away from you.

“again,” you respond lightly, already following her out, camera balanced expertly between your fingers, “zero interest.”

but this time, as sabrina moves past you, you catch the briefest flash of uncertainty in her eyes, mingling oddly with curiosity and something deeper—something raw and unresolved.

and despite your best efforts, you find yourself strangely compelled to follow.

despite your best efforts, you find yourself strangely compelled to follow.

sabrina’s steps echo purposefully down the hallway as she moves toward the stage entrance, her shoulders pulled back, radiating an authority she's perfected over countless performances. you trail slightly behind, camera in hand, slipping easily between stage crew and roadies, eyes trained carefully on her rigid spine and poised demeanor.

backstage feels crowded, air thick with excitement and anticipation. crew members shuffle hurriedly, murmuring into headsets, making frantic adjustments to microphones, lights, and cables. sabrina steps into a small taped-off area marked with bright pink tape, pausing briefly as a stylist rushes forward to smooth down an invisible wrinkle in her shirt.

“perfect, sabrina. gorgeous,” the stylist chirps automatically, retreating quickly into the chaos.

you roll your eyes, lifting your camera to your face, framing sabrina against the stage lights glowing softly behind her. the shutter clicks decisively, breaking the silence between you with a sharp snap.

“don’t you ever warn someone first?” sabrina mutters sharply, clearly startled.

you lower the camera, adjusting the focus casually. “candids work better when the subject’s uncomfortable.”

“then i suppose i’ll look incredible tonight,” she retorts bitterly, glancing over her shoulder toward you with narrowed eyes.

“guess we’ll see,” you say evenly, unfazed by her irritation. “now, step left.”

she hesitates, brows knitting in confusion. “why?”

“lighting,” you reply simply, voice patient yet indifferent. “you hired me to make you look good, remember?”

her eyes flash sharply, lips pressing into a thin line of stubborn resistance. but she steps left anyway, irritated at obeying yet clearly drawn to your confidence. you lean forward slightly, angling your lens to catch the warm glow of the stage lights illuminating her features—softening her stubbornness, catching her off-guard for half a heartbeat.

“chin up,” you instruct firmly.

she obeys instantly this time, before realizing her compliance and blinking sharply, frustrated at herself. the camera clicks again, capturing the tension subtly lining her jaw, the defiance in her blue eyes.

“what next, photographer?” she challenges softly, irritation mixing oddly with something close to intrigue.

“relax,” you reply dryly, lowering your camera slightly. “you look like you’re about to go into battle.”

“isn’t that what performing is?” she counters, voice oddly earnest despite her forced sarcasm. “fighting for approval?”

you pause, genuinely surprised by her honesty, though your expression doesn’t shift. “approval’s overrated. makes you soft.”

her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, clearly never having considered that perspective before. “you don’t care if people like your photos?”

“not particularly,” you reply, shifting your stance, camera clicking softly again. “they either get it, or they don’t. the photos aren’t for them.”

“then who are they for?” she asks, softer now, eyes carefully studying you, trying to dissect your meaning.

“me,” you reply simply. “truth matters more than applause.”

she blinks, thrown off-balance by your blunt sincerity, silent for a long moment. you watch as her guard momentarily lowers, blue eyes suddenly vulnerable beneath the mask of practiced confidence. your finger hovers lightly over the shutter, hesitating deliberately, waiting.

“there,” you whisper quietly, shutter clicking softly again, capturing the moment perfectly. “that’s what i wanted.”

“what?” she breathes, voice barely audible.

“you stopped performing,” you explain, voice gentler now, slightly surprised at your own honesty. “just for a second.”

her expression freezes briefly in shock, startled by your observation, before quickly shuttering again into a carefully rehearsed scowl. “i think i liked you better when you were insulting me.”

you shrug, returning smoothly to professional detachment, pretending not to notice the faint flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “give me time. we just met.”

a stagehand breaks the tense silence, stepping quickly into your shared space. “miss carpenter, it’s time.”

sabrina nods briefly, shoulders lifting again, armor locking firmly back in place as she moves past you toward the stage. as she steps beneath the brilliant glare of the stage lights, disappearing into a sea of cheers and applause, you linger quietly in the shadows. watching and waiting.

and for the first time tonight, reluctantly intrigued.

the performance itself passes in a blur of bright lights, glossy costumes, and perfectly choreographed moves. from your spot near the side-stage, you lift your camera, snapping occasional shots without much enthusiasm, capturing the careful choreography of each practiced smile and exaggerated wave. the audience screams loudly, singing every lyric with unwavering devotion, their voices blending into a deafening wall of adoration.

you sigh, lowering your camera momentarily to rub tiredly at your eyes. every show looks exactly the same—polished, rehearsed, empty. from your peripheral vision, you catch sight of margot watching you anxiously, silently begging you to at least pretend enthusiasm. you stubbornly ignore her, returning your gaze lazily back toward the stage.

finally, the music fades, sabrina bows deeply, and the lights dim briefly, signaling the end of the set. instantly, you step back into the shadows, letting sabrina brush past you as she rushes offstage, face flushed from adrenaline, skin glittering beneath a fine sheen of sweat.

“amazing show, sabrina!” liv calls out from the wings, arms extended warmly to her friend.

“thanks,” sabrina replies breathlessly, briefly returning liv’s hug before pulling back, glancing irritably toward the corner where you lean, adjusting camera settings with casual indifference.

“what’s wrong?” liv follows sabrina’s gaze curiously, eyebrows lifting slightly when she sees you. “ah. the photographer giving you trouble already?”

“she’s impossible,” sabrina snaps quietly, voice carrying louder than intended. she grabs a water bottle from the stage assistant and unscrews it roughly. “acts like she’s too good to even be here.”

you bite back a smile, pretending to be engrossed in adjusting your lens, though your ears remain carefully tuned to their conversation.

“well, isn’t that her thing?” liv’s voice softens, amused. “the tortured artist who hates anything mainstream? you knew that when margot hired her.”

sabrina sighs heavily, glancing again toward you, irritation giving way slightly to confusion. “i don’t get it. she clearly hates this, but then—i don’t know—sometimes she’s almost nice. or maybe not nice exactly, but interesting.”

“oh no,” liv teases gently, nudging sabrina’s shoulder. “don’t tell me you actually want her approval?”

“of course not!” sabrina snaps quickly, voice defensive. “i just don’t get how someone could be so deliberately irritating.”

you finally let yourself smile, unable to fully suppress your amusement. when you glance up, sabrina’s eyes instantly meet yours across the crowded backstage space. she freezes briefly, realizing you’ve overheard every word. her cheeks flush bright red, mortified.

“enjoying the gossip?” sabrina’s voice is sharp as she strides toward you, embarrassment fueling fresh irritation.

“thoroughly,” you reply lightly, completely unbothered. “though i’d hardly call that gossip. more like character analysis.”

“were you spying on me?” her voice drips accusation.

you raise an eyebrow calmly, lips quirking slightly. “it’s a small stage, sabrina. if you want privacy, maybe don’t discuss your photographer ten feet away from her.”

liv unsuccessfully hides her laughter behind her hand, making sabrina’s embarrassment deepen further.

“whatever,” sabrina mutters, flustered. “maybe if you weren’t so insufferable, i wouldn’t have to talk about you.”

“or maybe if you weren’t so concerned with my opinion, you wouldn’t have to,” you counter smoothly, deliberately provoking her further. “it’s a vicious cycle.”

sabrina glares, but her eyes betray something else beneath the anger—curiosity, intrigue, maybe even a tiny spark of admiration at your bluntness. “trust me, i don’t care what you think of me.”

“you’re making that abundantly clear,” you reply, voice heavy with exaggerated sincerity. “talking about me backstage, glaring every ten seconds... textbook indifference.”

sabrina opens her mouth to respond, then abruptly shuts it again, visibly frustrated by your easy comebacks. liv discreetly steps away, biting her lip to suppress laughter, leaving sabrina standing awkwardly close, forced into your amused gaze.

“fine,” sabrina finally relents, exasperated but clearly unwilling to admit defeat. “if i stop glaring, will you stop being—”

“impossible?” you supply helpfully, smirking openly.

“exactly,” she mutters, though the corner of her mouth twitches almost reluctantly.

“unlikely,” you say, voice softer, eyes briefly searching hers, curious despite yourself. “but feel free to keep trying.”

for a brief moment, the tension shifts between you, less combative and strangely charged. sabrina’s gaze wavers, lingering on your eyes a second longer than necessary, suddenly unsure how to respond.

“just—whatever,” sabrina finally mumbles, turning abruptly away, frustration melting into confusion. “forget i said anything.”

but even as she retreats, your eyes follow closely, amused but intrigued by how quickly irritation seems to give way to something else entirely.

the dressing room door slams harder than necessary.

sabrina drops onto the velvet chair near the mirrors, kicking off her boots with a frustrated grunt. a half-empty water bottle thuds to the floor. her breath is still shallow from the show, but it's no longer adrenaline keeping her wound tight—it’s you.

your voice, your smirk, the maddening calm in the way you never flinched. sabrina runs a hand through her damp hair and lets out a long, irritated sigh.

“she’s the most arrogant person i’ve ever met,” she mutters to herself, then louder: “why the hell did we even hire her?”

as if summoned, margot pokes her head in from the hallway, tablet tucked under her arm. “you called?”

sabrina gestures vaguely, exasperated. “why her? of all people?”

margot steps in, unbothered, letting the door close behind her. “she’s the best available on such short notice. and her portfolio speaks for itself.”

“yeah, and so does her mouth,” sabrina mutters. “she doesn’t even like pop music. i don’t think she even likes me.”

“she’s not supposed to like you,” margot replies evenly. “she’s supposed to shoot you.”

sabrina narrows her eyes. “are you kidding? she acts like this is punishment. like she’s doing us a favor.”

margot sits on the edge of the makeup table, crossing her legs. “look, i know she’s... abrasive. but the last guy walked. we had four days to find someone who could drop into a national tour mid-run, fly out, adapt fast, and still make you look iconic. she’s that person. she just doesn’t kiss ass while doing it.”

“is that the bar now?” sabrina scoffs. “you think it’s cool that she’s rude as long as she can shoot with a vintage lens?”

“i think,” margot says, her voice dipping slightly lower, “you’re not actually mad about the job she’s doing. you’re mad because she sees through the act.”

sabrina blinks, stunned silent for half a second.

margot doesn’t wait for a reply. “you’re used to being adored the second you walk in the room. she doesn’t care. that’s what’s throwing you off.”

sabrina scoffs, but it’s weaker now, her arms crossing over her chest. “she’s not special. she just thinks she is.”

“she is special,” margot says firmly, pushing off the table. “and she was recommended by three industry names who don’t even like each other. she’s done punk tours, film sets, studio sessions. and her work is honest—uncomfortably honest. you want the real thing? you’ve got it.”

sabrina shifts in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the warm lights of the mirror. “maybe i don’t want real. maybe i want someone who knows how to fake it with me.”

margot softens slightly. “you’ve been faking it for years. maybe it’s time someone called you on it.”

“she doesn’t know me,” sabrina replies sharply. “she just decided i’m another sugar-coated product.”

“maybe,” margot says, already walking toward the door again. “or maybe she’s waiting to see if there’s anything underneath.”

the door shuts softly behind her.

sabrina stares at her reflection for a long time, watching herself—mascara perfect, cheeks still flushed from the stage, lips glossed and pouty. she looks like every photograph that’s ever been taken of her.

and for the first time tonight, she wonders how you see her. what version of her is forming behind your lens. how much you’re already figuring out—what parts she didn’t mean to show.

and whether you already know more than you’re letting on.

the next afternoon, soundcheck rolls around under dull fluorescent lights and half-awake crew chatter. the venue is still empty, rows of chairs stretching out like a yawning mouth, the space echoing with mic tests and clumsy guitar tuning.

you arrive early, not out of eagerness but habit, slinking down one of the side aisles with your camera already strapped across your chest. the air smells like dust, stale soda syrup, and faint anxiety. you breathe through your nose, unbothered.

sabrina’s perched center stage in sweatpants and a hoodie, one foot resting on a monitor, sipping a green smoothie. her voice is low as she runs through lines with the sound engineer, a quiet hum of melody beneath the white noise of setup.

you hang back, slipping into a shadowed corner just past the speakers, lifting your camera to scan the room through the viewfinder. it’s a habit you don’t think about—letting the lens mediate the space between you and everything else.

you focus on her without hitting the shutter. the way she presses her lips together between notes. the way her foot taps even when there’s no beat. little things you’re already cataloging without realizing it.

someone calls for a mic test. sabrina steps to the front and begins a stripped-down rehearsal of one of her newer singles. it’s bright. glittery. annoyingly catchy. the kind of song that would play in a skincare ad or teen drama breakup montage.

you lower your camera just slightly and mutter under your breath, “jesus christ.”

the guy next to you—a young tech wearing a headset and eating doritos at 10 a.m.—chuckles. “not a fan?”

you smirk, barely audible. “it’s like if bubblegum had a personality disorder.”

what you don’t realize is sabrina has just finished the chorus.

and the room, for one small beat, is quiet enough to hear the remark.

she doesn’t turn around. doesn’t even flinch. just stands there, shoulders rigid, staring out across the empty chairs.

but you see it. the stillness. the way her jaw shifts.

you glance up again through the viewfinder, half-expecting a storm, a look, anything. but sabrina stays facing forward, nodding once to the tech crew before speaking calmly into the mic.

“can we take that again?” she says, voice level but colder now. “slower this time.”

the engineer nods from the booth. sabrina launches back into the first verse.

you keep your camera at your hip now, something in you hesitating—not from guilt, but from interest. she didn’t call you out. didn’t even acknowledge you. that kind of silence, you’ve learned, is more dangerous than a scene.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her from a distance as she finishes the second take—voice smooth, posture perfect, not a single crack in the performance.

and when she finishes this time, she does glance over her shoulder. just once. barely a second.

but the look lands.

a flash of something in her eyes—cool, unreadable, but sharp. like she’s filing you away for later.

you smirk to yourself, almost impressed.

good.

let her.

the dressing room is quieter now.

late afternoon sun filters weakly through the high, narrow window, casting long shadows across the tile floor. sabrina’s perched in the makeup chair again, hoodie off now, hair damp from a post-soundcheck shower, legs curled up beneath her in an oversized sweatshirt. someone left a granola bar on the table. she hasn’t touched it.

you enter without knocking.

her eyes lift immediately, and she doesn’t even try to hide the irritation this time.

“if you’re here to compare my lyrics to snack food again,” she says, voice flat, “you can leave.”

you toss your camera bag on the couch, unzip it with one hand. “that wasn’t a metaphor. it was a direct comparison.”

she snorts once, almost surprised by herself. “you’re not charming, you know.”

“not trying to be.”

you sit on the edge of the couch, pull your camera into your lap. there’s a long silence between you. she stares at the mirror. you stare at her reflection.

finally, she turns in her chair. “do you seriously hate everything i do?”

you blink, slowly. “no.”

she waits. arms crossed. skeptical.

“i hate most of it,” you clarify. “but not all.”

she laughs once, sharp and defensive. “wow. thanks.”

you lean back against the couch. “you asked.”

“yeah, i didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

“why not?”

“because you don’t talk to anyone,” she says, studying you now. “you just... hover and watch and mutter smartass things under your breath like some disgruntled vampire.”

you shrug. “it’s a living.”

sabrina shakes her head, exasperated. “so what is it, really? you think i’m fake? you think pop music’s trash? you think i haven’t written anything worth listening to?”

you tilt your head. “is that what you think i think?”

she stares you down.

you stare right back.

then you speak, voice quieter this time, but still unwavering.

“i think you’re smart. i think you know exactly what people want to hear. and i think you give it to them in perfect little three-minute doses because it’s safer than showing them something real.”

her expression falters.

you keep going.

“i think you’re better than the songs they make you sing. and i think you’re terrified no one would care if you stopped.”

sabrina doesn’t speak. her mouth opens slightly, then closes. her hands tighten on the armrests.

you glance down at your camera, start adjusting settings like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“don’t worry,” you add, voice flat again. “you’re not special. most people are pretending.”

sabrina inhales sharply, like she’s going to say something—angry, cutting, maybe a little wounded—but then she stops.

she just stares at you.

no glare. no performance. no comeback.

and that silence says more than anything she could’ve thrown back.

so you lift the camera. one click. no flash.

sabrina doesn’t even flinch.

you lower it again. pack it away without speaking.

and when you leave the room, she stays exactly where she is. still staring. not at the mirror this time.

but at the space where you were.

the tour bus hums faintly beneath sabrina’s feet, vibrating through the soles of her socks as she crosses the dimly lit lounge area. everyone else has long gone to bed—crew tucked into narrow bunks, assistants crashed on couches, even margot’s voice has finally stopped buzzing through her earpiece.

the silence is rare. almost unsettling.

she finds herself hovering near the small built-in table where your camera sits, surrounded by memory cards and an open laptop. the glow from the screen is faint but enough to cast soft shadows on the floor. she shouldn’t touch it. she knows better.

and yet, her fingers drift to the trackpad.

just a peek.

you’ve left your editing software open—sloppy, or maybe intentional. sabrina pauses, then scrolls.

the first photo that loads isn’t glamorous. it’s from earlier that day, sometime during the last fifteen minutes of prep. she’s bent forward slightly, reaching for a mic, hair tied up messily, eyes downcast. the light catches along her cheekbone, casting the softest contrast beneath her lashes.

she doesn’t even remember you taking it.

it doesn’t look like a pop star photo. it doesn’t even look professional. it looks… honest. like a girl caught thinking about something she won’t say out loud.

she clicks again. and again. more of the same. nothing staged. no fake smiles. just little in-between moments. fingers fidgeting. hair being tucked behind ears. the crease in her brow when she listens too hard.

then she hits one that stops her cold.

it’s her, mid-soundcheck. hoodie half-zipped, lip caught between her teeth, standing dead center stage. there’s nothing flattering about the angle—her stance is uneven, the mic cord tangled—but there’s something in her eyes. something caught off-guard. sharp. real.

her thumb hovers over the trackpad.

this is what you see. this is what you choose to keep.

sabrina leans back slowly in the booth, arms folding across her chest. her first instinct is to feel violated—like she’s been studied, taken apart, catalogued without permission.

but it’s not that. not really.

it’s something closer to wonder. reluctant admiration. even now, she doesn’t fully get you. your mouth runs like a scalpel, but your camera is almost… gentle. observant. kind, even.

and if your words earlier had cut, this collection of images feels like the apology you didn’t bother giving.

she lingers there for another minute, then gently shuts the laptop, careful not to disturb anything.

she doesn’t touch your camera.

but she does glance back at it one more time as she slips toward the sleeping bunks, biting the inside of her cheek, pulse a little unsteady.

maybe you are watching.

but maybe it’s not in the way she thought.

the crowd is already screaming before the lights even drop.

you’re planted just off stage left, knees bent, camera pressed to your face, headphones around your neck filtering in muffled bursts of sabrina’s vocals as the intro track swells. your stance is practiced—still, alert, distant. years of this. different artists. different genres. the shape of the chaos is always the same.

but sabrina is not.

she strides out onto the stage like it’s a battlefield she owns, wind machine hitting her just right, the crowd losing its mind. she smiles on cue, nails every beat, swings her mic in rhythm. it's almost mechanical, but from your viewfinder, you see the micro-cracks. the fraction-of-a-second hesitations. the way her fingers twitch slightly between verses.

you catch them all.

click.

click.

click.

what you don’t realize—what she doesn’t want you to realize—is that she’s looking for you.

not constantly. not obviously. but between lyrics, between steps. scanning the wings, the pit, the shadows. her eyes snag on your silhouette every few minutes like they’re trying not to. like it’s accidental.

and every time they land, you’re there. calm. impassive. not smiling. not cheering. just watching.

recording.

at first, it had pissed her off. your unreadable expression, the way you observed her like a science project. she used to thrive off audience energy, feed on the attention. but now—somehow—it’s not the screams she hears.

it’s the silence of your camera shutter. the subtle movements you make when repositioning. the way you tilt your head slightly to line up a better shot.

and the fact that you still don’t look impressed.

at one point, halfway through a ballad, she catches you again.

you’re kneeling in the pit, camera raised. her spotlight hits you just enough for her to see your face.

expressionless.

not bored. not amused. just focused.

and for some reason, that stings more than applause ever satisfied.

her voice wavers for half a note. the pianist behind her adjusts instinctively, covering the hiccup. no one in the audience notices. but you do.

she knows you do.

the next time she steps near the edge of the stage, she doesn’t look for you.

but she still angles toward your side without thinking.

and you still raise the camera. without smiling. without stopping.

and she still hates—more than anything—that she wants your approval so badly it’s throwing off her timing.

the crowd is gone.

just sweat on the floor now, stray glow sticks and crushed plastic cups glinting under dimmed house lights. the crew buzzes around with quiet efficiency, rolling cables, wheeling flight cases, barking into walkies. the rush is over.

sabrina leans in the doorway between backstage and the loading dock, a bottle of water sweating in her hand. her post-show adrenaline has burned off, leaving a strange restlessness under her skin. she doesn’t go back to her dressing room. doesn’t ask for anyone. she just… watches.

watches you.

you’re crouched near the stage stairs, sorting through gear with mechanical calm, like none of it matters. your black bag’s open beside you, camera lenses arranged in a careful line. you test one by holding it up to the light. adjust a cap. clean a smudge with your shirt.

you haven’t looked at her once.

not when she came offstage. not during the bows. not even when margot congratulated her on a “perfect recovery” after the second chorus falter. you were already halfway through packing up by then, like the whole thing had bored you.

but you had seen it. sabrina knows. she saw you flinch—just barely—when she missed that note.

and still, you said nothing.

not good job. not bad job.

just silence.

which somehow, for her, is worse than criticism.

she leans a little further into the doorway, watching the way your fingers move. efficient, precise, borderline obsessive. you test your camera again, holding it up and firing a silent click toward the rafters, checking the battery. the tiny red light glows in your palm, then disappears.

your jaw clenches slightly, just for a second. tired, maybe.

but not satisfied.

that unsettles her. the thought that maybe you’re not satisfied with her.

she shifts her weight, about to say something—anything, she doesn’t even know what—but you beat her to it.

“you need something?” you ask without looking up.

your voice is even, low. not cold exactly, but not warm either. like you already know she’s there, and you don’t care.

she stiffens slightly. then shrugs, recovering. “just… walking through.”

“looks like you’re standing.”

you glance up.

her face is flushed from the show still, hair pulled into a messy braid, baby hairs stuck to her temple. she’s gripping her water bottle like it owes her money.

“didn’t realize the hallway was private property,” she replies, dryly.

you raise an eyebrow. “it’s not.”

silence stretches between you again.

sabrina shifts her weight. “i saw some of your shots. earlier.”

you nod once. “yeah?”

“yeah,” she says, then hesitates. “they’re… not what i expected.”

you smirk, finally meeting her gaze. “you expected selfies with glitter.”

she rolls her eyes. “i expected a little effort at flattery.”

“i don’t shoot flattery,” you reply simply, zipping your bag. “i shoot truth.”

you stand, sling the camera strap over your shoulder. sabrina watches you take your time, tucking cords away, clicking latches closed, completely unbothered by her presence.

and yet she doesn’t leave.

“so what’s the truth, then?” she asks, quieter now.

you pause, glance at her again—really look at her this time.

your eyes are steady. unreadable.

“you’re still figuring out which version of you matters,” you say.

then you walk past her, the strap of your camera bumping gently against her arm as you pass.

she doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

just stares forward, completely still, her heart doing something sharp and stupid in her chest.

she hates how much she wants to turn around and ask you to stay.

but she doesn’t.

she just watches you go.

quiet, curious, and completely thrown.

"you’re testing me."

you blink up at her, all fluttery lashes and fake innocence. “what?”

abby leans over you, voice low. “that little skirt. the pink gloss. your fucking giggle.”

you shrug. “just wanted to be cute.”

"you’re cute, baby." she leans closer. "but you’re about to be ruined."

you’re on your back now. skirt pushed up. panties soaked. abby kneels between your thighs like she owns you.

"you hear that?" she murmurs, dragging two fingers over your cunt.

slick coats them immediately.

"you’re fucking soaked."

you whimper. “for you.”

“yeah, princess. all for me.”

she kisses the inside of your thigh. then higher. then higher.

“open wider, sweetheart,” she says.

you spread for her, shaky and whiny.

"good girl," she murmurs, pushing your panties to the side.

"gonna make this pretty little pussy cry."

her mouth is on you immediately. you arch off the bed, hands grabbing at the sheets.

"abby—" she doesn’t stop. tongue fucking you slow, then fast, fingers gripping your thighs to keep you still.

you’re panting. already gone. she pulls off with a wet sound.

"turn around." you blink. “what?”

her voice deepens. “you heard me, doll. on your knees. ass up.” you scramble into position. abby grins. “such a good little toy.”

she kisses your lower back. then yanks your panties down in one motion. her palm grazes your cunt.

"still dripping," she mutters. “fuck.” you push your hips back.

"needy baby,” she says. “you want mama’s fingers again?”

"yes, please—"

two fingers slide into you with ease. you gasp, burying your face into the pillow. abby fucks you slow, deep, letting you feel every drag of her knuckles.

"this little hole was made for me," she groans.

you moan, loud and broken.

"that’s right, baby. let it out."

she speeds up. your ass slaps against her thighs. you’re whining into the sheets.

"you gonna cum for me, doll?"

"y-yes—mama, please—"

"then cum."

you do — body trembling, toes curling, slick gushing down her hand. she doesn’t stop. your legs start to shake.

you lift your head weakly. “abby—too much—”

"you can take it, pretty girl."

"fuck—!"

she pulls you upright by your waist, presses a kiss to your temple.

"gimme one more."

she flips you back over, mounts your thigh, grinding slow. you’re soaked. spent. still begging.

"you love being ruined, huh?"

"only by you," you whisper. abby kisses you deep.

"then don’t you ever wear that tiny little outfit around anyone but me." her strap comes out next. you’re barely conscious and already spreading for her.

"good girl," she growls, dragging the tip over your entrance. “you want it?”

"need it, mama. please."

"i know, baby." she pushes in, slow, thick, and unforgiving.

you’re moaning so loud the headboard hits the wall. abby grips your hips like she’s holding you together.

"so fucking tight," she groans. “this pussy’s all mine.”

"yours—only yours—"

she slaps your ass once. hard.

"damn right it is."

you cum again, full and twitching and gone. abby fucks you through it, doesn’t let up. you’re babbling now.

"thank you—thank you—"

she leans over, kisses your shoulder.

"such a good little thing. you did so good for me, baby."

you’re in her arms now. hoodie draped over your back. abby’s hand tracing your thigh.

"still alive?"

you nod weakly. "barely."

she grins.

"next time," she whispers, “i want you on your knees before you even say hi.”

you whimper. "yes, mama."