to me, you were the measure of all things

You start staying in more. At first, it’s a few nights. Quiet evenings with tea gone cold beside your notebooks, your phone facedown so you don’t have to see the screen light up. Then it becomes a week. Then two. Your apartment starts to feel like a cave you’ve willingly crawled into, curtains drawn so that even the sun can’t reach you.

You tell yourself you’re working. That this is what writers do, retreating into themselves to make something out of the noise in their heads and the pain in their hearts. A way to escape the memories that play on the insides of your eyelids any time you close them. (Do they really go away, or are you just fooling yourself?)

You still write. The poems come easier than anything else. They fill pages, but they’re different now. You can see it even as the ink hasn’t fully dried: lines more brittle, metaphors sharper, words you’d normally edit out left in place like splinters.

There is a part of me that is desperate to know if my absence has done any damage to you. That there is a possibility that you too, experience long restless nights due to the thought of me. That your heart is broken in the same places as mine. I want to know that I’m not the only one hurting from this. I want to know that I actually meant something to you. (rhythmicrhinoceros)

my whole life smells like you. this will take time. undoing you from my blood. (Nayyirah Waheed)

I knew from the beginning that I wouldn’t be able to keep you but I tried anyway. (via excerptsofstories)

Your agent calls, your editor emails. “We’re excited about the new material,” they say. But you’ve known them long enough to feel the concern woven through the lines. You respond just enough to keep them from pressing harder. Which, most days, means barely responding at all.

The neighbors you sometimes run into on your way out have started glancing at your door like they’re checking for signs of life. Even the barista at your favorite café—the one who always saves you the last almond croissant—has started asking a mutual friend if you’re doing alright because he hasn’t seen you in a while.

It continues like that for a while. You don’t really notice how much time passes. You don’t really care.

And then Mrs. Nguyen shows up at your door.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, the sky outside heavy with rain. You’ve been staring at a half-filled notebook for two hours.

The knock startles you. When you open the door, she’s standing there with a bag of food tucked under one arm, her expression stern. The corners of her mouth are turned downwards, and she’s tapping her foot annoyedly in the way you’ve grown to adore. It’s a type of scolding that only comes from someone who cares.

“You think I don’t notice when one of my regulars disappears?” she says as soon as she’s inside, setting the bag on your counter like she owns the place. “You haven’t been coming by recently.”

If you weren’t feeling so sad, her confidence would’ve made you laugh. There’s not a second where she’s even considered that it’s because of logical reasons, like wanting to save money or maybe you’d found a better food spot (you’d never, it’s next to impossible).

“I’ve been busy,” you mumble, but it’s weak.

Mrs. Nguyen snorts. “No offense honey, but in the five years I’ve known you, you’ve never been too busy to come by.” She looks around your apartment, eyes narrowing at the scattered notebooks and untouched dishes. “You’re eating properly?”

You give a small, noncommittal shrug. She clicks her tongue. “You’re too thin,” she mutters, pressing the bag into your hands. “Eat. And stop hiding. You’re a good girl, don’t lose yourself by drowning in your emotions.”

Her words slip under your skin. You nod, promise to come by the restaurant soon, but she doesn’t leave until she’s seen you take a bite of what she brought. Only then does she pat your arm, softer now. “Don’t let your world get too small, honey. The walls will start talking back.”

When she’s gone, the apartment feels emptier than before.

You drift back to your desk. The journal waiting there isn’t the black one—that one is still with Jenna. It’s a new one, yet another new one, pages filled with ink-dark fragments of everything you can’t say out loud. The words blur together if you stare too long.

You miss her.

It’s not new by any means. And it’s not like you didn’t know before. But still, the realization of how deep that missing goes comes like a tide. You’d been trying not to think about it, because thinking about it would make it real. You miss her, with every bone in your body. Not just the texts or the little jokes or the quiet warmth she carried with her.

You miss the way she’d lean into you without thinking, the way her presence pulled the edges of the world into focus. You miss the way she’d lose basically everything she owned carelessly if you didn’t remind her to take her phone (or her bag, or her wallet) with her when she was leaving your place. You miss the way she’d drop to the floor when she was embarrassed. Or the way she’d hide her face, even if it was in the crook of your neck.

But missing her hurts in a way that feels dangerous.

You were never meant to keep her. Girls like her don’t stay with girls like you. Because this is real life, and not just a book, and things don’t work out like that in real life. You might be a poet, but you aren’t dense.

You tell yourself it’s better like this. The distance, the slow fade out from each other’s lives. Better to step back now, before you’re standing in the wreckage of something you can’t put back together—something that, if you squint, might’ve once resembled your heart. Because what happens if you stay close, be her friend, if you keep orbiting her like this?

It would break you, that’s for sure.

I have so much love for her. and she doesn’t want it. and I can’t have it because it’s not mine, and I can’t give it to anyone or anything else because it’s not theirs. it’s hers, all hers and there’s nowhere else to put it. it’s so fucking heavy, and I have nowhere to put it. (allsska on X)

You’d wanted to believe. God, you’d wanted to. Something about her made you feel like everything was possible. Like maybe, if you’d finally work up the courage someday to tell her, she’d like you back.

But the memory of her that night comes back. “God, I thought you’d be different.” The words still sting like a fresh bruise.

You drag your hand down your face. You’re not sure you’d survive the heartbreak of staying near her only to realize, slowly, that you’ve imagined it all. That what’s been growing in you is unrequited.

I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted and I hope I never hear a thing about it.

The poems in your new journal are starting to slip from longing into ache. Some days, you’re not even sure which side of the line they fall on. You write anyway because it’s the only way you know to keep breathing.

And yet, even as you retreat, a part of you waits. Some quiet, stubborn part of you still hoping for a text, for a call, for the sound of her voice cutting through the static.

You tell yourself it’s over. But you still leave your phone face up, some days.

---&---

Jenna throws herself into work. It’s the easiest way to quiet the noise, to drown out whatever sits in her chest and refuses to dissolve.

Her schedule fills itself without her even trying. Script readings, fittings, promotional shoots, endless rounds of interviews that start to blur together. She doesn’t stop moving—if she stops, she might start thinking, and she’s already learned that thinking is dangerous.

On set, she’s sharp. Focused. A little quieter than usual, maybe, but she still does the job. Always does. The director praises her for her “discipline,” for her “intensity.” It makes her want to laugh, sometimes. It’s a lot of things, that keep her there. Discipline is not one of them.

Her costars notice. They’re careful with her, gentle in their concern. One of them brings her coffee each morning, the cup warm in her hands before she even has the chance to say she needs it. Another starts leaving snacks on the table beside her chair. Jenna thanks them, smiles that same tired, automatic curve of her mouth that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

She’s not sleeping again. Or still. At this point, it’s been happening so much she’s not quite sure if she should refer to the moments when she doesn’t sleep well as exceptions, or the days where she does.

It’s worse than normal, though. The full insomnia has set in, and the world begins to tilt at strange angles. She forgets words mid-sentence. Misses her cues. Once, she drifts off in a quiet corner of the studio, script still in hand, her head tipped against the wall. A crew member finds her like curled up small, exhaustion written into every line of her face, and covers her with a spare jacket.

Her agent calls the next morning, voice firm but not unkind. “You need to slow down,” she says. “You’re burning out.”

Jenna laughs softly, fingers pressed against her temple. “I can’t,” she says, because it’s true. If she slows down, she’ll feel everything again.

Because underneath the exhaustion and the blur of work and the endless need to keep going, one name still hums quietly in the back of her mind. You.

She knows what happened. She knows it’s her fault. What she doesn’t know, however, is how to fix it. The gap between you has been widening, and she doesn’t know how to bridge it without sounding like she wants too much.

The truth is, she does want too much.

It hits her one night, while she’s rereading a script at her kitchen table, her half-eaten dinner forgotten beside her. The ache in her chest isn’t the kind that comes from a friendship fading out. She’s been through that before and she knows what it feels like when two people drift apart naturally, when lives move in different directions.

This isn’t that.

This is something sharper, quieter, more dangerous.

And it scares her.

She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, but it doesn’t stop the thought from surfacing: it wasn’t just friendship, was it?

She still thinks about the way your voice softened when you told her stories, the way you watched her like you were trying to memorize her. She remembers the sound of your laugh, low and startled, the warmth of your arm against hers.

And then she remembers the way you’d looked at her, when you thought she wasn’t paying attention, like you were drunk on her.

She swallows hard.

It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t know why it ended. To tell herself you needed space, or got busy, or maybe just moved on. But the thought doesn’t sit right, not when she can still feel the ghost of your presence every time she opens the journal sitting on her nightstand. The one you gave her.

She’s flipped through its pages too many times now. She’s careful with it, reverent almost, as if the ink might fade if she touches it too hard. She’s read every word—the ones written for her, and the ones that weren’t—and every time she closes it, she feels that same ache curling inside her ribs.

She misses you. God, she misses you.

But she doesn’t know what to do with that missing. Doesn’t know how to reach out without risking something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

She’s discussing (or well, scolding) her and her well-being with her agent when mid-sentence the woman goes, “Hey, what about that friend of yours? Y/N? She seemed to help.”

Jenna freezes for a fraction of a second. Then she forces a shrug, tries to make her voice light. “Yeah,” she says. “She’s been busy, I think.”

It’s not convincing.

Her agent studies her for a moment, like she wants to say something more, but eventually she just nods and goes back to typing.

Jenna stares at the screen in front of her, words blurring until they stop meaning anything. Her heart beats too fast. Her throat feels tight.

She doesn’t say it aloud. Doesn’t say that she hasn’t heard from you, that she’s checked her phone more times than she’d ever admit, that the silence between you has started to feel like something alive.

But her agent doesn’t need to ask. The silence says it all.

When Jenna gets home that night, she sets her bag down and goes straight to the nightstand. The journal is still there. She flips it open to a random page, eyes tracing over your handwriting.

It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the questions. Or give her any solutions.

But for a few minutes, she lets herself pretend you’re still here.

That you’ll text her again. That this ache will fade into something softer. That maybe, if she waits long enough, you’ll come back.

(There’s a part of her that knows the ball in her court. She doesn’t think about it.)

---&---

The thing about distance is that it doesn’t stay still. It expands. Slowly at first, like light fading at the end of the day, and then all at once. One morning, you wake and the air itself feels heavier, the silence too large for one person to live inside.

You stop counting the days since you last saw her. It’s easier that way. Numbers make things too real.

You start going to bed later, if you go at all. Nights blur into each other: the glow of your laptop screen, the blank page that refuses to forgive you, the faint hum of the city through your window. You think if you stay awake long enough, if you tire yourself out, maybe the thoughts will stop coming. But they don’t. They never do.

It always circles back to her.

Jenna.

You whisper her name once, just to hear how it sounds in the stillness. Like a confession. Like a wound.

You tell yourself that what you’re feeling is grief. That’s all it is. Losing a friend. Losing the person who felt like home. You’ve written about this before, in other contexts, other heartbreaks. But this one doesn’t follow the rules. It doesn’t burn the way heartbreaks should. It lingers. Gentle and relentless.

You catch yourself doing stupid things: scrolling through her interviews even when you know it’ll hurt, stopping the video when she laughs because it makes your chest tighten too much. You replay old voice messages—the ones where she sounds tired but still soft, where she says your name like it belongs to her.

It’s embarrassing, really, how easily you can make yourself ache.

At some point, you start seeing her everywhere. Not literally—you’re not delusional, at least not yet—but in small, precise flashes. In the way a stranger’s hand curls around a coffee cup. In the half-smile of a girl waiting for her train. In the scent of someone’s perfume as they pass you on the street. The world keeps trying to give you fragments of her, and you keep taking them like they’re crumbs of a cake you once had. But you’re starving, and crumbs don’t keep the hunger at bay.

It’s one of those nights when the realization finally lands, not suddenly, but slow, like something that’s been waiting for you to notice. You’re sitting at your desk, the rain tapping lightly against the glass, your tea gone cold beside you. You look down at the page in front of you, the lines you’ve been writing for weeks without quite knowing what they meant.

And then you see it.

Every word, every poem, every desperate line. They’re all her.

You sit back, heartbeat unsteady. Your throat tightens.

You press your hand flat against your notebook, as if that could stop the shaking. You think about the way you watched her sleep that night, exhaustion etched into her face. How you’d felt her breath against your skin and thought only of how small she felt, how breakable, and how utterly wrong it was that you wanted to keep her like that. Safe. Close. Yours.

You wanted to kiss her.

God, you still want to.

The thought hits like a wave you’ve been bracing against for months. You close your eyes and there it is: the image of her, with damp waves sticking to her forehead, voice rough with sleep, that little frown she makes when she’s trying not to cry. The sound she made when she leaned into you. The way her fingers brushed yours when she didn’t even realize it.

You want to be the one who steadies her when the world spins too fast. You want to make her coffee and watch her smile when she takes the first sip. You want to read her your drafts, not because you need feedback, but because you want her voice to live inside your work.

You want all of it. Every version of her. Even the ones that scare you.

And the worst part? You can’t bear the thought of anyone else getting that. You can’t stomach the idea of her finding warmth in someone else’s hands. The thought alone feels like someone carving you open.

You hate that part of yourself. The selfish, jealous thing that wants to claim her. But there it is. Real and raw.

You don’t sleep that night. You pace instead, words clawing at the back of your throat, the room too small to hold what’s breaking loose inside you. Every rational thought you’ve had, every careful boundary you’ve built, crumbles under the truth you’ve been avoiding.

You’re in love with her.

It’s that simple. And that complicated.

The next morning, you try to go through the motions—coffee, shower, write—but everything feels off-balance, like the air has changed density. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and almost laugh. You look the same, but you know better. There’s no going back now.

You try to write, but the words feel clumsy. Every sentence collapses under the weight of what you’re not saying. You keep starting over. Keep crossing things out. Eventually, you just write one line and stop:

I don’t want to stop loving you. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

It’s too much. You close the notebook, push it away like it’s something dangerous.

You tell yourself to breathe. To focus. To not text her.

But your hand still reaches for your phone anyway, muscle memory winning over reason. The screen lights up. No messages. Of course. You scroll through your old chats, each one a fossil of something alive that might’ve been killed by accident.

You almost type something (Hey, how have you been?) but delete it before it’s even finished. Because what would you even say? How do you engage in small talk when all you want to do is entangle your souls together?

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

And you think that maybe Mrs. Nguyen was right. Maybe the walls do start talking back when you let the world get too small. Because lately, they’ve all started whispering the same name.

And no matter how hard you try, you can’t make them stop.

---&---

Jenna doesn’t notice when the exhaustion stops being manageable.

At first, she’s just tired, the kind of tired that coffee and makeup can hide. She’s able to hide it, professionalism beating even basic human needs. She’s been trained to wear it like armor. She’s learned how to laugh through it, how to joke between takes, how to let the cameras love her even when she doesn’t have the strength to love herself.

But the days blur. The set lights feel too bright, the noise too constant. Her world narrows into call times and rewrites and the sound of her own pulse thudding behind her eyes. She loses track of what day it is. What city she’s in. Sometimes she’ll wake in her trailer and forget how she got there.

When she looks in the mirror, she startles. Her face looks thinner. Her eyes, duller. There’s a tremor in her hands now, subtle but insistent, like her body is warning her that something inside is caving in.

She tells herself she’s fine. That this is what hard work looks like. That the hollow ache in her chest is just stress and not the echo of your name, not the guilt still lodged in her throat from that night.

Her agent watches the decline with growing alarm. Jenna’s lines come slower. She stumbles over words she’s known for weeks. Between takes, she goes quiet, gaze unfocused, like she’s somewhere far away. Someone hands her a bottle of water, and she holds it without drinking.

The makeup artist starts using heavier concealer under her eyes, though it doesn’t help much anymore. The shadows are carved too deep now, and her skin is pale in a way that no amount of bronzer can fix.

Once, she nearly stumbles on set, missing a step she’s taken a hundred times before. Everyone pretends not to notice, but the silence afterward is heavy.

By the fourth day of reshoots, Jenna can barely stand upright. Her voice trembles when she tries to say her lines. On the third attempt, it simply gives out, the words collapsing into air.

The director calls for a break, too kind to call it what it really is: mercy.

Jenna nods, but the motion is small, jerky. She steps off the set, her body on autopilot, and makes it to her trailer before her knees give. She sinks onto the couch, trembling, breath shallow. Her reflection in the mirror opposite her looks almost translucent. A ghost of herself, eyes too wide, lips pressed thin.

She thinks she might cry. But even that feels like too much effort.

Her agent stands in the doorway, phone in hand. She’s seen Jenna push through exhaustion before; in fact, she’s built a career on it. But this is different. There’s a hollowness in her eyes, an absence that scares the woman even after 20 years in the industry.

“Jenna?” she asks softly. No answer.

So she makes a decision.

She steps outside and scrolls to a number she wasn’t sure she’d ever use. It’s labeled simply: Y/N (emergency).

The call connects on the second ring.

“Hey,” you say, cautious. Your voice is soft, careful, like it always is when you’re not sure if someone’s calling to talk or to say goodbye. It’s been weeks. Months, maybe. You’ve lost count. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a pause—long enough for your heart to start pounding. Then, softly:

“It’s Jenna.”

Something inside you twists so violently you nearly drop the phone.

You sit up straighter, every nerve alert. “What—what happened?”

The woman exhales shakily on the other end. “She’s… not good,” she says. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but she’s not sleeping, she’s barely eating, and she’s running herself into the ground. She won’t listen to any of us. She just keeps saying she’s fine, but—”

Her voice cracks. It’s the sound of someone who’s been watching a slow-motion collapse and can’t stop it.

“I’m worried,” she finishes quietly. “I’ve never seen her get this bad before.”

The words hang there. Soft, pleading.

You don’t even think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You’re already on your feet, the notebook sliding off your lap, pages scattering like startled birds. Your chair topples back as you reach for your keys, your jacket, your shoes—the motions automatic, your heart a drumbeat of panic.

“I’ll be there,” you say, voice trembling with something that sounds too much like fear.

Because of course you will. Of course you will.

The problem has never been whether you’d come.

It’s always been that you care too much to stay away.

You grab your phone charger, shove it into your pocket, barely managing to lock the door behind you as you go. The hallway blurs, the elevator is too slow, your is heartbeat too loud. You don’t remember half the drive. You just remember her name on your lips like a prayer, your fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached.

When you pull into the lot, the guard at the gate glances up from his clipboard. His brow furrows for a second before his expression softens with recognition. You don’t even have to explain, he just nods, waves you through—maybe recognizing your face, maybe just seeing something in your expression that says don’t stop me.

The rain has started again.

By the time you see her trailer appear in the distance, you’re soaked to the skin.

Her assistant spots you before you reach the door. Relief washes over her face so visibly it almost hurts to look at. “She’s inside,” she murmurs as you walk side by side toward Jenna’s trailer. “They’re rearranging the schedule, director said she can take a few days off.”

You nod, barely hearing.

You hesitate for half a second outside the door, your breath visible in the cold air, your hand hovering above the handle. You tell yourself this is stupid. That she might not want to see you. That you’re the last person who should be here.

But then you hear a muffled sound inside—a faint, broken thing that could be a sob or a sigh—and all that doubt vanishes.

You push the door open.

Jenna’s sitting on the small couch, legs drawn up, hair a little messy from running her fingers through it too many times. Her script lies open on the table, but she’s not reading it. She’s just… staring.

It’s the stillness that hits you first. Jenna’s never been still. She’s always been in motion, fingers tapping, knee bouncing, a dozen thoughts sparking at once. But now she’s motionless, like someone pressed pause on her life and forgot to hit play again.

The sight knocks the air clean out of you. She looks smaller than you remember. Fragile. Like one breath of air could knock her over.

For a moment, she doesn’t notice you. You just stand there, dripping rainwater onto the floor, staring.

Then her eyes lift. Something in her expression flickers—confusion first, then disbelief, then something softer.

“Y/N?” she whispers, voice cracking.

And it hits you all at once—how much you’ve missed her. How much you still love her.

Every instinct screams to go to her. But you stay frozen, heart pounding.

You swallow, step closer. “Hey,” you say quietly. “Your agent called me.”

“Oh.” She blinks slowly, as if her thoughts have to travel a long distance to reach her mouth. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah.” you interrupt gently, your eyes flicking to the floor. “I know.”

Silence stretches thin between you.

She looks down again, eyes unfocused and up close, you can see how bad it’s gotten. Her hands are trembling, her skin too pale under the trailer’s warm light. There’s a hollowness under her eyes that makeup couldn’t hope to hide. She looks like she’s been running on empty for too long, like she’s forgotten what it feels like to rest.

She’s fiddling with her shaking hands, picking at the skin around her nails and turning it raw and red.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually chokes out, voice barely a whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry, I-I didn’t mean it—any of it! I promise, I’m so sorry I pushed you away, I always fucking do this and I end up hurting the people I l—“

Her voice breaks before she can finish.

You crouch in front of her, heart pounding so loudly you can feel it in your teeth. Her eyes meet yours, glossy with tears, and it hits you hard. All the anger you thought you still had dissolving instantly into something softer, messier.

“When’s the last time you slept?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

She gives a helpless little laugh—the kind that sounds more like a sob. “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “Tuesday? Maybe?”

You reach out before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing her arm. She doesn’t flinch. In fact, she leans into it slightly, like her body recognizes you before her mind does.

“Okay,” you murmur. “That’s enough of this.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but you’re already sliding an arm around her middle, pulling her gently to her feet. She sways once, unsteady, and you tighten your hold. She smells like coffee and the faint trace of her perfume.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You guide her through the narrow hallway of the trailer, your hand resting at her waist. She’s pliant under your touch, too tired to argue, and when you reach the small bed in the back, she just sinks down without a word.

Her voice comes out as a whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You kneel to untie her shoes anyway. “Maybe not,” you say softly. “But I am.”

Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull the laces loose. The small, ordinary intimacy of it feels like too much. When you look up again, she’s watching you.

Her eyes are glassy, but her expression… her expression is something else. Something that looks a lot like relief and guilt tangled together.

Then she says it, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, almost like she’s saying it to herself.

“I missed you.”

It hits you like a pulse under your ribs. You want to tell her you missed her too, that you’ve been missing her every day since you left, but instead you just smile faintly and pull the blanket up over her shoulders.

“Sleep now,” you tell her. “We can talk later.”

She nods, lashes lowering, a little sigh escaping her like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.

You brush a stray strand of hair from her face, fingers ghosting against her temple, and for a second, the world feels smaller. Quieter. Just the two of you, the hum of the trailer, the faint rhythm of her breathing.

Then you stand. You turn to leave.

You don’t get to.

Her hand shoots out, sudden and desperate, fingers curling around your wrist. Her grip is shaky but strong enough to stop you. She’s sitting upright now, eyes wide and filled with a panic that feels far too intense for the moment.

Her grip tightens on your hand, trembling just slightly. “Wait…” Her voice is thin, almost breaking. “I still have to do the stairs.”

You pause, heart clenching. You know this one. She’s told you before, briefly, in passing—a glimpse behind the curtain of her mind. The compulsions. The rituals she knows aren’t real but feels forced to obey anyway. The flickering anxiety that only eases when she does what she has to do. They get worse when she’s tired, when her rational mind loses the fight.

She needs to walk up and down the stairs six times. Six times exactly. Not five. Not seven. Six.

It’s not about the stairs. It’s never about the stairs. It’s about keeping the world from falling apart. About pushing back the chaos in her chest until she can breathe again.

You glance toward the tiny staircase leading from the trailer’s main door down to the gravel outside. It’s just six steps, simple enough. But right now, Jenna is swaying on her feet and looking at you with unfocused eyes, so you don’t trust her to do it alone.

“It’s okay, just go to sleep,” you say softly, squeezing her hand. “I’ll stay with you.”

She blinks, that pleading fear flickering again in her eyes, mingled with exhaustion and something like shame. “I can’t, Y/N. You know that.”

You do. You wish you didn’t, but you do. You’ve seen that look before, that desperate, aching need to control something when everything else is slipping away.

“Okay,” you murmer, swallowing the lump in your throat. “But let me help, okay?”

She hesitates, looking away for a breath, then nods, eyes darting toward the steps like she’s afraid they might vanish if she looks away too long.

The two of you move together, slow, measured. The trailer door creaks open, letting in the cool air and the low hum of the studio lot.

You keep a hold of her hand at first. But she sways, so you gently wrap an arm around her waist, steadying her. Her steps are tentative as she moves toward the stairs.

She places her foot on the first step and her knees buckle almost immediately. She leans into you instinctively. Her skin feels cold even through her clothes.

You watch her chest rise and fall unevenly, eyelids fluttering as if fighting to stay open. The exhaustion etched in every line of her face is raw and unfiltered. Like the moment you showed up, her body gave up the fight of trying to stay awake.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

She nods, but the motion is weak—more instinct than truth. Her balance wavers, and she stumbles. You catch her immediately, your arm tightening around her waist.

“Careful,” you murmur, guiding her upright again.

She doesn’t respond, eyes unfocused, jaw clenched.

Step one. Step two.

Each movement looks like an act of sheer will. You stay close behind her, counting silently as she climbs, your hand never leaving her. When she reaches the top, there’s a flicker, a ghost of relief that passes through her eyes. Then she turns and makes her way back down.

You follow, close enough that you could catch her if she fell.

Her legs tremble with every step, the exhaustion dragging her down like gravity’s doubled.

You stop her gently. “Come here,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t argue. She just folds toward you, forehead brushing your shoulder, body sagging against yours. She’s so tired she’s pliant, like she’s finally run out of resistance.

“Here,” you murmur, shifting slightly. You drop to one knee in front of the steps and glance back at her. “Climb on.”

Her brows knit together in confusion. “What?”

“I won’t let you fall,” you promise.

For a second, she just stares at you like she’s trying to decide whether this is real or another one of her exhaustion-fueled dreams. Then, quietly, she moves. Her hands rest on your shoulders, tentative and trembling, and she climbs onto your back.

Her arms loop around your neck. Her head finds the space between your shoulder and jaw. You can feel the tremor still running through her, small but constant, like her body hasn’t realized she’s safe yet.

“Don’t move too fast,” she mumbles against your shoulder.

You smile—a tiny, invisible thing she can’t see. “Promise.”

You stand carefully, finding your balance. Her weight settles against you: warm, familiar, heartbreakingly human. You start up the steps, one slow rise at a time.

Step one. Step two. Step three.

Her breathing slows as she nestles closer to you.

Step four. Step five. Step six.

You’re counting the number of times you’ve gone up in your head as you continue.

By the time you’re going up the fourth time, her head has slumped to lean against yours.

You reach the bottom step, and she’s gone, asleep, her breathing steady, her body completely slack against your back. It makes her kind of hard to hold up from this angle, but you manage anyway.

You keep going anyway, slow and rhythmic.

Up and down. Up and down.

Until it’s six times total. The ritual completed. The world, for now, at peace.

When you finally carry her back inside, the air in the trailer feels softer somehow. You lower her carefully onto the bed, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. She doesn’t stir. Her lips part slightly, a quiet sigh escaping, the kind that only comes after surrender.

You stand there for a long moment, just watching her. The small lines of exhaustion still shadow her face, but they’re gentler now, blurred by sleep.

You sit beside her, careful not to make the mattress dip too much. Her hand lies open on the blanket. You reach out and take it, fingers curling loosely around hers.

---&---

Jenna sleeps twelve hours straight.

The first few are light, twitchy, full of small movements and half-formed sounds like her body is fighting the habit of vigilance. But once she’s truly under, she doesn’t stir again. The tension drains from her face, her shoulders, even her hands. You’ve never seen her look so peaceful.

You stay in the trailer. You should probably leave. Go home, get a proper bed and shower, start pretending that this is just another chapter you’ll close later. But you can’t. Not when she looks like this. Not when the smallest sound from you might wake her, and the smallest distance might feel like a goodbye.

So you take the couch.

It’s small, and the armrest digs into your back, and your legs dangle awkwardly off the end, but you don’t care.

You don’t sleep much anyway. You drift in and out. When you’re not asleep, you spend most of the hours just watching. The light from the window shifts from silver to gold and back again, a full day wrapped around the space between you.

When she finally stirs, it’s quiet. She blinks herself awake, slow and confused, her face pressed into the pillow, hair a little wild. The clock on the wall says nearly noon.

You’re sitting upright on the couch, a cup of coffee cooling in your hands, your body stiff from the terrible night’s sleep, but your mind strangely alert. You hear her before you look, the soft rustle of sheets and the inhale giving her away.

When your eyes meet, there’s a small, uncertain pause.

She blinks. Her voice is rough. “…You stayed.”

You offer a tired half-smile. “Yeah.”

Jenna pushes herself up on her elbows, squinting at you like she’s not sure she’s seeing right. “Why?” she asks after a moment. It’s not suspicious, but soft. Like she can’t quite believe it.

You set your cup down, fingertips tracing the rim. You open your mouth, close it again. The answer seems both too simple and too dangerous to say out loud.

“Because you needed sleep,” you start carefully. “Because you were running yourself into the ground. And because—”

You stop.

Jenna tilts her head. “Because?”

You exhale. “Because I’m terrible at walking away from people I care about.”

That earns you a small, sad smile, tired but real. “You make it sound like a flaw.”

You shrug, looking down. “Sometimes it is.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it hums with something fragile. You can feel her eyes on you, studying, trying to read the spaces between your words. You know what’s coming… she’s too intuitive for it not to.

“I’m sorry. For what happened.” she says quietly. “I was tired and grumpy and… annoyed from so many things and I took it out on you and god that’s not an excuse because what I said was so hurtful—I just… I’ll do anything to make you believe that I didn’t mean it… I really, really didn’t.”

You freeze. The words land with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to ignore. You look at her, then at your hands, then away again.

For a moment, you can’t speak. You want to tell her that it’s okay, that you’ve already forgiven her, but that would be a lie. Not because you’re angry—that part burned itself out weeks ago—but because forgiveness isn’t simple. It’s messy, layered, full of small, splintering hurts that don’t vanish just because someone says sorry.

You draw in a shaky breath. “It hurt,” you admit softly. “What you said. The way you said it. I know you didn’t mean it, not really, but hearing it still…” You trail off, searching for the right words. “It stuck. It made me second-guess everything I thought we were.”

Jenna doesn’t interrupt. She just listens, eyes shining a little in the low light, her hands clutching the edge of the blanket like she’s holding onto something real.

“I spent weeks trying to convince myself it didn’t matter,” you continue quietly. “That you were just tired or stressed, that I was being dramatic. But the truth is, it did matter. You matter.”

The air between you shifts. Jenna’s throat moves as she swallows hard, her gaze flicking down to her lap. “I know,” she whispers. “I know I hurt you. And I hate that I did. I don’t want to keep being the reason you flinch.”

Something cracks open inside you and it’s not a clean kind of break, but the soft, slow kind that lets the light in. You study her face, the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the way she’s still trying to make herself smaller even now.

“Hey,” you murmur, and she looks up. “I know you didn’t mean it. I know you were exhausted and scared and trying to protect yourself. But Jenna…” You hesitate, voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to do that with me. You never did.”

Your lip trembles slightly before you speak. “There was also—” you start, then cut yourself off with a small, shaking your head. “No, it doesn’t matter. God, this is so stupid.”

Jenna sits all the way up now, legs crossed beneath the blanket, her brow furrowed. “If it hurt you, it matters.”

You meet her eyes. For a moment, you see nothing but honesty there, raw and open, and it unravels the wall you’ve been clinging to.

You sigh, fingers tightening around the mug. “There was this interview,” you admit. “A clip, actually. Someone asked if you were seeing anyone, and you laughed, said no, that there’s no one special.”

Jenna frowns, confused. “I’m not seeing anyone, though?”

“I know.” You nod, a small, pained smile tugging at your lips. “It’s just— the way you said it. So easily. Like it was obvious. I don’t know, Jenna. It just…”

Her eyes soften, realization dawning. “You thought it meant something else.”

You look down, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “I thought I’d imagined everything. That maybe I was just reading too much into—this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “The way you looked at me. The way we were.” You stop again, swallow hard. “I just felt stupid.”

You rub your palms together, grounding yourself. “And then you said those things and it was like… confirmation. Like I’d been fooling myself the whole time… I kind of convinced myself none of it mattered. That I didn’t matter.”

She shakes her head instantly, the movement sharp. “Y/N—no. God, no. You weren’t imagining it. You’re so important to me! I mean, look at me, we didn’t speak for like a month and I’ve completely fallen apart.”

Your breath catches.

You glance back up, ready to apologize, but she’s already closer than before, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, her expression open in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” she adds quietly, running a hand through her hair. I just—” She falters, searching for the right words. “I don’t talk about that stuff publicly. I’ve learned not to. Every time I do, people twist it into something ugly, something it isn’t. So I stopped giving them anything at all.”

You nod slowly. “I know. You’re private.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

It takes you a moment to breathe again. The line is simple, almost unremarkable, but it feels like someone just opened a window inside you. You stare at her, heart stuttering, unsure if you heard her right.

There’s a small tremor still visible in her fingers, the faint sleep-crease on her cheek, the bare honesty in her eyes.

“You think I’d let just anyone fix my sleep schedule?” she adds quietly, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her mouth.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe.” She admits, her smile widening just a fraction. “But so are you.”

It’s subtle, the way it happens, the drifting closer. Maybe it’s gravity. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s the ache of too many nights spent apart, finally closing the distance it never wanted. But one moment you’re sitting apart, and the next, her knee brushes yours.

You don’t move. Neither does she.

There’s no dramatic confession, no sudden rush. Just the steady, magnetic pull that’s always been there, reasserting itself, reaffirming that it’s inevitable, familiar and terrifying in its tenderness.

You look at her. She’s tired, still, her hair a mess, her face bare and soft in the morning light. But she’s there. Real and warm and within reach.

Jenna glances down at your intertwined knees, then back up, and her smile—small, hesitant, sleepy—looks like the first sign of morning after too many long nights.

You reach for your cup again, just to have something to do with your hands, but she beats you to it, her fingers brushing yours, stopping you mid-motion.

“You don’t have to go yet,” she murmurs.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you say, voice low.

The corner of her mouth lifts, the faintest shadow of relief crossing her face. She leans back against the headboard, eyes half-closed, her shoulders finally loose, unguarded.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks. The hum of the trailer, the faint buzz of sunlight through the curtains, it all folds into something almost peaceful.

You can hear your own heartbeat, too loud in your chest, matching the faint rhythm of hers as she breathes in.

You swallow, voice catching when you finally find it. “Jenna,” you say softly, almost afraid to break the stillness. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.”

Her lips part, just barely, but she doesn’t interrupt.

You take a breath. It feels like standing on the edge of something huge and irreversible. “I tried,” you continue, your voice trembling with honesty. “I tried to convince myself that maybe it was just me. That I was reading into things that weren’t there. But every time I looked at you, every time you smiled at me, every time you said my name like it meant something—I knew. I knew I was falling for you.”

She exhales, slow, like she’s been holding that breath for months. Her eyes flick away for the briefest second before finding you again, and there’s something heartbreakingly vulnerable in them.

You press on, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “I didn’t plan to. I didn’t even want to, because it scared me—because you scare me, Jenna. You’re… you. You light up entire rooms without even trying, and I’m just—” you laugh softly, shaking your head, “me. But it happened anyway. And I don’t want to hide it anymore. I don’t want to act like I don’t care, because I do. I care so much it hurts.”

There’s silence. Then, she whispers something so softly you’re almost sure you imagined it.

“Say that again.”

You blink, startled. “Which part?”

Her eyes glisten, voice quiet but steady. “The part where you said you’re falling for me.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, but you don’t look away. “I’m falling for you,” you say again, firmer this time. “I already fell.”

She laughs, soft, breathy, disbelieving, and for a heartbeat, everything inside you eases. But then her expression shifts, turns pensive, cautious.

“Y/N,” she murmurs, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “You know what my life is like. What it would mean.”

You tilt your head, studying her. “I know what you do. I don’t know why that means I can’t love you.”

Her eyes close for a second, and when she opens them again, they’re wet. “It’s not that simple. My job doesn’t leave room for… this. There’s no privacy, no peace. Every move gets analyzed, every person in my orbit gets dragged into it. You’d lose the quiet parts of your life.”

You just smile softly. “I don’t care.”

She looks at you, searching for the catch. “There would be rumors, interviews, cameras outside your door if anyone found out—”

“I don’t care.”

Her brow creases. “People would say awful things about you. About us.”

“I don’t care.”

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “You think you don’t now, but it gets heavy, Y/N. You’ll hate it. You’ll hate me for it.”

“I won’t,” you say, and it’s so sure, so clear, that she actually flinches a little at the conviction in your tone.

She shakes her head, still half-disbelieving, half-pleading. “I don’t get to be normal. Not really. Every time I try to hold onto something real, it slips away. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen to you, too.”

You lean forward, voice breaking with quiet intensity. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her throat works as she swallows, eyes darting between yours. “You say that now—”

“I don’t care,” you repeat, louder this time, and your smile grows, bright and unshakable despite the tremor in your hands. “I don’t care about the noise, or the cameras, or the world watching. I don’t care if I have to hide or if I have to stand in front of the whole world with a target on my back.” You reach across the small space between you, fingertips brushing hers. “I don’t care, as long as I get you.”

That does it. You see the exact second the walls she’s built around herself start to crumble—her lips parting, her breath catching, her entire face softening like she’s trying not to believe what she just heard.

“You can’t just say things like that,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You smile again, the kind of smile that hurts, that feels too big for your face. “I just did.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then slowly, like gravity’s doing the work for her, she leans forward. The space between you collapses until her forehead is resting against yours, your breaths mixing, uneven.

“This is crazy,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“It’s gonna be hard.”

“I know.”

“It might hurt.”

“Most likely.”

Your face is so close to her you feel her smile instead of see it and it’s small, trembling, disbelieving. Her eyes close, but her lips part as if she wants to say something else.

“I might—“

You cut her off by pressing your lips to hers, ever so softly.

It’s not dramatic, not the kind of kiss movies try to make you believe in. It’s trembling and soft and full of every unsaid word that’s been sitting between you for months. The air hums around you, warm and alive. Her hand comes up to your cheek, and yours finds its way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer until there’s no space left at all.

You taste salt and breath and the quiet sound of something finally falling into place. The world outside the trailer could be ending and you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care, because right here, in this single, impossible moment, everything feels right.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t go far. Her forehead stays pressed to yours, her eyes still closed, her voice barely a whisper.

“You’re really not going anywhere, are you?”

You smile, breathless, still feeling the echo of her lips on yours.

“When you’re right here? Not a chance.”

She laughs softly, a real one this time, the kind that starts in her chest and lights her up from the inside.

“And for the record, I love you too.” She mumbles against your lips.

And when she finally opens her eyes, you see it—the peace you’ve been waiting for. The kind that only shows up when someone stops running.

For the first time in a long time, you both do.

---&---

When morning comes, you wake slowly.

Not to an alarm, not to the jolt of panic that usually drags you out of bed, but to the gentle, steady weight of Jenna still curled against you. The room is dim, muted by early sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains, turning everything soft and hazy. For a moment, you’re not sure what pulled you out of sleep. Then you feel it: the subtle shift of her breathing, warm against your collarbone, the faint brush of her thumb against your side.

She’s still asleep. Not the restless kind, or the half-conscious drifting she always tries to pass off as rest. This is deep, bone-tired sleep, the kind that only happens after you haven’t slept properly for a while.

You lie very still, afraid that even a small movement might break it.

Her face is tucked into the curve of your neck, hair a soft, disheveled halo brushing your skin. It tickles your nose a bit, and you fight the urge to sneeze. That would be such a bad way to wake her up, you think to yourself.

One of her hands is fisted loosely in the fabric of your shirt, like she held on even after she fell asleep. Like knowing you’re there anchors her. It makes your chest feel warm when you think about it.

The blanket has slipped down to her waist, leaving her shoulder bare. You shift a bit so you can reach the blanket and struggle a bit to pull it back over her. It’s worth it, in the end, because she murmurs something—a tiny sound, almost like a content sigh—as the warmth of the blanket envelops her again, and you think you just might die from how cute it is. You feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, the faint weight of her leg brushing yours.

Your chest tightens, gentle but deep. There’s a peace to her you almost never see.

A sudden, shrill buzz of her phone slices straight through the quiet.

At first, you freeze. You feel her flinch slightly at the noise, but she doesn’t stir more than that. The phone buzzes again and again, rattling faintly against the nightstand.

“Jenna,” you whisper, nudging her shoulder gently.

She doesn’t move. If anything, she melts further into you, one arm tightening around your waist, her leg hooking loosely over yours. Her face burrows deeper into your neck with a soft groan, nose poking your neck. She’s dead to the world.

“Jenna?” you try again, voice significantly louder. You can’t bring yourself to nudge her harder. She just looks too cute, and her bottom lip jutted out in a pout the first time you nudged her, which honestly didn’t help. Even asleep, she seems to know just how to get her way when it comes to you.

There’s no response. Nothing. Just another contented little hum as she shifts—this time nearly half her body ends up on top of yours, pinning you to the mattress in a tangle of limbs and warm blankets. Her hair tickles your jaw, her weight grounding and soft in a way that makes your heart ache.

The phone begins buzzing a third time. Persistent.

You grimace and glance toward the nightstand, trying to maneuver your arm without jostling her. It’s a ridiculous contortion—your upper body pinned, only one arm free, fingers stretching blindly toward the glowing screen. Your fingertips graze it, push it just slightly farther, and you curse under your breath.

“… fuck,” you mutter as it nearly slips off the edge.

Unfortunately, in trying to save it, you swipe instead of tap.

The call connects.

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end before a brisk, confused voice says, “Jenna? Hello?”

Your blood runs cold.

“Oh god,” you whisper to yourself, then very reluctantly speak up, “Um—hi. Sorry. I—uh. I didn’t mean to—pick up.”

A pause. Then, sharper, “…Who is this?”

You close your eyes. Yeah, that sounds bad.

“I’m Y/N… a friend,” you say quickly. “Sorry, she’s—uh, she’s asleep.”

Sure. Great. Totally doesn’t sound like you abducted her or something.

Another pause. You can almost hear the woman’s suspicion.

Something finally connects in your sleepy brain, and you remember Jenna mentioning the name you saw on the screen—her agent.

“Asleep,” she repeats. “At this hour?”

You’re not sure why she says it like that, it’s only 7, but you figure Jenna would usually be up already. You glance down at her. Her face relaxed, resting against your collarbone, her breathing steady and deep like she’s finally sunk into safety.

Something tells you she won’t move unless absolutely necessary. Her hand is still curled against your waist, fingers twitching faintly whenever you talk louder than a whisper.

“She, um… she wasn’t doing so great,” you admit quietly. “She said she hadn’t slept properly in days.”

A long exhale comes through the phone—equal parts frustration and concern.

“I told her,” the agent mutters. “I keep telling her she’s going to burn out if she pushes like this, but she never listens.”

You swallow, gently brushing a strand of hair from Jenna’s cheek and tucking it behind her ear.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “She… she really didn’t seem okay. I came over to check on her and make sure she ate something not microwaveable.”

The agent hums thoughtfully, and you can almost picture her pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do. She has fencing training at eight. I’m calling the tutor and canceling it.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Are you sure?”

“She barely functions when she’s tired. It’s happened before, she ended up almost passing out mid-training. I’d really like to prevent that from happening again. And, she has an event this evening.” A sigh. “Let her sleep as long as she possibly can.”

You nod instinctively, even though she can’t see you. “Okay. I will.”

There’s a small pause. Then, softer, more sincere, “Take care of her, alright?”

The response slips out of you without permission, without hesitation or even consideration.

“I will.”

Another beat.

“Good,” the agent says, as though reassured by something deeper than your voice. “Call me if anything changes. And have her call me when she wakes up.”

You promise you will, and the line clicks off. The phone screen fades to black.

You set it gently back on the nightstand and let out a slow breath, sinking into the pillow again. Jenna shifts at the movement, nuzzling closer, sighing with that soft, content sound that seems to vibrate straight into your chest.

You wrap an arm around her again, careful and warm, letting the weight of her settle fully across you.

---&---

Her fingers twitch. Then, after a long moment, she inhales sharply—the kind of startled breath people take when they wake disoriented. You freeze, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her grip on your shirt tightens before relaxing slowly.

Her voice is barely audible, hoarse with sleep. “What time is it?”

Your heart stumbles. “Just past 10.”

Her head shoots up from where it was tucked into your neck. It’s angled just enough to blink up at you with wide eyes—groggy, unfocused, but undeniably panicked.

“Shit! I had fencing at eight!”

“Yeahhh… about that, your agent called and you were like, totally dead to the world. I picked up by accident when I was trying to wake you and see who it was.” You send her an apologetic look. “Anyways, she canceled fencing for today.”

Her face goes blank and then she drops her forehead to your shoulder with a groan so genuine it makes you laugh.

“She canceled it?” The words are muffled against your shirt. “God, she’s gonna lecture me later.”

“Mm, probably,” you admit. “But… she also said you’ve been overworking yourself. A lot.”

Jenna goes still.

Not guilty-still. Not defensive-still. Just… still enough that it’s clear she’s too exhausted to pretend otherwise.

Her fingers tap lightly onto your waist, almost unconsciously. “She would say that.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “She did. Very emphatically.”

She sighs, long and slow, and seems to leave her whole body deflating against you. When she finally lifts her head again, her hair is a sleep-tousled mess and her eyes are soft in a way that makes something warm spread through your chest.

“So… what exactly did you tell her?” she asks, squinting at you like she expects to be mildly horrified at your answer.

You pick at a loose thread on your shirt. “Just the truth. That you weren’t doing great.”

Her expression flickers through a few emotions. Surprise, then something smaller, something more delicate. Affection, maybe?

“And what did she say?”

“That I should let you sleep.” You meet her eyes before you can second-guess it. “And then right before she hung up she said, ‘take care of her.’”

Jenna blinks. Twice. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “And I kind of—uh—said I would.”

Her lips part slightly, confusion melting into an expression you can’t fully decipher. Soft. A little stunned. Her hand drifts up, hesitating before settling lightly on your shoulder.

“You said you’d take care of me?” Her eyes are boring into yours and it fills your stomach with… something. Nerves? Butterflies? Or maybe just empty grumbling from not having had breakfast yet despite having been awake for three hours.

You swallow. “Didn’t really think about it. It just came out.”

She looks at you like she’s examining something fragile and precious, and somehow you become the one who wants to hide your face.

After a moment, she tilts her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—sleepy, genuine, almost shy.

“…Thank you.”

And then she tucks herself back into your side, like the conversation itself exhausted her all over again.

She clearly feels you looking at her. Her voice is muffled when she mumbles out something that resembles an acknowledgment. “Just for a minute. I’m still waking up.”

But her arm slides around your waist, holding you as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she loosens her grip even a little. You let out a breath that trembles more than you mean it to.

“Okay” you murmur, resting your chin lightly against her hair. “Just a minute.”

… It doesn’t end up being a minute.

You don’t point it out. Neither does she.

The room is warm, quiet, padded with that hazy morning-after calm that makes everything feel suspended—like the world agreed to pause just for her. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had, she seemed to have that effect on everything around her.

It’s quiet for a while, and you ends up tangling your hand in her hair at the nape of her neck, softly scratching her scalp with your nails. She lets out an almost lewd groan and hums appreciatively, which makes you chuckle.

“You actually slept,” you murmur.

Jenna lets out another groan that vibrates softly against your neck. “I haven’t slept like that in—God, I don’t even know.” Her eyes fall shut again, lashes brushing your skin as if she can’t quite bring herself to fully wake up.

You feel her thumb move, barely a shift, a soft absentminded stroke against your side, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. It sends a quiet shiver right through you.

Eventually, she exhales, a small puff of air against your neck. “You really picked up my phone,” she murmurs, voice groggy and warm.

You groan into her hair. “It was an accident, I swear. I even opened with a curse word because I almost dropped it off the nightstand, and it picked up when I was saving it from the fall.”

“Mm-hm,” she hums, unconvinced, but she sounds amused. “Bet my agent loved that.”

“Oh, she was delighted,” you deadpan. “Thrilled. I think she thought I’d taken you hostage and was about to call the cops on me.”

That earns you the softest laugh—breathy, low, a little raspy from sleep. You feel it more than hear it.

She shifts just enough to look up at you again, propping her chin lightly. Her eyes search your face with a softness that’s new, unguarded.

“Seriously though,” she says quietly, “thank you for… dealing with that. With her. And with me, apparently.”

“I didn’t mind,” you say, and it’s too honest, slipping out before you can pretty it up.

Her gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Then another.

Slowly—so slowly you feel your pulse start to thrum—she lifts one hand and brushes a stray strand of her hair away from your shirt, fingertips grazing your collarbone in the process.

“I should get up,” she whispers.

“You should,” you agree.

Neither of you moves.

Her lips press together like she’s fighting a smile, and then she sinks back down, forehead resting against your sternum with a soft thud. “Five more minutes.”

“Jenna, it’s been like… fifteen already.”

“…okay, then five more now,” she counters, refusing to lift her head. “Different category of minutes.”

You laugh, helpless. “Is that how time works?”

She makes a noise—something between a grumble and a sleepy whine—and curls closer, her leg brushing yours under the blanket.

“It is today,” she mumbles.

And gods, you shouldn’t let her. You shouldn’t let you.

But when her fingers find yours under the blanket and she intertwines your hands you stop thinking altogether.

You squeeze back, your voice barely a whisper.

“Okay. Five more.”

And she smiles against your chest, the kind of small, secret smile that feels like a promise.

The five minutes stretch… and stretch… until you realize she’s about to slip right back into sleep.

Which is adorable, yes, but also dangerous, because if she relaxes any more, you’re pretty sure you’re going to melt into the mattress and never get up again.

So you shift. A tiny movement. Just enough for your fingers to slide from hers and poke, lightly, at her side.

She twitches.

You do it again.

A sleepy, confused noise leaves her throat. “What’re you—hey— hey—”

And then you go for it. A full, shameless tickle attack.

“NO—!” she shrieks, half-laughing, half-betrayed, suddenly very awake as she tries to squirm sideways. Too late. You’ve got the advantage of surprise and she’s basically draped over you already so it’s easy to keep her there.

She kicks once, uselessly. “You’re evil—!”

“You weren’t getting up!”

“I was! I was in the process—”

“Of hibernating? Absolutely.”

She tries to swat you, still laughing, but you catch her wrist on instinct and something in you sparks with reckless, morning-soft joy.

“Okay, that’s it,” you declare.

“What—”

Before she can finish, you shift, plant your feet on the ground, and scoop her up in one swooping, entirely overconfident motion, albeit a bit clumsily.

“Wha—HEY!” she yelps, “Are you insane?!”

“Probably,” you admit, tightening your hold just enough to make sure she’s secure. “But you’re awake now, aren’t you?”

“Put me—! Down! I swear—!”

“Nope!” You start walking, then jogging, toward the kitchen. “We’re making breakfast.”

“Not like this!” she squeals, legs instinctively curling in so she doesn’t kick a wall. She’s shaking with helpless laughter. “You’re going to drop me!”

“I would never,” you say, dramatic and righteous, even as you misjudge the turn in the hallway, hit your own shoulder on the frame and have to correct your footing. “I’m basically the hulk! Have you seen my muscles?! I’m the picture of strength and grace.”

“You just slammed us into the doorframe!”

“Minor turbulence.”

She’s laughing—loud, breathless, unguarded—the kind of laughter you’ve only heard maybe twice, and each time it’s nearly undone you. She clings to you without hesitation now, trusting you despite all physical evidence that she absolutely should not.

You reach the kitchen, triumphant, slightly winded, your heart doing alarming things (like following her wherever she goes).

You lower her carefully onto the barstool, hands lingering at her waist for a beat too long.

“There you go, your royal highness,” you say with an exaggerated bow.

She glares at you, her messy hair, flushed cheeks, still breathless, and you’ve never been more tempted to kiss someone in your life.

“Never do that again,” she tries, but her voice is still full of laughter.

“No promises.”

She narrows her eyes. It’s not threatening. It’s fond.

“So,” you say, clapping your hands together. “What do you want for breakfast?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks vaguely guilty. “…I don’t really have anything.”

You arch a brow. “Anything?”

She gestures helplessly toward the fridge. “I meant to go shopping yesterday but then the shoot ran late and then I was feeling so bad and—”

“I’ll figure something out.”

You start checking cupboards. Empty. The fridge? Mostly sad. The freezer—

Bingo. Frozen blueberries.

“Oho,” you say, victorious, holding them up.

She blinks. “Those have been there since… I think February?”

“Perfect. Vintage. I’ve heard that’s all the rage nowadays.”

She snorts out a laugh in response and rolls her eyes.

You dig a little more and find oats. A banana on the counter. Some honey. Chia seeds in a jar labeled not bird food in her handwriting.

You line them all up on the counter like an assembly line and set your hands on your hips decisively. “We’re making oatmeal.”

She lifts an unimpressed brow. “Wow. Gourmet.”

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“Too bad,” you reply, already grabbing a pot.

She watches you move around her kitchen like you belong there, legs pulled up onto the stool, chin resting in her palm. Still sleepy, but soft and a bit rumpled from bed. Most of all, unmistakably content.

And maybe it’s the morning light. Maybe it’s the leftover warmth of her pressed against you. Maybe it’s the fact that she trusted you next to her and woke laughing in your arms.

But when you glance over your shoulder and catch her smiling quietly at you… Your chest feels full in a way that’s almost alarming.

You set the pot on the stove, turn on the burner, and say, “Hope you’re ready, because this is going to be the fanciest oatmeal you’ve ever had.”

She smirks. “Prove it.”

The oatmeal turns out better than you expected. You add the frozen blueberries last so they bleed a little violet onto the surface. Then sliced banana. A drizzle of honey. Chia seeds sprinkled like confetti. It looks almost intentionally pretty, which is hilarious considering the ingredients came from half a pantry and a freezer graveyard.

You hold the bowl up triumphantly.

“Voilà!”

She doesn’t respond. You turn, expecting to find her looking at her phone, or something similar. But when your eyes find her, you almost drop the damn bowl.

She’s sitting exactly where you left her, but her posture has changed—her legs are pulled up, one knee hugged loosely to her chest, chin resting on the top of it. The morning sun angles across her face, catching in her dark lashes, making her eyes look impossibly warm.

But it’s her expression that stops your breath.

Soft. Unshielded. Open in a way that feels like stepping into her private bubble. There’s something quietly astonished in her gaze, like she’s seeing you fully for the first time, or maybe like she has been seeing you this way for a while and finally stopped trying to hide it.

Your grip on the bowl slackens. You reaffirm your grip against your palm just before it actually manages to slip from your hands.

Neither of you move.

A long, suspended moment stretches between you. You feel it in your chest, in your throat, in your fingertips. She looks like she might speak. Like she has something to say and is gathering the confidence somewhere behind her eyes.

Instead, she blinks, tilts her head, and the spell breaks.

“What’s in it?” she asks casually, like she wasn’t just staring at you like you hung the moon.

You swallow. Hard. “Uh—oats. Fruit. Breakfast.”

She smiles, a little too quickly, a little too brightly, and takes the bowl from your hands. Her fingers brush yours. You feel it for longer than you should.

She dips her spoon in, blows on the surface, and takes a cautious bite.

Then another. Then a larger one.

“…This is actually really good,” she says, sounding almost offended by it.

You scoff. “Say it again. With feeling.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves another spoonful into her mouth. “Don’t push your luck.”

She eats almost all of it before slowing down, nudging a blueberry around with her spoon.

“I have an event tonight,” she says, tone shifting lightly into business mode. “Press tour stuff. Red carpet. Interviews.” She pulls a face. “The works.”

You lean your hip against the counter. “Sounds fun?”

“It’s… work.” She shrugs, finishing the last bite. “But I have to start getting ready for it around three. Hair, makeup, wardrobe…” She trails off, then glances up at you, suddenly shy in a way you’re not used to seeing. “You can stay, if you want.”

Your chest tightens.

“Stay?”

“Mhm.” She sets the bowl aside, wiping a thumb across her lip. “Just hang out. It’s nice having someone around who isn’t stressing over the way I look.” Her voice softens. “You can… just be here. If you want.”

You nod slowly, aware of how warm your face feels. “Yeah, okay. Sure, sounds fun.”

Her shoulders relax, the smallest visible exhale. Like she’d been hoping you’d say that.

“Good.” She stretches her legs out, toes brushing your shin. “We’ve got a couple hours until the chaos starts.”

“Any plans for those hours?” you ask.

She leans back on her palms, considering.

A slow, crooked smile spreads across her face. “Not really.” Then, after a beat. “Maybe just… this.”

And “this” ends up being a quiet apartment, sunlit kitchen, her lingering warmth across the air between you and the remnants or her laughter in the air. It’s dangerous, and easy to want more of.

---&---

You end up stepping out for a second to fetch you both some lunch from a café a short walk from her place. That, and so that her team could arrive without you just being there. She’d asked you, almost shyly, if you could pretend to come in later.

You can tell the second you step through the door that the atmosphere has changed. There are half-unzipped garment bags draped over chairs, open makeup cases scattered across the dining table, and a faint smell of hairspray clinging to the air like mist. Somewhere in the background, there’s a playlist on, playing early 2000s hits that make you smile.

“Kitchen’s safe,” a voice—not Jenna—calls from down the hall. “Bathroom’s a war zone.”

You frown a bit and follow the voice, dodging a rolling rack of dresses that looks like it’s about to collapse. When you reach the doorway of her bedroom, you pause, mostly because the scene inside looks like a battlefield.

Jenna’s sitting in a chair near the window, hair sectioned and pinned in all directions, while Cesar, her longtime hairstylist, waves a curling iron like he’s directing an orchestra.

“Okay,” he says, “you have the hair of an angel, but an angel who maybe fought a little windstorm on the way down.”

“I thought that was the look,” Jenna replies dryly. Her eyes find yours in the mirror for a second, and a faint grin tugs at her mouth. “Hey, you made it. Sorry for the chaos it’s… actually I don’t even know what to say.”

You laugh in response, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I barely survived the garment rack getting in here.”

“That thing’s a hazard,” she mutters, grinning at you.

Cesar glances at you in the mirror, then turns, eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Ah! You’re the mysterious visitor. Finally, a face to the voice she smiles at when she checks her phone.”

“Cesar,” Jenna warns, voice low.

“What?” he asks innocently, waving the curling iron. “I’m just saying, someone makes her smile, and it’s not her manager. Sit, sit! Don’t just hover—you’re making me nervous.”

You glance at Jenna, expecting her to look embarrassed, but she only rolls her eyes, biting back a small smile. There’s no real protest, just a faint pink flush rising on her cheeks as she refocuses on her reflection.

You perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the neatly arranged jewelry and shoes. The whole scene feels like a practiced kind of chaos, every inch of space used, every minute accounted for.

Cesar works quickly, fingers deft as he curls, smooths, sprays, hums, then steps back to study his progress like a painter mid-stroke. Jenna sits still through it all, chatting with you from the distance and scrolling idly through her phone when she’s not until Cesar gently swats it out of her hand.

“No distractions,” he warns. “Or I’ll end up gluing a curl to your ear.”

She sighs, overly dramatic. “Then at least I’d have a story.”

“Jenna Ortega starts new trend: charred ear chic,” he recites solemnly.

You snort before you can help it. Both of them glance at you, and Jenna’s lips curve into a grin. “See? Someone appreciates my humor.”

“I never said I didn’t,” Cesar replies, twisting another section. “I just said it’s dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jenna murmurs, her tone teasing but her gaze flicking briefly toward you.

You lean back slightly, watching her reflection in the mirror and observing the stillness she holds while he works, the easy rhythm of their banter. There’s something grounding about seeing her like this—surrounded by movement, yet so centered. You wonder if she learned that calm, or if it’s always been part of her.

“Are you staying for the full circus?” Cesar asks, stepping back to inspect his work.

“If I’m allowed,” you say.

Jenna answers before he can. “You’re allowed.”

Cesar fluffs the ends of her curls, murmuring about symmetry, when her phone buzzes again. She glances at it briefly, and a tiny crease forms between her brows.

“Everything okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” she says, setting it face-down on the counter. “Just my agent panicking about timing. Happens every time.”

Cesar makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “If she wants you on time, she should get a different client. Stars like you arrive when the universe permits, darling. It’s law.”

Jenna smirks, mumbling something to dismiss his praise with a faint coloring of her cheeks.

Cesar sprays one last cloud of mist around her, waves the air, and steps back triumphantly. “Voilà! Hair, done. No windstorms, no angels harmed.”

She turns her head, testing the movement. The curls fall in soft, exact waves. You can’t help smiling. She looks effortlessly elegant, more her than the red-carpet shots you’ve seen online.

Cesar grins when he notices your expression. “See that look? That’s my five-star Yelp review right there.”

“Definitely earned,” you say.

Jenna laughs under her breath, shaking her head, but her eyes linger on you a moment longer than they should.

“Okay,” Cesar announces, clapping his hands once. “My work here is done. Enrique, darling, she’s all yours!”

From somewhere near the kitchen, a voice calls back, “I’m prepping the shoes!”

Cesar rolls his eyes. “He’s always prepping the shoes.” Then, turning to you, he adds, “You’re staying, yes? Good. You’ll see the magic of Melanie soon, she paints faces like Michelangelo, but with shimmer.”

He winks, gathers his tools, and heads out muttering about lighting and forgotten hairpins. The room quiets in his absence, the playlist fading into the background hum of the air conditioner.

Jenna exhales slowly, shoulders dropping. For a moment, the composure slips—not much, just a faint exhale of exhaustion that escapes before she catches it again.

“You good?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “Just… the calm before the next wave.”

You nod, watching as she tucks a curl behind her ear. The light from the window hits her hair just right, soft gold against skin, and something in your chest tightens.

Before you can say more, Melanie, her makeup artist, appears in the doorway, all bright energy and focus, a brush already in hand.

“Let’s make you glow, superstar,” she says. Then, with mock seriousness, pointing at you: “You—no distracting my masterpiece.”

You grin, hands raised in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Melanie moves like someone who’s been part of this world too long to be impressed by it. Her brush belt hangs low on her hips, filled with perfectly clean brushes. She hums as she sets up, rearranging the products that were already inhabiting the vanity.

“Alright,” she says, tugging a stool closer. “Sit, breathe, and no sudden movements while I work. That’s an order.”

Jenna laughs softly and obeys, settling into the chair again. “Yes boss.”

You sit back, quietly amused, as the rhythm of the room shifts again. Melanie’s presence changes everything. She’s brisk but warm, the kind of person who can make silence feel comfortable. For a while, there’s just the faint sound of palettes and products opening and closing, soft conversation drifting between them like music.

“So,” Melanie says eventually, blending something near Jenna’s jaw, “you’re the one she actually invited to set, huh?”

Jenna nearly whips her head around at that, but Melanie whacks her with the end of the brush she’s holding, so she stays seated, glaring at the woman through the mirror.

The question catches you off guard. “Uh—yeah,” you say, blinking. “I am.”

“Lucky,” Melanie says easily, not even looking up from her work. “She doesn’t usually let people into that world. It’s kind of her sanctuary.”

“Mel-” Jenna warns, though her tone is halfhearted, mainly embarrassed.

“What? It’s true,” Melanie says, brushing a light shimmer over her cheekbones. “You like keeping your life separate from your work—and for the record, I think you’re so right.”

Jenna sighs softly but doesn’t argue. Her reflection meets yours in the mirror—a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes, quickly hidden by a faint smile. You wonder if it’s because she doesn’t want to talk about it, or if she just doesn’t have the words for why she did let you in.

Melanie finishes the eyes — steady, precise strokes of gold and brown that somehow make her gaze sharper, more haunting. “You need to stop frowning,” she says. “It creases the concealer.”

“I’m not frowning,” Jenna says.

“You’re definitely frowning,” you say before you can stop yourself, lips twitching.

Melanie smirks, meeting Jenna’s eyes. “I like her.”

Jenna turns her head slightly, giving you a mock glare that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Are you teaming up against me?”

You laugh, seeing how close they are; how, even in the rush of it all, there’s affection beneath the teasing. It’s grounding to witness it, to know she has people who make this high-speed life feel almost normal.

As Melanie leans in to finish her eyeliner, you notice Jenna’s hands resting quietly in her lap. They’re still, but not relaxed. She’s doing the nervous thing she always does, counting with her fingers in two’s.

“You nervous?” you ask softly.

Her eyes flick toward you in the mirror. “Is it obvious?”

“Probably not,” you admit. “But to me, yeah.”

Before Jenna can respond, Melanie swipes on the last bit of lipstick on her lip—something muted and elegant, the kind of color that looks like it was made for her. “Alright,” she declares, setting down the brush. “Tell me what you think, and go easy on me—I’m running on two hours of sleep and pure caffeine.”

Jenna studies her reflection, tilts her head left, then right. “You made me look human again. That’s a miracle.”

“Don’t insult my art,” Melanie says, mock-offended. “You look divine. Try not to ruin it before the photographers are able to capture it.”

She gathers her brushes with the efficiency of someone who’s been doing this her entire adult life, then pats Jenna’s shoulder before heading off to find Enrique. “He’s gonna panic if I don’t check in with him,” she calls over her shoulder.

The door closes softly behind her, and the room goes still again.

You don’t say anything at first. You just look, and not because you mean to stare, but because you can’t quite help it. The transformation isn’t drastic, she still looks like herself, only heightened somehow. The light hits her cheekbones like it knows where it’s supposed to fall. Her lips curve in a small, almost shy smile when she catches your eyes in the mirror.

“What?” she asks.

You shake your head, searching for words that don’t sound clumsy or too much. “You look… incredible.”

She blinks once, slowly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you say, and your voice comes out a little quieter than intended.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches and softens the air between you. Then, she looks away, adjusting an earring that doesn’t need adjusting. “You always say things like that,” she murmurs.

“I mean them.”

That gets a small smile, barely-there but unmistakable. She stands, the movement smooth but deliberate, smoothing invisible creases from her dress. The outfit Enrique picked for her catches the light in shifting tones—deep navy with a subtle shimmer, every fold precise, every line intentional. It’s stunning, but what really pulls you in is the quiet strength in the way she carries herself.

Enrique bursts back in then, clutching a garment bag. “You’re glowing! Melanie outdid herself again, bless her. Okay, jewelry’s final, shoes next. I have three pairs, they’re a little big but we’ll make them work.”

You instinctively step back as he starts fussing, pinning, adjusting, muttering under his breath. Jenna indulges him with practiced patience, only occasionally rolling her eyes in your direction as if to silently say help me. You grin, because you’ve seen her command entire rooms, but here she’s simply letting people care for her (in their own fast-paced, chaotic way).

When Enrique finally deems her “event-ready,” she’s a vision. Not because of the makeup or the hair or the designer dress, but because there’s a spark in her now, a quiet composure you recognize as the thing she wears instead of armor.

She catches you looking again. “What?” she asks softly, like she already knows.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t quite come. “Nothing,” you manage after a beat. “Just—have fun, okay?”

Her smile falters just slightly and a flicker of… something shows at the edges. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’ll try.”

You don’t press, though the crack in her tone lingers long after Enrique starts urging her toward the door. She turns once before leaving, hair catching the light in soft waves, and gives you a look that feels both grateful and unspoken. It’s the kind of look that promises you’ll talk later, when she’s not someone else’s spectacle.

Then she’s gone.

And you stand there a moment longer, in the quiet aftermath, before exhaling slowly. You realize you’re smiling, the kind that starts in your chest and will likely follow you home.

---&---

You don’t see her for a while after that night.

At first, it’s just scheduling — or at least that’s what you tell yourself. She sends you a photo of her dress before the event, all glittering emerald fabric and sculpted lines, asking too much? and you reply you look unreal, and she reacts with a single heart.

Then… it slows.

Her replies come stretched thin across the days. A missed call here. A half-asleep voice note there, five seconds long: sorry, long day, will call tomorrow. Except tomorrow never quite comes. You don’t push. You don’t want to be another weight pulling at her.

But the absence carves itself into the spaces she used to fill.

It’s evening when you see her again. Or well, kind of.

You don’t realize how quiet your apartment has become until the hum of your laptop cuts out, the battery finally dying. The faint clink of your spoon against the empty mug feels loud, intrusive. The street outside murmurs with distant life, footsteps, a car passing, and laughter rising from the corner café.

You should plug the laptop in. You should keep working. But instead, you’re scrolling.

Not because of any reason, it’s just one of those days. You drift through headlines, interviews, posts that blur together. Until one catches your eye.

“Jenna Ortega On Balance, Burnout, and Baes.”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. It’d been a while since you’d seen her. You’d texted, sure, but she’d been so busy and you’d been working on your new book, and it’d just kind of happened.

You click before thinking, before you can talk yourself out of it. The thumbnail shows her with a neat bun, a soft gray blazer, that faint tiredness that always lingers behind her eyes when she’s on press tours.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. Just curious how she’s doing.

The video starts with laughter, light and unguarded. She looks good (of course she does) and it makes you smile, almost involuntarily.

She talks about her upcoming film, her favorite directors, the chaos of shooting on location. You listen, heart steady, hands folded. You like hearing her talk, always have.

And then the interviewer tilts her head, smile sharp in that way journalists do when they’ve saved a question for the end.

The interviewer smiles too brightly. “Fans want to know,” she says, “is there someone special in your life right now?”

Something about the way the question is asked makes your stomach tighten.

Jenna laughs—a quick, practiced sound—before shaking her head. “No,” she says simply. “No one special.”

The interviewer pushes. “No one at all? Not even a maybe?”

“No,” she repeats. The words come out smooth, light, without a trace of hesitation. You’d like to think you’d gotten quite good at reading her and well, this was final. Serious. Truth.

She adds something like, “Honestly, I wouldn’t have the time even if I wanted to. I’m terrible at balancing work and… you know, life.” But you’re not fully listening anymore, staring at the screen with blank eyes instead.

The audience chuckles. She laughs along, scratching her temple, eyes darting to the interviewer. And then the clip moves on.

You keep staring at your screen long after it goes dark.

It’s silly, you think to yourself. Of course she’d never say anything. Show anything. She’s private, she’s told you that and so has everyone around her. She guards things. She avoids gossip.

You swallow. It feels like there’s sand in your throat.

Yeah, okay, you definitely shouldn’t be feeling like this when there’s absolute no reason to.

Maybe she didn’t mean it. Or maybe you imagined the softness, the warmth, the pull between you. Maybe this whole thing has just been in your head.

Something twists sharply under your ribs, unexpected and stupidly painful.

You lock your phone, stare at the ceiling, then unlock it again just to replay her voice. No one special.

But it’s not even really about that sentence. It’s the ease of it. The simplicity. The way she said it without a flicker of hesitation.

Like it had never even crossed her mind.

You press your palms over your eyes. Breathe. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a dumb interview.

You know this.

You know this.

But your brain doesn’t care.

It starts down the slope anyway—picking up speed, unraveling you with every quiet thought, anxious spiral or worry.

Of course there’s no one. Why would there be? Why would she choose you? She’s beautiful and talented and constantly surrounded by people who fit into her world—models, actors, people who look like they belong beside her on a red carpet instead of someone who wears yesterday’s sweatshirt and eats cereal for dinner sometimes when she’s too lazy to cook for herself.

You think about the way she looked at you over the oatmeal bowl—soft, open, almost tender—and feel stupid for multiple reasons. One being that you’d ever doubt her, when she’d looked at you like that.

You think about her invitation to stay during her preparations. You think about how you almost dropped the bowl when she looked at you after that morning.

And then you think about how quiet she’s been since.

And that’s the one that sticks. Distance always finds cracks you didn’t know were there.

It starts a ball of worry that unravels, filling your throat and your stomach and your lungs until you need to sit down and have a little moment to calm yourself down.

Your phone buzzes. A message.

Your heart leaps stupidly—only to fall when you see it’s from a friend, not her.

You toss the phone aside, press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and take a slow breath like you’re trying to hold something inside your chest before it spills out.

It doesn’t help.

---&---

Jenna notices before she understands.

At first, it’s small things, easy to miss if she wasn’t paying attention. But she is paying attention. She always has been. She notices how your replies come slower, how your tone shifts slightly, how your texts no longer have that casual warmth that used to hum between the words. You’re still there, still responsive, still yourself. Just… dimmer, somehow.

You don’t call as often. You still pick up when she does, but there’s a carefulness in your voice that wasn’t there before, a practiced neutrality that makes her heart twist.

Jenna keeps telling herself not to read too much into it. You’d said you’d been feeling off lately, not sleeping well, that your head was “everywhere at once.” She’d believed you—of course she did—but still, a quiet ache builds somewhere behind her ribs.

She’s been busy too. Press tours don’t stop. The questions don’t stop. The noise around her life has grown louder again, headlines stacking up like a noise she can’t mute. The interviews are endless, and she’s learned to smile her way through every one, to keep her tone light, her posture open, her answers effortless.

But the silences, the car rides back to her temporary apartment, the seconds before sleep, are filled with thoughts of you.

And she hates that she doesn’t know what she did.

Jenna’s used to people pulling away. It’s an unfortunate rhythm of her life: closeness that fades under the weight of schedules and distance, affection that doesn’t survive the business of her schedule. But with you, it feels different. It had been different. You were steady where everything else in her life shifted.

Now she keeps checking her phone like it might fix something.

You still text, sure, but the pattern’s changed. You used to send her poems, half-finished ones, sometimes, or quick scribbles on napkins, lines that made her heart squeeze with their tenderness. You still send them, but less often. The latest one was weeks ago, and it was short. Pretty, but short. She’d reread it three times before realizing it didn’t carry the same pulse.

She knows how ridiculous it is to miss someone she technically talks to every day. But it doesn’t stop her from missing you anyway.

Sometimes she scrolls back through your old conversations, tracing the easy rhythm you used to have. The photos you’d send of pastries, the small voice notes where she could hear the faint scratch of your pen as you wrote. She remembers how your laugh would cut through quiet. The memory makes her smile, then hurt almost immediately after.

Because it’s not like that anymore.

When she calls one night, it’s partly instinct. Partly fear.

She asks if you’re okay. You sound soft, distant, the way people sound when they’re trying to keep the world from spilling out of them.

“Just tired,” you tell her. “Not feeling too great lately.”

Jenna hears the truth tucked somewhere behind the words. It’s there in the pause you take before answering, in the way your voice dips at the end of each sentence. You’re not lying. You’re just not saying everything.

She wants to push. God, she wants to. But she doesn’t. You’ve always been private, quiet about your pain. And maybe this isn’t about her at all. Maybe it’s just life, or work, or something else she can’t touch.

Still, when you hang up, the silence that follows feels heavier than usual.

She stares at her screen until it goes dark.

Days pass. She keeps herself busy (which, admittedly, is very easy) but her mind drifts back to you at the oddest moments. Between takes, she catches herself glancing toward her phone, half-expecting a message that doesn’t come.

Once, she tells herself to stop. To let it be. But when night falls, she reaches for her phone again anyway.

There’s a message from you waiting. Asking how she’s been. She smiles before she can stop herself, warmth spreading in her chest just from seeing your name. She types back too quickly, maybe too eagerly, and then hesitates before hitting send.

That night, Jenna lies awake in the soft half-dark of her rented apartment, listening to the city hum outside. She thinks about the way you used to look at her. She thinks about how, lately, your gaze has started to flicker away faster.

She doesn’t know what happened between you.

She only knows that whatever it is, she can feel it like a bruise every time she breathes.

It cuts into her sleep schedule, because of course it does. The people around her notice. She brushes them off easily, but they begin asking more often, and her annoyance is rising.

---&---

Jenna (11:14 p.m.): wrapped late again my feet hate me pls amputate

You (11:39 p.m.): tragic. rip jenna’s feet gone too soon we should hold a funeral

Jenna (11:40 p.m.): 😵‍💫👩‍🦽

It’s normal. Or close enough to pass for normal if you squint at it.

You try to match her energy. Try not to read too deeply into her pauses. Try not to hear the exhaustion tucked between her words. You don’t ask how she’s really doing. Not after the interview.

But when she texts you one night—“can i call? just want to hear your voice for a sec”— something in your chest softens and tightens at the same time.

You call her immediately.

She answers on the second ring, her voice warm but frayed at the edges. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say, gentler than you mean to. “Long day?”

She laughs, and it’s more bitter than you thought you’d ever hear. “Is there any other kind?”

You talk. About nothing and everything. She tells you a ridiculous story about an actor who kept forgetting his lines and blaming the set lights. You tell her about the old lady at the grocery store who lectured you for ‘cutting her off’ when you were literally on the other side of the aisle. She actually laughs, genuinely this time.

For a while, it feels almost like before.

Almost.

But fatigue makes her voice slower, softer. She keeps drifting mid-sentence. You hear something clatter in the background. She curses under her breath. You ask before you can stop yourself.

“Jenna… are you okay?”

She hesitates, then sighs. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for weeks.”

A beat.

You try again, carefully.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

“Enough.”

“Have you eaten?”

Another pause. A longer one.

“Jenna…?”

The questions are bouncing around in her head. It’s not the first time she’s been asked that day, let alone that week. Have you eaten enough? Did you drink enough water? Do you need to take a break? Even, from one very bold and definitely misogynistic cameraman: is it that time of the month?

It’s too much, she feels like she’s being pulled into fifty different direction and everyone just keeps asking no matter how many times she keeps saying she’s fine (she’s not). Even when it’s none of their business. They won’t fucking leave her alone and she’s just… so, so done.

She takes a breath.

“Y/N you’re not my fucking mom.”

Her voice isn’t raised, but it cuts clean and fast. You flinch.

The silence that follows is instant and heavy. But she doesn’t stop, she keeps going, words spilling out like she’s too tired to catch them.

“You don’t get it okay? You never get it. You don’t have to monitor me. I don’t need someone checking in like I’m a fucking child. I get it, okay?” There’s an annoyance in her voice that you’ve never heard before. “Everyone’s always bossing me around, telling me what to do, where to stand, what to say. I don’t fucking need that from you, too. Especially not after you just start pulling back like you’re expecting me not to notice.”

Your heart drops, splintering on impact.

She groans, a bone-deep sound that stabs your chest, and you can almost see the way she drops her head in her hands. “I don’t have the energy to pretend with you anymore. Not tonight.”

You try to breathe around it. You don’t really manage to breathe at all.

“God, I thought you’d be different.”

“I wasn’t—” you start softly, but your voice cracks on the first syllable. “I—uh, I’m sorry.”

Your voice is barely audible, a soft murmur as shame fills you and lights up your cheeks. Shame for reading too much into this. Shame for carying too much.

It’s mixed with guilt, because partially, she’s right. You had been pulling back. Even if it wasn’t fully intentional. The guilt doesn’t make the words hurt less, but god do you feel like you deserve them.

And that’s when she seems to hear herself. Truly hear herself.

“Oh—” she breathes. “Oh God. Wait. I didn’t mean—”

But your throat is already closing. Blind panic and hurt spike behind your eyes. Tears blur the screen.

“Wait,” she says again, voice suddenly frantic.

You hit the end call button.

Not cleanly. Not decisively.

Clumsily, with tear-filled eyes that block your vision, your fingers slipping, tapping the screen two, three times before you manage to hit the end call button.

The silence that fills your room is so loud it’s suffocating.

Your phone vibrates immediately, her name lighting up the screen again.

You close your eyes, and turn your phone off.

Just like that.

You stand there, breathing hard, staring at the device like it betrayed you. Like you betrayed her. Like everything is suddenly too sharp, too fragile, too much.

And the tears start falling.

Slow at first, then harder, until your breath stutters and your vision swims. You wipe at your cheeks uselessly before sinking down against the nearest wall, sliding to the floor on unsteady legs.

You pull your knees up, arms wrapped around them, forehead resting there as the sobs shake through you.

Your fingers itch for your journal. For the urge to write it out. To spill everything onto paper.

But when you reach for it, your hand freezes.

Every page is full of her.

Her jokes. Her habits. The little moments you didn’t want to forget. The way she smiles. The way she says your name. The way she fell asleep in your arms.

You don’t write. Instead, you shove the journal away and lower your head back onto your knees.

You just sit there in the dim room, breathing unevenly, tears streaking down your face.

God, how could you have been this foolish? Thinking it was going somewhere. Thinking you were good enough for her. Thinking it mattered. Thinking you mattered.

---&---

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Your writing is interrupted by your phone buzzing in the early afternoon, a single line of text lighting up the screen.

Jenna (11:47 a.m.): break in two hours. come see me?

You pause, blinking at it, fingers hovering. Come see her on set? The thought is strange, almost intimidating—getting to see her work life, with all of the cameras, crew, costars. But you tap out a quick reply before hesitation has time to creep in.

You (11:49 a.m.): where?

Jenna (11:53 a.m.): studio 4. don’t worry, you’ll find it… probably

Her casual tone makes your chest tighten slightly. This is a private door opening into her world, and the excitement has your stomach fluttering.

When you arrive, the parking lot is buzzing with cars and vans, the smell of coffee thick in the air. You’ve never been on a professional set before. The first thing you notice is how chaotic it looks from the outside: crew members rushing past with headsets and clipboards, cameras on dollies, lights being adjusted as the director yells instructions through a megaphone.

You weave carefully through the labyrinth of cords and camera stands until someone finally gestures at you. “You a visitor? Over here, let’s see if you’re on the list.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” you say, voice a little uncertain, and they guide you toward a quieter corner of the studio.

You don’t expect the set to feel so alive. Or maybe you did, but in a faker, more pretentious way. Nevertheless, it is alive, which is your first thought when you step through the heavy studio doors. The air hums with motion, voices overlapping, the clatter of equipment being wheeled across the floor, the occasional sharp call of “Quiet on set!” echoing through the space.

It takes you a second to adjust to it all. For a moment, you just stand there, clutching your bag. You text her. It’s dumb, she obviously wouldn’t have her phone with her, you think to yourself.

You (1:53 p.m.): i’m here

The response comes faster than you expect.

Jenna (1:56 p.m.): perfect timing I still have one scene, just come in quietly, back of the room don’t get yelled at

You bite back a smile and scan the space until you spot her.

Even from a distance, you spot her immediately. Jenna is unmistakable—posture straight, eyes steady, every inch of her body focused. She’s standing under a bank of lights, framed by cameras and crew. A few steps away, the director gives notes while she listens intently, nodding. It’s strange, almost jarring, seeing her like this: all the warmth and teasing you know stripped away, replaced by razor-sharp concentration.

You find a spot off to the side near the monitors and settle there, trying not to look like you don’t belong. No one seems to notice you at first; they’re obviously too busy. But then someone does.

“Hey,” a voice behind you says, low and curious. You turn to find a woman with dark hair and an easy smile—the kind of presence that radiates friendliness. She’s holding a brush in one hand, a powder compact in the other. “You new?”

“Uh,” you stammer, awkward. “Just visiting.”

She grins knowingly. “You’re not crew, that’s for sure.”

Before you can answer, someone calls her name—Nirvana, you realize, remembering Jenna mentioning her makeup artist once—and she waves them off before turning back to you. “Visiting who, though? Not many people get in here without a pass.”

You hesitate, glancing toward the set where Jenna is running through different parts of the scene again, discussing with the director. “Jenna.”

Something flickers across Nirvana’s expression: surprise, then curiosity. “Oh?” she says slowly. “That’s… new.”

“New?”

“She doesn’t really invite people here,” Nirvana admits, eyes darting briefly toward Jenna before returning to you. “Like, ever. Not even her family. She always says it’s too distracting, messes with her focus.”

You blink, unsure what to say to that. “Oh. Um. She texted me and asked me to come visit in her break.”

Nirvana’s smile widens, and she gives you a once-over with a look in her eyes that you can’t quite decipher.

Before you can respond, someone else joins the conversation—a tall guy with a headset slung around his neck, probably part of the production team. “Hey, you new?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah… I guess? I mean, I don’t work here, b-”

“Jenna invited her.” Nirvana interrupts, sending him a look.

He grins. “Wow. Okay. That’s… kind of a big deal.”

You frown, half-laughing. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Nirvana snorts softly. “Because it is. You’re kind of like a unicorn around here.”

You glance back at Jenna instinctively and catch the moment she steps into the spotlight again. Cameras roll. The scene begins.

You forget about the crew’s teasing almost instantly. Watching her work is… mesmerizing. There’s something fluid about the way she moves, each gesture and expression deliberate without feeling rehearsed. Her character’s emotions spill through her voice with an honesty that feels almost too real. The set noise fades, replaced by her voice and the rhythm of the scene unfolding.

You barely realize you’ve been holding your breath until the director calls, “Cut!”

Instantly, the spell breaks. The crew bustles around, adjusting lights, shifting props. Jenna exhales, rolling her shoulders, and turns away from the monitors once the director gives his approval. That’s when her eyes find you.

It’s just a glance—quick, almost casual—but you see the spark of recognition there, the faint smile tugging at her lips before she refocuses on getting everyone’s ‘okay’ of the scene so she can finally take her break.

Nirvana follows your gaze and chuckles under her breath. “Ah, there it is.”

“There what is?” you ask.

“That look,” she says simply, then turns away to fetch something from her kit, leaving you to overthink what that look might have meant.

A few minutes later, Jenna crosses the floor toward you, script in hand, a bottle of water tucked under her arm. “You made it,” she says, a smile breaking across her face. “Did you get lost?”

“Almost,” you admit. “There’s like, a hundred wires waiting to trip me.”

“Yeah, occupational hazard,” she says lightly. “You get used to it. Eventually.”

Nirvana passes by again (not so subtly, you think to yourself), nudging Jenna’s shoulder. “You didn’t tell us you invited someone.”

Jenna’s brows lift slightly, a teasing smile on her face. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” Nirvana says, smirking. “You definitely didn’t.”

Jenna just shrugs, but her smile lingers a fraction too long. “Guess it slipped my mind.”

Nirvana laughs at that, shaking her head to herself before trailing off to polish another actor’s makeup, leaving the two of you alone.

You can’t help grinning at the small flush coloring her cheeks. “So, you never invite people here, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, muttering, “Traitors. The lot of them.” Then, softer, “Guess I wanted you to see it. The chaos. The version of me that doesn’t exist outside of this.”

You look around at the crew resetting lights, the hum of chatter and movement, the director adjusting notes and then back at her, at the way she stands there, comfortable and calm in the middle of it all. “You carry it well,” you say quietly.

That earns you a real smile. The kind that reaches her eyes.

“Come on,” she says, nodding toward the monitor bank. “You should see the playback. You can tell me if I look ridiculous.”

“Do you really want me to answer that honestly?”

The smile drops as she grimaces in embarrassment. “God, no. Lie to me, please.”

“You sure? You don’t want to hear me ramble about my admiration?” There’s a smirk tugging on your lips that grows when she lets out a groan.

“I’d rather perish honestly,” she groans out, burying her face in her hands.

You follow her across the set, feeling the soft weight of her attention on you and realize with a slow, strange warmth that you might be the only outsider she’s ever chosen to let into this part of her world.

You follow Jenna to the monitors, weaving through cables and half-dismantled props. The hum of voices fades just a little when she’s near—not because people stop talking, but because she carries her own quiet kind of gravity. She settles onto a folding chair, elbows resting loosely on her knees, and nods for you to take the one beside her.

The playback rolls. The same scene you’d just watched unfolds again, this time framed and lit and perfectly measured. From here, you can see the small, deliberate details—the quiver in her voice, the exact second she blinks, the fraction of a pause before a line lands. You glance at her instead of the screen, wondering if she sees all those things too, or if she only sees what she could have done differently.

She’s not watching. In fact, she’s turned her entire face away from the screen and has even plugged her wired headphones—who still uses wired headphones??—in her ears. You catch the way her eyes flicker towards the screen at some point, a grimace overtaking her entire face.

“Ugh,” she murmurs, running a hand through her hair. “I hate that line. It never sounds natural.”

“It sounded fine,” you say. You want to say she sounded amazing, and that the line was great, and that watching her filled you with this overwhelming sense of pride that you can’t explain. But that would make her uncomfortable, as most compliments did, and it also wouldn’t be lowkey at all. So you don’t, and instead settle on ‘fine’, the English language’s most

“You sound like my agent,” she smiles, turning towards the screen fully now and yet still not watching. “But no, fine’s not good enough.”

“Your agent sounds smart.”

“Debatable.”

Her tone is teasing, but her eyes fix on the screen as a specific part starts. She leans forward slightly, studying the image with a focus so intent that the world could fall apart around her and she might not notice. You’re beginning to understand why she forgets to eat sometimes. Why her texts at two a.m. always start with “sorry, still working.”

After a few minutes, the playback ends. Jenna stays seated, spinning her empty water bottle in her hands.

You glance at her, waiting for her to say something, but she seems lost in a trance.

“What’s up?” you ask, nudging her shoulder gently.

She blinks, as if you’ve pulled her out of somewhere far away. “Huh? Oh—nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About the scene?”

“About all of it,” she says quietly, her voice barely carrying over the distant chatter on set. Her thumb traces the condensation line on the bottle. “I love acting—running lines, becoming a character, getting lost in the story—all of it, but then I see it back and it’s like—was that really the best I can do? Why do I look like that, or sound like that?”

You don’t know what to say to that. You can feel the rawness of it—how carefully she’s keeping her voice even, how her knee bounces once and then stops, like she’s caught herself revealing too much.

“You ever just stop?” you ask, softer now.

She glances at you, eyes faintly amused, faintly tired. “Stop what?”

“Working. Thinking. Picking yourself apart.”

Jenna laughs under her breath, short and low. “Sure. Sometimes even a whole six hours while I sleep.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest. There’s something fragile in the way she says it, like she’s joking because the truth would sound too heavy here—too out of place in the hum of production lights and camera chatter.

“I hate watching myself,” she says after a beat, voice quieter. “Always have. I get kinda in my head about it.”

You nod slowly, searching for something that won’t sound like pity. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Do you?”

It’s not said like she doubts you do. Instead, she’s tilted her head slightly, looking at you with curiosity twinkling in her brown eyes.

You hesitate. “When I read my poems out loud, especially when there’s an audience, sometimes I hate them. They sound smaller than they did in my head, like… they’re not what I felt. There’s a depth missing and all I do is chase after it without ever capturing it.”

Her eyes flick to you, sharp for a second, like she’s staring into your soul. “Yeah,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Exactly that.”

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, shoulders almost brushing. The screen turns back on, ready for another playback to run. The crew shifts somewhere behind you, a burst of laughter breaking the silence.

You can feel the air change—like it’s about to dip into something you’re not ready to touch yet. So you clear your throat, nudging her again, lighter this time.

“You ever actually take those breaks?”

“I’m taking one now.” Her eyes crinkle as she sends you a silly smile, but something about her expression also looks like a kid caught sneaking a candy, and it gives you the true answer.

“Mm, sitting here criticizing yourself doesn’t count.”

She chuckles under her breath, the sound low and brief, like something private escaping before she can reel it back. “You sound like Nirvana. She threatens to glue snacks to my hands and put me in no-work timeout sometimes.”

You grin, leaning into the easy rhythm of her voice. “Maybe she should.”

Jenna’s lips part like she’s about to fire back, but a sharp call cuts through the air before she can.

“Jenna!”

You both look up to see one of her costars approaching, still half in costume, hair pinned loosely back. She’s got the easy confidence of someone who belongs here, her smile bright as she waves a script page at Jenna.

“Director said we’re wrapped after your next take,” the woman says, her tone bright and casual. “We’re ordering pizza later, you should come.” Her gaze flicks to you, her smile widening. “—and bring your friend, if you want.”

Jenna’s smile changes almost imperceptibly. It’s still warm, but you can feel the shift, the invisible wall sliding into place. It throws you off for a second because she never smiles at you like that. Not that you’d want her to—it’s kind, but there’s a distance to it, one you wouldn’t want her to have with you.

“That sounds fun,” she says. “But I’ve got lessons tonight.”

The costar’s eyebrows rise. “Fencing or cello?”

“Fencing.”

The other woman laughs softly, shaking her head. “Of course. You always have something.”

“Yep, I just can’t sit still,” Jenna says lightly.

“Yeah, I figured.” There’s a fondness in the other woman’s tone, though it lands a little softer now. “You almost never come to these things.”

Jenna gives a small shrug, half smile, half retreat. “You guys don’t need me there to have fun.”

“That’s not the point,” her costar says, voice shifting back to teasing. “But fine, I’ll save you a slice anyway. Maybe one day you’ll surprise us.”

She waves goodbye and disappears toward the wardrobe, calling something over her shoulder about extra cheese.

When she’s gone, the ambient noise of the set seeps back in. The scrape of metal chairs. The rustle of someone adjusting a light stand. A burst of laughter near craft services. It all sounds strangely distant, as if the two of you have been set apart—still visible, but muted behind glass.

Jenna’s posture shifts and her shoulders fall forward a bit. She stares down at her empty hands, thumbs brushing over the faint imprint of the water bottle she’s discarded. Whatever faint smile she’d worn a moment ago has faded completely.

“She’s right, isn’t she?” you ask quietly.

Her head lifts, a small frown drawing between her brows, clearly caught off gruard by the question. “About what?”

“You don’t really go.”

There’s a weighted pause. Her lips press together, then twist faintly at one corner.

“No,” she says. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

For a second, she just looks at you, like she’s deciding whether to answer honestly. Then she exhales slowly and leans back in the chair, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

“Mostly because I don’t have the time,” she admits. “Between filming and the lessons and press stuff, I barely have time to sleep,” Her voice dips lower, softer. “But…”

The word hangs between you. She trails off, eyes wandering toward the set where a crew member is adjusting a mic stand, the metallic clink echoing faintly. You follow her gaze, but your attention never really leaves her.

“It’s not just that,” she says after a moment, voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the hum of the studio. “Sometimes it feels like people… relax more when I’m not there.”

You frown, caught between confusion and something like hurt that she thinks of herself that way. “What do you mean?”

Her shoulders lift in a small, tired shrug, but there’s a tension in her shoulders that betrays her. “I don’t know… I’m the lead. Which means, whether I like it or not, there’s a weird kind of… distance. Like if I show up, suddenly it’s work again. They have to watch what they say, what they do.” She shakes her head a little. “It’s not their fault. It’s just—when someone’s used to seeing you under a camera, it changes things.”

You think of Nirvana’s words earlier—“she doesn’t really invite people here”—and you feel the weight of it now, the quiet reason behind it.

“So they stopped asking?” you ask gently.

Jenna’s shoulders lift, then fall. “Most of the time, yeah.” Her voice drops to a murmur, almost lost beneath the buzz of set chatter. “I mean, it’s true that I usually don’t go anyways. But it’s just like… sometimes I see them together, the ease of it, the friendship they’ve built and I just…”

You’re quiet, just listening as she’s talking, taking in the emotional weight behind her words.

“Sometimes someone will mention a restaurant, or this bar they go to after wrap, or a cast hangout spot, and I’ll realize I’ve never even heard of it…”

The weight of her confession settles between you. It’s not self-pity—she doesn’t do that. It’s just a simple fact, delivered with the kind of honesty that only comes when someone’s too tired to hide it.

“Do you wish it were different?” you ask finally.

She hesitates, gaze flicking toward the distant hum of the set before coming back to you. “Sometimes,” she admits. “But I think I’d miss myself more if I tried to be everywhere all the time. Sleep-deprived Jenna is a grump,” a faint smile tugs at her mouth, and she glances sideways at you. “Besides, I’ve got you now. That’s at least as good as pizza.”

You laugh softly. “Bold statement.”

“Dangerous, too,” she says, eyes glinting. “Don’t tell them or they’ll hold a protest to defend pizza’s honor.”

The playful edge in her tone tugs the moment back toward lightness.. You feel the warmth of it settle somewhere in your chest. She leans forward, elbows on her knees again, close enough that you catch a trace of her perfume—it’s hard to place, but it’s so her.

You study her for a beat. The curve of her jaw. The faint smudge of makeup near her temple. A loose strand of hair that catches in the corner of her mouth before she tucks it away without thinking. It’s ridiculous how the smallest things about her seem to draw focus, as if your mind has chosen her as its camera subject.

“You really don’t realize how different you are, do you?” you murmur.

Her brow furrows, amused. “Different how?”

You hesitate, searching for the right words. “You move through everything like you’re supposed to hold it together for everyone else. Like if you stop, the world tips a little.”

She blinks, then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true… Atlas.”

She lets out another laugh at the nickname and shakes her head while eyeing you with a soft smile.

“You’re terrible at nicknames.”

“Oh, I know,” You match her smile, fondness shining in your eyes.

Her gaze lingers on you for a second too long. There’s a flicker in her expression—something soft, unguarded—that looks like it wants to say more. Then someone calls her name again, breaking the spell.

“Back to work,” she sighs, pushing herself up from the chair. She tosses her empty water bottle into a bin, stretching her arms overhead with a quiet groan. “Come on. You can stay over there by the monitors for the next one.”

You grin. “Oh, so I’m your good luck charm now? My presence will give you the push you need to put on an Emmy-worthy performance?”

“Don’t get cocky,” she says over her shoulder, but her voice gives away that she’s smiling.

You watch her walk back to the set, her shoulders straightening, her expression smoothing into that focused calm. You stay where you are, watching her disappear back into her world, and can’t help wondering how someone so surrounded by people can still look so alone sometimes.

The crew moves around her in efficient choreography: cables dragged, lenses swapped, someone clapping the slate. She stands at her mark, waiting. For a moment, she glances back, eyes catching yours through the bright haze of the set. And in that flicker, before the director calls action, she isn’t the version of herself everyone else gets—just the one sitting beside you a minute ago, quiet and real and painfully human.

Then she turns back to the camera, and the world tips forward again.

The scene starts.

She stands under a flickering streetlamp set against a fake rain machine, her hair damp and shining. The downpour catches the light, turning to silver beads around her as she lifts her face and speaks her lines. Her voice wavers at the edges—it’s raw enough that, for a moment, you forget there’s a camera at all.

You’re mesmerized, watching in awe.

It’s not long before the director calls, “Cut!” and everything starts moving again.

The rain stops. Someone rushes in with a towel, another adjusts a light. Jenna just stands there for a beat, breathing through it, letting the character fall away before glancing toward the monitors. Her eyes find you almost immediately.

You smile without thinking. She doesn’t return it, but her shoulders drop slightly as she exhales, and somehow it feels like the same thing.

“Scene twenty-seven, take three!” someone calls, and they reset.

By the time she’s done, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the set gold. The energy on set softens as crew members begin packing up equipment, joking quietly among themselves. Jenna walks over, towel draped around her neck, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends.

“Done for the day?” you ask.

“Almost,” she says, voice a little rough from the dialogue and the fatigue that’s finally allowed to settle. “They just need a few pickup shots, nothing with me. So I get to escape.”

“You say that like you’re about to make a jailbreak.”

She smirks, leaning slightly against the railing beside you. “Have you seen this place? There’s always another note, another scene, another reshoot. Leaving early is basically illegal.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll defend you in court.” You joke, sending her one of your silly smiles that always make her roll her eyes.

She glances at you sideways with a spark of amusement. “You’d make a terrible lawyer.”

“Maybe. But I’d make a convincing witness.”

That earns a quiet laugh—small, unguarded, gone almost as quickly as it arrives. You watch her fold the towel, hands moving with absent precision. There’s a rare ease to her now, a small, unguarded version that doesn’t show in front of the cameras.

“You were incredible,” you say softly.

Jenna pauses, caught off guard by the sincerity. “You’re biased.”

“Doesn’t make it untrue.”

She rolls her eyes lightly, but there’s color blooming in her face again. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure flattery got me here.”

“Fair point,” she says, smiling now.

A few crew members pass by, waving or calling goodbyes. She returns each one with that same warmth, polite but never fully open. Watching her, you can almost see the line she draws without realizing it—the space she keeps between herself and the world, like she’s protecting something (or herself, maybe). You wonder how long she’s had to, or when something hurt her enough that she started to.

Her costar from earlier strolls past, jacket slung over her arm. “Heading out?”

“Yeah,” Jenna says, straightening.

“So, how about that pizza?”

Jenna raises a hand, shaking her head and sending the girl an apologetic smile. “Can’t. Fencing lesson.”

“Ah, right.” The other woman’s voice is soft, unsurprised. “Well, good luck with that.”

The costar gives a little wave, then heads off with a small group of laughing voices trailing behind her until it’s just you and Jenna again.

“Do you ever get tired of being so… disciplined?” you ask finally.

Jenna lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “All the time.” She looks at her hands, turning the towel over once before meeting your gaze again. “But I don’t really know how not to be. It’s like if I stop moving, something’s going to catch up with me.”

You study her face. “What would?”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Probably myself.”

You nod slowly, watching her gaze drift away toward the open soundstage door. The last of the daylight spills through it in thin, amber stripes, catching on the damp edges of her hair. There’s something fragile about her in that moment, and it strikes you how special it is that she trusts you enough to consistently show this side of herself to you.

“You don’t always have to be on, you know,” you say. “Even when you’re not acting.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is soft. “I know.”

You don’t think she believes it. But you don’t push.

Instead, you both stand there for a minute, the noise of the crew fading as people file out. The smell of rain and hot metal lingers, mixed with coffee that’s gone cold on some forgotten table.

Jenna finally pulls her phone from her pocket, the glow briefly lighting her face before she sighs and slips it away again. “My driver’s outside. I’m already late for fencing.”

“Of course you are,” you tease.

“Hey, punctuality’s overrated.”

“Says the person who has daily schedules down to the minute.”

She grins, her expression catching the last bit of light. “Touché.”

There’s a beat, a small silence that feels too long to be casual. She shifts her bag over her shoulder, stepping closer. “Thanks for coming today. I wasn’t sure if you’d be bored.”

“I wasn’t.”

Her smile lingers this time, small but genuine. “Good.”

She hesitates again, as if she wants to say something more. But instead, almost shyly, she opens her arms—not quite a full gesture, but enough that you understand. You step forward before your mind can catch up to your body.

The hug is brief but grounding. She smells faintly of hairspray and vanilla. Her hair brushes against your jaw, cool and wet from the fake rain. For a second, your whole world stops breathing.

Then she pulls back, hand brushing your arm as she steps away. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

“Please,” you say, giving her a nod in affirmation. It’d become a bit of a ritual—her letting you know she was done with work and safe in her apartment.

Her smile curves, faint but real. “Okay. See you, then.”

You watch her go, slipping through the soundstage door into the gold hue of the evening. For a moment, she’s just another figure against the backdrop of the city—until she glances back, brief but unmistakable, sending you a wide smile and a little wave before disappearing into the waiting car.

You stay there for just a second longer, staring at the space she’d just been standing in before scribbling something in your notebook and taking your leave.

"You are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why everything is so heavy." (E. Autumn; adapted slightly)

---&---

Jenna (4:12 p.m.): if i survive this week i’m buying myself a house in the mountains and becoming a hermit

You laugh out loud in the middle of your work break, thumbs flying over the screen.

You (4:13 p.m.): make sure it has good wifi so you can text me every day to tell me you weren’t murdered

Jenna (4:14 p.m.): wouldn’t the murderer just be able to log into my phone to text you that?

You (4:14 p.m.) … i guess i’ll have to visit sometimes to do a wellness check

Jenna (4:15 p.m.): deal. i’ll even let you cook for me

You (4:16 p.m.): so… you’ll eat like, every other week?

There’s a long pause, and then:

Jenna (4:20 p.m.): ok fine i walked right into that one you free tonight?

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to see her, you do (obviously), but because you don’t want to take up any of her rare time. The last few days, she’s been slower to reply, texts shorter, a little scattered. It’s nothing overt—just small things, messages sent at odd hours, a few typos (which she rarely ever makes). You’d asked once if she was sleeping enough, and she’d brushed it off with a quick “I’m fine, promise. Just long days.”

Still, there’s something about the way she asks this time that makes you type before you think.

You (4:20 p.m.): for you, always want me to bring stuff to cook?

Jenna (4:21 p.m.): please, something comforting

By the time you get to her apartment, the city’s all glowing lights behind you. The air smells faintly of rain, the pavement still slick and gleaming. You balance grocery bags in one arm as you knock, and she opens almost immediately—hair in a messy braid, wearing an oversized T-shirt and black sweatpants that hang low on her hips.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft but rougher than usual, like it’s been overused.

You tilt your head. “Hi. You look like you’ve been through three different time zones.”

She groans, stepping aside to let you in. “Two night shoots, three interviews, and a fencing lesson this morning. I deserve an award.”

“You deserve sleep,” you say pointedly, kicking off your shoes.

“Sleep is for people who don’t have three projects in post-production,” she mutters, only half joking.

You shoot her a look. “You know that’s not a brag, right?”

“Don’t ruin my coping mechanisms,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen to fetch you a glass of water. You follow her, setting the bags down on the counter.

The apartment feels lived-in now—a little more cluttered and rougher around the edges. A half-read script sits face down on the coffee table beside a mug with a tea bag still floating in it. A small pile of laundry sits on a chair.

You take all of it in and then glance at her, still moving around the kitchen like she’s forgotten how to slow down.

“Jenna,” you say quietly.

She looks up from the fridge. “Hmm?”

“When’s the last time you actually rested?”

She smiles, that calm, practiced kind that almost convinces you. “I did. Sunday. I slept till nine.”

“Wow, rebel behavior.”

“Hey, that’s late for me.”

You roll your eyes but start unpacking groceries, filling the silence with the familiar rhythm of cooking. You’ve fallen into this habit easily—you cook, she keeps you company, sometimes cutting vegetables or stealing bites when she thinks you’re not looking.

Tonight, though, she’s a little slower. She leans against the counter instead of perching on a stool, her gaze unfocused, fingers tracing the edge of her glass.

“What’re we having?” she asks eventually.

“Pasta. The good kind. I’m bribing you with carbs so you’ll go to bed early.” You grin, waving the knife you’re using to cut the onions around like a wand.

She hums in approval, not commenting further.

You start chopping garlic, the sound rhythmic against the wooden board. “So, what’s got you running yourself into the ground this time?”

“Press stuff. A costume fitting for something that doesn’t even start until next year. An event or two, I think.” She gestures vaguely, the motion small, like she’s not entirely sure either. “I’m fine, though. It’s just a weird week. Next one’s lighter.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, not buying it.

She catches your tone and laughs quietly. “You worry too much.”

“You work too much.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really,” you counter, glancing up at her. “You know you don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time, right?”

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. The smell of sautéing garlic fills the air. She watches the steam rise, eyes distant.

“I know,” she says finally. “It’s just… if I slow down, I start thinking too much.”

You glance at her. “About what?”

Her mouth quirks, but it’s a humorless smile. “Everything. The things I can’t control. The things I should be able to control. My brain doesn’t really… turn off.”

You want to say something—to ask if that’s what’s keeping her up, or if it’s something else—but you don’t. You’ve learned when to stay quiet around her. When to just let her talk if she wants to.

She’s twirling the water in her glass around, watching it with faux interest. Then, she sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose. “You’re burning the garlic.”

You turn quickly, startled, sending her a glare. “No, I’m not—”

She bursts out laughing, the sound sudden and bright, her head tipping back. “You totally are.”

Unfortunately, when you turn around you see that she’s right, the garlic is sticking to the pan and definitely not the same cream color it was before. Instead, it’s a toasty brown.

You pull the pan off the heat, muttering, “You’re a terrible influence.”

“Me?” she says, mock-offended. “I’m just the sous chef.”

“You’re the distraction.”

Her grin is quick and mischievous. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You shake your head, but the sound of her laughter lingers in the space between you. She laughs a lot, when you’re together, and it always fills you with pride. This laugh, though? The carefree, warm laugh that sounds like it takes even her by surprise? You’d burn your garlic a thousand more times just to hear it again.

When she finally catches her breath, she helps you scrape the bit of garlic from the pan, bumping her shoulder into yours deliberately.

“See? Teamwork,” she says.

“Yeah, teamwork,” you echo, though your chest feels a little too warm for something that simple.

She hums as she moves around the kitchen, stealing a spoonful of sauce when she thinks you’re not looking and then wincing dramatically when it’s too hot. You can’t help laughing, shaking your head as you pass her a glass of water.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell her, words full of affection.

“And you still keep coming back,” she teases, eyes glinting.

“Tragic flaw,” you say lightly—but something about her smile makes it harder to breathe for a second.

For once, she looks at ease—hair in a lazy, frizzy bun, eyes soft and sleepy, a quiet domesticity settling around her like a blanket.

You stir the pasta again, half just to give your hands something to do. “You know,” you say after a moment, “if this acting thing ever falls through, you could always audition for Gordon Ramsey’s show and just go be a menace in people’s kitchens.”

She grins, tossing a piece of basil at you. It doesn’t come very far, instead falling gently to the floor.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

“Don’t get used to it.” you tease back, sticking out your tongue as you glance back at her.

By the time the pasta’s done, she’s perched on the counter, swinging her legs, still in that oversized T-shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder. The fabric pools loosely at her elbows, brushing against her knees as she moves. Her hair’s half undone from its bun now, strands curling at her temples in soft rebellion.

When you hand her a bowl, she smiles. “You’re a lifesaver, you know that?”

You shrug, sitting opposite her. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

She takes a bite, sighing like she hasn’t eaten a real meal in days. Then, she points her fork at you. “You act like that’s easy, but I’m actually very high-maintenance.”

“Really?” you say, deadpan. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Hey!” she says, pretending to glare, but there’s amusement in her eyes.

She pretends to toss a piece of pasta at you and in turn, you pretend to be mortally wounded, clutching your chest in mock despair, and she snorts into her food, trying not to laugh but failing entirely.

The conversation drifts after that, easy and unhurried. You talk about the event from a few weeks ago, and she admits that she barely remembers parts of it.

“Sometimes everything just blurs together,” she says softly, twirling her fork. “They’re all the same, in a way. You talk to people, you go on the carpet and try not to grimace as you’re being blinded by flashes and everyone’s yelling at you from fifty different angles and then after you just… wait for the first acceptable moment to leave.”

You glance up, studying the way her expression folds inward. “You did look incredible, though,” you say, hoping to coax her back into lighter territory.

She groans, dropping her head back dramatically. “You saw the pictures?”

“Half the internet did,” you say with a grin. “I might be a bit of a hermit, but I don’t live under a rock.”

That earns you a laugh, small but real. She sets her bowl aside and starts talking about the creative process behind the look—how she’d argued with Enrique about the look but ended up trusting his vision. Her voice lifts as she describes it, hands moving animatedly, eyes sparking with that precise, creative energy that makes her so special. You find yourself smiling just watching her, like you could live off the sound of her excitement alone.

When the bowls are empty, you start cleaning up, but she doesn’t let you do it alone. She insists on washing while you dry, claiming it’s “therapeutic.” You don’t argue—there’s something domestic and oddly grounding about the whole thing. The water runs warm, steam fogging the edges of the sink as her laughter hums low between you.

At one point, she glances sideways, soap suds clinging to her fingers. “You know,” she says softly, “it’s nice. Just… this.”

You pause, the dish towel still in your hands. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “It is.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and neither do you. You don’t need to.

Later, when you leave, she walks you to the door, still barefoot. The floorboards creak faintly beneath her, her steps slow, unhurried. She looks tired again—that faint shadow settling under her eyes—but her smile softens the edges of it.

“Text me when you get home,” she says automatically.

“Only if you promise to try to actually sleep,” you counter.

She lifts a brow. “I’ll try.”

“Liar,” you tease, but it’s gentle.

She laughs quietly, and for a second, you think she might hug you. Her hand lifts slightly, hesitates, then lands instead on your arm—light, warm, her thumb brushing in a small, unconscious caress. It’s brief, but it leaves your pulse stumbling.

“Night, chef,” she murmurs.

You manage a smile. “Night, menace.”

She grins, that sleepy, uneven kind that reaches her eyes, and leans against the doorframe as you step out. The hallway light casts her silhouette in gold, and you find yourself looking back once, half hoping she’s still watching.

---&---

It starts small, signs you only notice because you’ve been paying attention—looking for them, even if it’s been unconsciously.

Her texts come later in the evening, with the occaisional spelling mistake or jumbled sentence. The first few nights, she apologizes for not replying sooner. Then she stops apologizing altogether.

Jenna (11:37 p.m.): sorry been crazy how’s the writing coming

You (11:38 p.m.): slow but steady are you ok?

Jenna (11:42 p.m.): yeah just tired long day on set lots of fencing lessons

You stare at the message a moment longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You know her well enough by now to read between the lines — just tired doesn’t really mean just tired. But you also know she hates being fussed over, so you send something light.

You (11:43 p.m.): text me when you’ve dethroned the fencing coach

Jenna (11:45 p.m.): deal. you’re my witness if i start a duel

You (11:46 p.m.): please do it in full costume

Jenna (11:47 p.m.): i’ll even do the dramatic monologue for you

You can almost hear her voice when you read it—warm, teasing, trying to sound like everything’s fine. You almost let yourself believe it.

“She’s never where she is. She’s only inside her head.” (Janet Fitch)

---&---

Three days later, you stop by again. You hadn’t planned to—you’d just been in the neighborhood, or at least that’s what you tell yourself—and when you text her, she responds quickly for once.

Jenna (7:06 p.m.): door’s open. come in, i’m on a call

You find her pacing in the living room, a phone pressed to her ear, her laptop open on the counter, a half-eaten salad abandoned beside it. She’s in her usual uniform of comfort: oversized hoodie, sweatpants, hair twisted into a messy bun that looks like it might collapse at any second.

She waves you in wordlessly, mouthing two minutes.

You nod, quietly unpacking a few groceries—it’s almost muscle memory now—while she continues. Her voice is calm, professional, but you can hear the fatigue in it, the slight edge of strain.

“Yeah, I understand. No, we’ll adjust the timing. No, I’m not upset, I just… yeah. Okay. That’s fine. Thanks.”

She hangs up, exhales sharply, pressing her palms to her eyes for a long moment. “God. Sorry. That was my publicist. Scheduling hell.”

You tilt your head, uncertain if she wants to unload or just needs acknowledgment.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She laughs softly, a sound that flutters but doesn’t land in her eyes. “If I start, I won’t stop. You hungry?”

You nod, but before words can leave your mouth, her phone buzzes again. She groans. “I need five minutes of peace. Just five!”

She grabs a jacket from the hook by the door. “Come with me?”

You blink, surprise threading your voice. “Where?”

“Outside. I need air.”

You follow her down the quiet hallway, the echo of her bare feet help distract you from the tension you can feel radiating from her. When she opens the door, the night air rushes in to greet you with its cool, slightly damp scent.

She steps out onto the small terrace, flicks open a lighter, and for a second you’re too surprised to speak.

“You smoke?”

She exhales slowly, the ember at the end of the cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.

“Only when it all gets… too much,” she admits, a trace of self-reproach in her tone. “Bad habit I can’t really break.”

You’re silent for a while, deep in thought and staring blankly at the cigarrette in her hand.

“Don’t look at me like that.” she mumbles when she catches your expression, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

“I wasn’t judging,” you say quietly. “Just… didn’t expect it.”

She leans against the railing, one hand brushing the cold metal, eyes lost as they stare off into the distance.

“Not many people see it. I quit a few years ago. But sometimes when the noise doesn’t stop, it’s like my brain looks for something that feels grounding, you know? Something to hold onto.”

You step closer, careful to leave enough space. “I get that.”

The cigarette smoke curls lazily between you, ghost-like, and for a moment, it feels like the terrace has shrunk to just the two of you. Her shoulders are drawn in beneath the hoodie, smaller than usual, burdened.

There’s a long silence. She takes another slow drag, exhales through her nose, the smoke curling like a ghost between you. Her shoulders look smaller than usual, drawn in tight beneath the hoodie.

“I used to tell myself I could handle it all,” she murmurs, voice low. “The hours, the pressure, the interviews… all of it. And I can, mostly… But sometimes I wake up and it feels like I don’t even have time to breathe. Like if I stop, even for a second, everything will catch up to me.”

You shift your weight, leaning on the railing beside her. “It’s okay to take a break sometimes, you know. And you don’t have to carry everything alone, either.”

“I know,” she says softly, but she doesn’t look at you. “I just… don’t know how not to.”

You don’t answer. There’s nothing to fix here. No clever line, no comforting mantra. You simply stand beside her, hoping your presence is at least slightly reassuring.

There’s not much left of the cigarette, something she obviously notices.

She stubs it out, turning to you and offering a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. This probably wasn’t what you were expecting when you came here tonight.”

You shake your head. “You don’t need to apologize for being human.”

Her smile falters for a second, then steadies. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things that stay in my head for the foreseeable future and make me reflect on my entire life…”

Something large settles in your throat. It makes it hard to swallow down the nerves that bubble up.

“… Do I- uh… Does it help, at least?” you mumble.

Her answer comes quicker than you expect it to. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. It makes me think that maybe I should let myself be more often.”

The weight falls, the nerves settle. The same ease you always have when talking to her embraces you again.

You shrug lightly. “You should. You deserve it.”

She studies you for a long, unreadable moment, a glance heavy with something you can’t quite name, then exhales and heads back inside.

---&---

he text comes just after dinner. You haven’t seen each other for two weeks, and it catches you off guard. It’s a brief, random string of words that makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t like.

Jenna (8:46 p.m.): sometimes I wonder what my life would’ve been like if I’d never gone the acting route

It’s not concerning on its own, normally you wouldn’t even think much of it. You’ve talked about it before, and you know she likes to wonder. But the text is accompanied by a selfie, bags under her eyes deeper than you’ve ever seen them. What catches your eyes the most, though, is how the spark in her eyes seems gone.

You pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She hadn’t said much, just texted something about being exhausted. Somehow, the unspoken weight behind her words presses against you. There’s something different about her, and you don’t like it.

You throw on a jacket, grab your keys, and drive through the city streets, the evening air cool and sticky with the remnants of summer. Something about her had seemed different, not her regular tiredness after work. Your thoughts flicker endlessly: Is something wrong? Did she get sick? Did she…? You try not to spiral, but there’s a sharp edge of worry threading through every heartbeat.

When you reach her place, it’s quiet, darker than you expected, the only light spilling through the kitchen window. You knock softly, pause, knock again. After a moment, the door swings open.

She’s leaning against the frame, oversized sweater hanging loosely on her. You recognize it instantly—your sweater, the one you’d forgotten the last time you stayed over. It hangs loose, the sleeves trailing past her hands, soft and worn, comforting in the way only a sweater that’s been lived in can be.

“Hey,” you say, voice careful.

“Hey,” she murmurs, eyes heavy, lips pale. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and shuffles aside. “I… didn’t expect you to come.”

You tilt your head. “I got the text. You sounded… off.”

She lets out a tired laugh that’s almost bitter. “Yeah. Off. That’s one way to put it.”

You step inside, letting your bag thump softly to the floor. The apartment smells faintly of her favorite tea, and it should be comforting.

She gestures vaguely toward the couch. “Sit. I… I don’t know if I’m going to be very good company today.”

She lets herself fall back onto the couch, pulling her legs up and resting her chin on her knees.

“You’re always good company,” you say softly, already moving to curl up on the couch beside her. You slide closer, careful not to crowd, but close enough that your thigh brushes her. She doesn’t move away.

She sinks into the cushions, eyes flicking down to the sweater for a brief moment. Her hands curl into the soft fabric, and she lets out a small, almost shy laugh.. “I stole this.”

You chuckle softly. “You can keep it,” a grin tugs at your lips. “Not to sound cliché, but it looks better on you anyway.”

There’s a quiet pause, and then her lips curl up slightly into a soft smile. She looks as though she’s debating whether to tell you something. Finally, after a hesitant inhale, she sighs.

“I’ve… been a mess,” she admits, voice low, barely audible. “The last few days… I haven’t slept. Not really. Usually, a few hours is all I get, but the last… maybe three, four days? Almost none.”

Your stomach tightens. You reach out, hand brushing hers lightly, hesitant. She grabs it immediately, fingers curling around yours, fidgeting as though it’s grounding her.

“I… I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad,” you whisper, watching your hand as she manoeuvers your fingers around, folding and unfolding them.

She shrugs, shoulders hunched in a way that makes her look smaller than you’ve ever seen her. “It’s fine. I’m used to it… I’ve had problems sleeping for as long as I can remember.”

She pauses, voice breaking just enough to let you know the weight of it. “The last time I slept properly was probably when you stayed over.”

Your chest aches. The memory of that night—the warmth, the soft weight of her leaning into you, the way she slowly shifted closer—floods back. You squeeze her hand gently.

Jenna’s lips curve into a small, tired smile.

“I think it helps,” she murmurs, lips curving in a small, tired smile. “Having someone there, someone I feel safe with. Quiets the anxiety, y’know?”

She shifts slightly, leaning into you more deliberately now. Her head brushes your shoulder, the fabric of your sweater soft against her skin. You inhale, the scent of your perfume still faintly clinging to it, combined with something uniquely hers. It makes your stomach flutter.

For a long while, you just sit there, side by side. She leans closer, curling more into you absentmindedly, eyes heavy but attentive when she glances up at you. You trace your thumb along her knuckles absentmindedly.

Eventually, the conversation drifts. You listen as she talks about anything and nothing at all, murmuring encouragement and teasing her gently. Your heart tightens in a familiar ache every time she laughs softly, one that’s more comforting than painful.

She sighs, soft, almost a hum against your shoulder. “I forget sometimes, what it feels like. To just… not be on all the time.”

“You need rest too,” you whisper. Thumb still moving along the back of her hand. “You don’t have to work all the time to be good enough. Or prove anything. Or whatever else you tell yourself.”

You worry you might’ve overstepped, but you’d heard her talk about it often enough that you knew the biggest pressure that she felt came from herself. This subconscious idea she’d convinced herself of that people had expectations she needed to meet.

She shifts again, curling closer, letting her head rest just beneath your chin. Your heart hammers, warmth pressing between you both. Her hand curls more securely into yours.

“Yeah,” she sighs after a while. “I just wish that wasn’t so… hard for me to believe.”

After a while, you reach for your bag on the floor, pulling your new journal out—dark red this time; it’s dark red this time, the black one still on her nightstand and showing no signs of being returned to you any time soon. You hand it to her without a word.

She looks up, curious, eyes lingering on yours.

You shrug lightly, a quiet confidence in your movements. Not like before. At a certain point, you’d gotten used to exposing parts of yourself you’d never shown others when you’re around her.

“You know the drill.”

She flips it open, fingers tracing the edges of the pages, and slowly begins reading. At first, it’s quiet—the soft rustle of paper, the occasional hum of appreciation filling the room. And then, almost in disbelief, she murmurs, “These… these are gorgeous. Seriously, Y/N. Wow.”

You watch her, heart thudding, catching the smile that tugs at her lips every so often. Her eyes linger over certain lines, the quiet, almost imperceptible reactions to words and changes you never imagined she’d pick up on.

Somewhere in the middle, she looks up briefly, sleepy eyes catching yours. “They’re different… happier, softer.”

You freeze just slightly, a warmth rushing through your chest, and shrug, trying to keep your expression calm. “I guess they are… because I am too,” you say quietly.

She doesn’t respond immediately, and you notice her struggle to find words. Her usual polish is slightly undone, edges softened by fatigue and trust. She shifts closer, brushing your hand again, and interlaces her fingers with yours. A faint spark of tension curls along your skin, but it’s soft, easy, unthreatening.

“I don’t think I’ve had such a close friend in a really long time…” she says, voice mimicking your quiet volume, as if she’s telling you a secret. “I’m really happy we met.”

Something in your chest drops, but she’s so happy that you decide not to give it any attention.

For an hour or more after that, she reads. She turns pages slowly, murmuring praise, commenting softly, and you trace the edges of the couch, the texture of the blanket beneath you, letting yourself soak in the comfort of her presence. Occasionally, she hums a line, and you smile faintly, leaning into her. Her head tucked beneath your chin, one of your arms curling around her middle in a lazy, contented hold.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she stretches and sits up slightly, rubbing her eyes. “I… I should probably try to sleep,” she says hesitantly, a quiet question in her voice. Maybe you should go home?

You tilt your head, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll stay,” you whisper. “You need sleep. You said last time… the last time you slept well was when I stayed, right?”

Her shoulders slump in relief, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “You… you don’t have to.”

It’s a weak attempt to give you an out, you know. If there’s anything you know about her it’s that she hates making people feel obligated.

“I want to,” you reply simply, settling back beside her. She shifts closer immediately, head falling to your shoulder. Warmth presses against you, steady and grounding.

There’s a small, subtle pressure of her hand against yours that reminds you how extraordinary all of this is. You trace it gently, a small smile on your face as you hear her let out a contented sigh.

You watch her get up and pad toward the bedroom, barefoot, still in your hoodie. She’d joked about it before, that she always brings her own hoodies because whenever she borrows one from someone, she doesn’t end up giving it back. You don’t mind, you realize. She can have all of your hoodies if it means you get to see her wrapped in them, warm and happy and smiling at you like you’re the only one that matters.

You rise without a word, following instinctively, aware there’s nowhere you wouldn’t go for her.

Jenna’s movements are automatic, half-awake, yet soft, unfurling at the edges in ways she rarely allows anyone to see. Eventually, she slides under the sheets, tugging the blanket over her shoulders.

You don’t hesitate like last time, simply slipping in next to her like you’ve done this a thousand times.

Tonight, though, she’s different. Sleep deprivation or lowered inhibition—whatever it is—makes her reach for you immediately. There’s no awkward pause, no tentative testing of boundaries like last time.

She tucks herself close, face pressing into the crook of your neck. Her arms wind around you like she’s afraid you’ll drift away if she doesn’t keep you close.

You lean your head on hers for a second, inhaling the faint scent of something uniquely her before shifting slightly, carefully adjusting the blanket around you. She murmurs something unintelligible, sleepy and half-smiling, which you’d never have known if you couldn’t feel it pressed against your neck. Her breath is uneven at first, tickling your skin in quick bursts before settling into a slower, steadier rhythm.

There’s a quiet pause, broken only by the sound of her exhale and the soft, rhythmic brush of her fingers along your arm. You can feel the tension in her gradually easing, the weight of the last few days lifting slightly in this small, shared space.

You tuck your own arm around her, letting your hand rest lightly on her back. The familiarity of it—the simple act of holding her close—is comforting in a way that surprises you every time.

For a while, neither of you moves, and you let the quiet stretch between you. Outside, the city hums and flickers, indifferent, but inside this room, the world is smaller, softer, quieter. You trace the line of her shoulder gently with your fingertips, feeling the slight rise and fall of her breathing, and let yourself sink into the warmth.

At one point, she shifts again, pressing a little closer, her head nuzzling further into your neck. You can hear the faint murmur of words against your skin, sleepy syllables that barely make sense but are meant for you alone. You respond by tightening your hold slightly, adjusting so that the blanket covers you both without tangling, letting her weight rest comfortably against you.

Eventually, her eyelids droop, and her breathing evens, a soft, steady rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. The blankets rustle as you adjust to get comfortable, and you let your own eyelids grow heavy, eyes tracing the outline of her face one last time before closing. The rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body pressed close, and the quiet of the apartment combine into a stillness that feels like home.

When you finally drift off, your arms are still wrapped lightly around her, her head tucked beneath your chin, a steadying weight that presses into you in the gentlest way. Your thoughts circle around her, the warmth she carries and the quiet trust that has settled between you.

---&---

Time, you think, has been feeling a bit… off since that night at Jenna’s apartment.

In some ways, it feels like your days stretch—passing slowly and consciously. Your routine continues: writing in the early mornings, wandering the farmer’s market with a basket looped on your arm, stopping at Mrs. Nyugen’s restaurant whenever you got tired of being alone. Yet your days had changed a little, your phone lighting up more often than usual.

It starts small. A text from Jenna a few days after she’d flown back to California.

Jenna (8:13 p.m.): finally saw my family again today. chaos. loud chaos.

There’s a picture attached, it’s a little blurry (okay, a LOT blurry, you can barely even make out anyone’s face) of Jenna’s family all in different stages of setting the table. The amount of plates made you laugh, she really has such a huge family.

You hesitate, thinking of what to answer, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before replying.

You (8:15 p.m.): that sounds like fun :)

And then, almost as an afterthought, you add a small snippet of your day.

You (8:17 p.m.): ive been trying to write near a construction site today your family is probably less destructive

Jenna’s reply comes quickly, like she’s been waiting.

Jenna (8:18 p.m.): idk… construction crews usually don’t steal the last pancake out from under you

It continued from there. Not constant—not every day, not every hour, you know how busy she gets, and she’d told you she was rarely on her phone, so you hadn’t expected much. But it’s frequent, much more frequent than you’d ever have expected, and you notice that you’re keeping your phone closer, glancing toward it in the middle of chopping onions or pausing mid-sentence while writing to check the faint buzz on your desk.

Sometimes it’s photos. Jenna sending a picture of herself in sunglasses, hair pulled back messily, sporting a fit befitting of Adam Sandler, captioned “I feel like a suburban dad about to mow the lawn”

You stare at the photo longer than you mean to.

You (7:42 a.m.): hottest dad ive ever seen tbh

You also respond with a selfie of your own, hair wild from sleep, notebook open in your lap.

You (7:43 a.m.): i’d try to compete but I’m working with ‘not ready to face the day’ chic

Jenna (7:44 a.m.): chic is generous but i’ll give it to you

It continues like that, playful messages by far outranking the quieter ones. But they were there, nevertheless.

Jenna (11:12 p.m.): wrapped filming for the day i’m exhausted but can’t fall asleep

You stare at the texts for a while, watching the blinking cursor.

You (11:15 p.m.): try reading something boring like court transcripts or assembly instructions for IKEA furniture

Jenna (11:16 p.m.): wow you’re cruel

You (11:17 p.m.): cruel but effective

A photo arrives seconds later—Jenna’s bedside table, book open, lamp glowing soft. And there, just at the corner of the frame, you see it: your black journal, unmistakable with its moon and star charm glinting in the light.

Your chest tightens. She’s still reading it, carrying it with her just like she’d done with the book. Not tucked away, not forgotten—but there, within reach.

You trace the edge of your phone, warmth coloring your cheeks as a giddy smile forms on your face. You don’t reply right away, because you can’t think of anything that didn’t feel too raw, too emotional.

You (11:22 p.m.): oh yeah that one’s so boring perfect sleep aid

Jenna (11:30 p.m.): i’d never

Calls slip in slowly too. At first they were accidental—Jenna hitting the call button instead of the voice memo she meant to send, you answering it while she’s still mid-sentence. You’d laughed, fumbled, and then just kept talking, conversation falling into place like it always did when you were together in person.

Once, you had been at the grocery store when Jenna called, the sound of other shoppers talking and children tugging at sleeves filling the background.

“Where are you?” Jenna had asked, her voice low but edged with amusement.

“At the grocery store,” you said, tucking your phone between your shoulder and ear as you picked through watermelons. “I’m trying to pick a watermelon that won’t betray me by tomorrow so I’ve been standing here like an idiot knocking on every single one...”

There was a pause, then Jenna’s laugh—sharp, surprised, genuine. “You say things like that and I feel like I’ve been living wrong. Watermelons betraying you. Who thinks like that?”

“You’ve never bought one that looks perfect and then tastes like water?”

“…Okay, maybe I have. Betrayal’s accurate.”

The conversation carried on, unspooling across rows of fruit and flowers until you realized you’d been standing still for nearly fifteen minutes, one melon in your hand, smiling like an idiot in public.

The months begin to pass by quietly, summer tipping toward autumn. Jenna’s messages shift as she returns from her family visits and begins preparing for her next project. And luckily, this one isn't filming in some faraway country, but about half an hour from your city.

The thought of her being that close, yet still removed by obligations, sits strangely in your chest. You try not to think about it too much, until Jenna’s texts begin to reference the upcoming move.

Jenna (9:03 a.m.): packed five hoodies. i’m convinced it’s colder there than they say

You (9:05 a.m.): it’s not

Jenna (9:07 a.m.): don’t ruin my excuse to hoard hoodies

You stifle a laugh, grinning at your screen like an idiot. You could basically imagine her in your head, absolutely drowning in one of her hoodies, like she had that night at her apartment.

Jenna (2:11 p.m.): script reading today. my character is supposed to scream in one scene i’ve practised so many times in the past few days that I’m not sure how many more my throat can take before it just gives out 🫠

You (2:14 p.m.): that’d be bold artistic choice silent scream, I dig it

Jenna (2:15 p.m.): i think the critics will appreciate my commitment

You (2:14 p.m.): you’ve got this tho, you’re the horror queen remember 😏

Jenna (2:15 p.m.): don’t remind me 😩

---&---

One evening, you’re sprawled on your couch with your notebook, pen tapping idly, when your phone lights up with Jenna’s name. You answer, of course, your voice straining a little from disuse.

“Hey,” Jenna said, soft and warm.

“Hey.”

There’s a pause, then a sigh on the other end. “I’m just heading back to my apartment and thought I’d call. You know, before my battery dies and I’m forced to socialize with the void.”

You smile faintly. “I hear the void has terrible conversation skills.”

“Awful,” Jenna agrees. “Keeps interrupting.”

You laugh loudly at that. “You’re a dork.”

There’s a beat of silence and somehow, you feel the need to fill it.

“You sound tired,” you murmur eventually.

“Long day,” Jenna admits. Then, after a beat: “But not bad. I like ending it like this.”

She doesn’t say it, but the “with you” hangs in the air.

By the time Jenna’s project begins filming, the rhythm of your exchanges has become second nature. You no longer startle at your phone lighting up. You’ve grown so used to every call being her that you’d accidentally said “hey Jenna” to your aunt one time when she called.

The friendship has become the best part of your days. Texts about silly little things, calls about nothing and everything, photos that made you laugh in the quiet of your kitchen.

And sometimes, when you flip open your newest journal, you find your words curling around the shape of Jenna without meaning to.

It was steady, it was light. And it was more than you had expected when you’d first seen Jenna across the room, months ago.

---&---

You’d been hunched over her desk since noon, the pages of your notebook filling steadily with careful lines of ink. Your fourth book was taking shape more slowly than the others, but you didn’t mind. The storm of the third had taught you the danger of rushing—of chasing the momentum from your second book. So now, you work in measured sessions, taking breaks to stretch, to wander, to refill your tea. To do things. Live. Breathe.

By the time you look up again from your current session, the sun is shining through your window, covering your apartment in a bath of golden light.

You’re still mid-sentence when your phone buzzes. At first, you ignored it, too intent on finishing the thought before it dissolves. But then it buzzes again, a second message coming through, and you finally reach for it, eyes flicking toward the screen absentmindedly.

Jenna (6:57 p.m.): i’m so exhausted i could cry. but also starving. no takeout sounds good. don’t have the energy to cook. tragic.

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. You can picture Jenna exactly: curled up somewhere in her temporary rental, hair pulled loose, half-lidded eyes. For a moment, you hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You could send a simple text—sympathy, maybe a bad joke about ordering everything on the menu at a random place and having enough food for the rest of the week. But something tugs at you instead. You don’t overthink it, for once.

You type quickly.

You (7:01 p.m.): help is on the way what’s your address?

Jenna’s reply comes in seconds.

Jenna (7:02 p.m.): wait what??

You don’t bother answering. You're already standing, shoving your notebook aside and pulling your bag from the hook by the door. You grab your keys, lock up, and are halfway down the stairwell before you realize you still don’t know where you’re going.

You (7:06 p.m.): seriously, what’s your address?

The dots appear, then vanish, then appear again. Finally, Jenna sends it, accompanied by a string of question marks.

You only grin to yourself, already halfway out the door.

The drive takes half an hour, the city lights fading behind you and opening to the nature that surrounds it, littered with towns here and there. Eventually, you pull into the quiet residential street, park, shut off the engine, and reach for the paper bag of ingredients you’d grabbed from your fridge—tomatoes, garlic, basil, good olive oil, and a pack of pasta. You balance them in your arms as you make your way to the door, heart thudding with an odd mixture of nerves and excitement at getting to see her again.

Jenna answers almost immediately after you knock. She’s barefoot, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, hair messy from the day. Her eyes widen when they meet yours, landing on the bag in your arms.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says, half-bewildered, half-amused.

“I don’t joke about food,” you reply, stepping past her into the apartment without waiting for further protest. “Where’s the kitchen?”

Jenna shuts the door behind you, still looking dazed. “This is insane. You drove all the way here?”

You set the bag on the counter, pulling out ingredients. “It’s not far. Plus, this is better than you starving or ordering something sad. Besides…” You shrug. “I get to see you.”

Jenna leans against the counter, watching as you begin unpacking. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite in it and a small smile tugs at her lips.

The kitchen is surprisingly well-equipped for a temporary rental, but it all feels too new, too unused. It’s clear the space isn’t cooked in often.

You roll your sleeves up, pulling a knife from the drawer and begin to dice tomatoes. You find your rhythm around the space while you’re cooking and begin humming under your breath. Jenna hovers for a while, offering to help, only for you to gently shoo her away.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” you say, nudging her toward the barstool. “Sit. Tell me about your day.”

So she sits, chin propped in her hand, watching you work. She talks about filming, her excitement over the project, and the exhaustion—long hours, reshoots, endless repetition of the same scenes that makes even the most emotional scenes feel mechanical. But as she speaks, her eyes keep drifting back to your hands, the way you move confidently from chopping to stirring, sprinkling salt into the boiling water, crushing garlic with the flat of the blade.

The kitchen fills with the scent of simmering sauce and fresh herbs.

“It smells so good,” Jenna murmurs after a while, almost to herself.

You glance up. “It’s my grandma’s recipe. Or… close to it. I think I’ve butchered it enough times to make it mine.”

When the food is finally done, you plate two generous servings and carry them to the small dining table. Jenna follows, still barefoot, sliding into her seat and picking up her fork eagerly.

“Buon appetito!” you grin, before taking a bite of your food and nodding as you chew. It turned out well, your grandma would be proud.

She takes her first bite in silence, her eyes widening.

“Oh my god,” she said after swallowing. “This is—wow. It’s been so long since I had food like this.”

You send her a satisfied smile, shrugging lightly. “Glad it’s edible.”

“Edible?” Jenna shoots you a look, giving you a little shove with her foot. “It’s so good Y/N, don’t be humble.”

You chuckle, settling more comfortably in your chair. “That’s high praise coming from someone who eats in Michelin star restaurants regularly.”

“That’s so not true! I- well, not that often, but Enrique wants to go sometimes when we’re somewhere new and I…” she catches on to the teasing look on your face and rolls her eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Yep,” you respond, popping the ‘p’ and sticking your tongue out at her.

“Just take the compliment, Y/N.”

Her tone is serious, but you can see the smile she tries to hide.

You eat slowly, conversation flowing in between bites. Jenna continues with stories from set, small behind-the-scenes details that would never make it into interviews.

By the time your plates are scraped clean, the clock reads nearly nine.

Later, you drift back to the couch with cups of tea. Jenna curls up at one end, you at the other. And yet somehow, as the conversation carries on, the space between you shrinks until her arm brushes lightly against yours.

You’d grown more used to her habit of seeking out physical contact. You’d seen her with other people, even people she barely knew. It was normal to her, as easy as breathing. To you, it still caused your brain to stutter. You weren’t necessarily touch-starved, but living alone, away from family and with only a few close friends, you also weren’t necessarily used to it.

Jenna had pulled out a book at some point, reading a passage aloud that made her laugh. You counter it by grabbing your journal, scribbling while Jenna pretends not to peek. The room is soft with lamplight, the quiet broken only by the occasional comment from either of you or the sound of pages turning.

It isn’t until you notice the tilt of Jenna’s head, the slow droop of her eyelids, that you realize how late it is. You glance at the clock: close to eleven. Jenna had mentioned offhandedly that she needs to wake up at 5 most days, and that it was an improvement from the 4:30 alarm she's used to.

You set your pen down gently. “I should head out. Let you sleep.”

Jenna doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes still half-closed, her body leaning slightly into your side. For a moment, you wonder if she’s asleep or hasn’t heard you. But then she stirs, blinking slowly, turning to look at you.

“You don’t… have to,” she says, voice low, almost slurred with fatigue. “It’s late, and I don’t want you to drive if you’re tired; it’s not safe.”

It catches you off guard. “What?”

Jenna looks at you, concern and stubborness on her face. “You can stay… Please.”

The word threads through your chest, pulling tight. You hesitate, searching Jenna’s face, but find only tired sincerity.

“…Okay,” you reply softly.

You stand up slowly, stretching your stiff limbs, and Jenna follows suit.

“You can take the bed,” Jenna says firmly.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No way. You’re exhausted. I’ll take the couch.”

Jenna crosses her arms, tilting her head, and looking up at you in the way she knows will cause you (or anyone) to cave. “It’s my place. My rules.”

It’s honestly not fair, the way she’s able to weaponize those brown doe eyes. It takes all your willpower and the thought of Jenna waking up in pain from sleeping on the couch to stand your ground.

“And my dignity. I’m not letting you crash on a couch while I sleep in your bed.”

You stare at each other, stubbornness meeting stubbornness. Finally, Jenna huffs, throwing her hands up. “Fine. Then we’ll share. It’s huge anyway. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but stop at the look on Jenna’s face. She’s raised an eyebrow, her face saying ‘don’t test me right now’. There’s a mixture of defiance and weariness that makes it clear the argument is over. Slowly, you exhale, shaking your head with a faint smile.

“Stubborn,” you muttered.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Jenna shoots back, though her lips curve too.

You get ready for bed side by side, shoulders sometimes bumping in her small bathroom (which was luckily stashed for multiple guests).

After you finish, you follow Jenna down the short hallway, her bare feet padding softly against the hardwood, your own footsteps a few paces behind. The apartment is dim, most of the light coming from a single lamp she flicked on in the bedroom. It casts the room in a gentle glow, the shadows long but soft, the kind that makes everything feel smaller, safer.

Her bed really is huge. King-sized, tucked neatly against the wall, with plain white sheets and a rumpled grey duvet that looks as though she forgot to straighten it when she woke up that morning. There’s a comfort in its imperfection, a lived-in quality that feels oddly intimate considering she only stays there temporarily.

She gestures vaguely toward the dresser. “There are extra pillows in there. Take whatever you need. And wake me up if I hog the covers, I tend to do that.”

You shake your head, dropping your bag by the nightstand. “Don’t worry about me. It's more important that you sleep well.”

Jenna doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she tugs her T-shirt down, yawning as she crawls onto the bed, pulling the duvet back halfway. She doesn’t bother pretending she’s not exhausted anymore. Her movements are loose, unguarded, the kind of careless only tiredness allows.

You stand at the edge for a moment longer, feeling strangely out of place in your own skin. The bed is big, yet stepping into it feels like a choice you can’t make lightly. Finally, you exhale, sliding into the other side. The mattress dips beneath your weight, the duvet cool where you pull it up over your legs.

For a while, the only sound is the settling of sheets and the quiet hum of the city outside the window.

“Thanks for coming,” Jenna murmurs after a stretch of silence. Her voice is already husky with sleep. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

You turn your head to look at her. Her profile is outlined by the lamplight—messy hair, dark lashes heavy against her cheeks, the faint crease of exhaustion at her brow.

“I wanted to,” you say simply. “Besides, you looked like you needed it.”

That earns you a soft huff, almost a laugh, though it dies halfway as another yawn overtakes her. She pulls the duvet tighter around herself, wriggling closer until her shoulder brushes yours. The contact is light but deliberate, warmth threading across the gap between you.

You swallow, forcing yourself to stay still, though your heart has its own ideas, tapping harder against your ribs.

Jenna doesn’t seem to notice that you've frozen. Her hand slips out from under the duvet, resting briefly on your arm to give it a gentle squeeze before sliding away again. Casual, thoughtless. But your skin tingles where her fingers grazed, the imprint of it lingering longer than it should.

Minutes stretch, slow and syrup-thick. The city outside seems far away, muffled by walls and heavy curtains.

You glance at her again after a while, figuring she probably fell asleep, but then she shifts closer, until the duvet rustles and her leg brushes lightly against yours. She doesn’t pull back. If anything, she settles there, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Your pasta was really good,” she says suddenly, her voice low, already blurred with sleep.

You laugh softly, the sound muffled into your pillow. “You’ve mentioned that three times now.”

“Because it’s true.” Her head tilts slightly, cheek pressing into her pillow as she peers at you through half-lidded eyes. “It felt like… I don’t know. Homey. Real food. Not… hotel or restaurant food.”

There’s something vulnerable in the admission, tucked inside her exhaustion. You nod, letting the quiet sit for a moment before saying, “You deserve that. Real food. A real home.”

She blinks slowly, lashes brushing her cheeks. An unbelieving laugh bubbles up. “You make it sound so easy.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence hold, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, softly, you say, “It wouldn’t be… But maybe it doesn’t have to be easy to be worth it.”

She’s still staring up at the ceiling when you turn to look at her. You don’t push further.

Time slips strangely in the dark. At some point, Jenna rolls onto her side. Her hand rests between you on the duvet, her breath is slow and steady.

“You’re staring,” she says, eyes still closed.

You stiffen. “…I’m not.”

Her lips curve, a lazy grin tugging upward. “Liar.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat creeps into your cheeks anyway. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm. Sure.” Her voice is sleep-heavy, yet playful. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

The words shouldn’t linger the way they do. They shouldn’t sit in your chest like a spark waiting to become a raging fire. But they do.

You turn your face toward the ceiling again, exhaling slowly, willing your heartbeat to steady. Beside you, Jenna turns. Her arm brushes yours again, this time staying pressed, the warmth seeping through fabric and skin.

It’s small, subtle—nothing more than a tired girl seeking comfort in proximity. But to you, it feels like something both heavier and lighter than that, something you can’t quite name.

You don’t move away. Instead, you lie there, deep in thought and listening to the rhythm of Jenna’s breathing, steadying, deepening.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost miss it, she murmurs, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes.

“Goodnight.”

And with her shoulder pressed lightly against yours, the comfort of it threading deeper than you expect, you let yourself drift, too.

---&---

The sunlight slips through the curtains in long, warm streaks, cutting across the rumpled sheets and the faint scent of pasta lingering in the bedroom because Jenna hadn’t closed the bedroom door. You stir first, half-awake, aware of the steady warmth at your side, the quiet rise and fall of Jenna’s chest next to you. It’s slow, soft, and comforting, the kind of quiet you could get used to in a heartbeat. It scares you a little, how easy she’s slipped into every aspect of your life.

You shift slightly, careful not to jostle her, and peek at the clock: eight-fifteen. You blink, heart picking up speed. You turn to look at her, her hair falling across her face, tousled and soft in the morning light, and it makes your chest tighten in a way you aren’t entirely prepared to name yet.

Then her phone vibrates against the nightstand, buzzing insistently. Jenna groans, burying her face in the pillow. “What…” she mutters, voice muffled and thick with sleep. “What… is…” Another vibration. Her hand scrabbles blindly across the duvet, grabbing it. “Ah—shit.”

You sit up, blinking. “Who is it?”

“My chauffeur,” she mutters, voice thick with sleep, “I was supposed to be outside 20 minutes ago.”

You can’t help laughing, even softly, because there’s something so absurdly human about it. Jenna, meticulous and polished during work, late because she didn’t set an alarm. She sits up and she swipes at her phone like it’s a living thing that might bite her.

“You didn’t set an alarm?” you ask, trying to keep the amusement out of your voice. You fail.

“Nope.” She shrugs, eyes wide and helpless for just a second. “I trusted the universe to wake me up. Clearly, the universe has other plans.”

You grin, because it’s ridiculous and kind of perfect. “Well, looks like the universe owes you now. Come on, get dressed. You can be fashionably late. I’ll make breakfast to-go.”

She laughs, loud and throaty, brushing hair out of her face. “Fashionably late? How did you know that was my thing?”

By the time she’s put on her clothes and shoes, she's a whirlwind of frantic text messages, hurriedly gulped coffee you’d poured for her, and muttering, “Why didn’t I think to set an alarm?” between frantic swipes on her phone. You just sit back, trying not to laugh too hard at the chaos, marvelling at how effortlessly she’s both spectacular and completely... human.

When she finally heads out the door, keys jingling, bag slung over her shoulder, she pauses and turns. “Thanks, you know, for dinner. And… just for staying.”

You nod, smiling, brushing the hair out of your face. “Glad to help. I’ll see you next time.”

“Next time,” she echoes softly, smiling to herself before dashing down the hallway, calling over her shoulder, “Text me tonight!”

---&---

The days after pass in the gentle rhythm of your own life, interwoven with the soft hum of Jenna’s presence in your day. A text from her arrives mid-afternoon while you’re sitting at your desk writing.

Jenna (3:42 p.m.): just finished filming, my brain is mush you doing anything exciting?

You glance at the pen in your hand, then tap back quickly. You hadn’t really done anything, aside from having lunch with a friend and writing (as always).

You (3:44 p.m.): debating which order to put the poems in: page 150, or 178? it’s intense

Jenna (3:46 p.m.): your life sounds exhausting

You (3:47 p.m.): it’s truly draining stuff, honestly

Sometimes it’s more intimate than that—a photo of a page in your journal, inked words curled across the page, sent with no caption. Sometimes it’s her sending a selfie with tousled hair and a mug in hand, captioned “this is the best i’ll look all day, sorry in advance.” She looks amazing every time, of course. You’d tried telling her, but she’d deflect and change the topic.

Eventually, after finding out she skipped dinner too many times, you decide on cooking her dinner whenever she had enough time. The texts were simple, but never failed to make you smile.

Jenna (7:18 p.m.): do you have time for dinner?

You grin to yourself, tapping out the reply.

You (7:19 p.m.): i do you wanna pick something or should I just bring some stuff from my fridge?

Jenna (7:21 p.m.): oh, please, I don’t think I can make a choice right now

And just like that, your days begin to have pockets of anticipation. Small things to look forward to. Sometimes, you take her to your favorite quiet spots, discovering little restaurants she hasn’t been to, or visiting Mrs. Nguyen, who never failed to lovingly scold her for being too skinny. She takes it all in with quiet awe, commenting on the food, the light, the street corners, anything that catches her attention.

You never rush when you’re together. You talk about books, filming, random ideas, poetry, music, trivialities that could be forgotten and are, but also the things that stick—the honest and deep conversations, about the parts of you that you only let the other see because you’d earned that quiet trust.

After a few of these dinners, you find yourself driving home, alone in your car, windows rolled down as the sun sets, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. You sing loudly to the same song you had days before. She’s not there with you physically, not at the moment, but the echo of her presence threads through everything—her laugh, the brush of her shoulder against yours, the soft comments she always makes about the streets or the food or your absurd jokes.

You catch yourself smiling at your own reflection in the window, humming the same line over again, thinking how strange and wonderful it is that someone else’s world can slip so gently into your own. And when your phone buzzes, another message from her—simple, fleeting, a 'goodnight Y/N' or a 'did you survive the day?'—you feel that warmth again, threaded quietly through your chest.

---&---

You’ve written more in the past few days than you have in months. And that’s saying something, because even before, writing had been your escape, your way of processing things. You’d write daily, sometimes poetry, sometimes just a journal entry to get your thoughts out. It was a habit, and yet you’d managed to outdo yourself in the past week.

Your journal is filled to the brim with words and the occasional doodle—small sketches in the margins when words weren’t enough. Some are heavy with the thoughts you haven’t been able to say aloud, others light, like little observations from day-to-day life. But there’s always one constant: thoughts about her, memories of her. You feel a little silly about it, honestly.

You’ve seen Jenna twice now, and both times you came home feeling restless, mind running with thoughts, spilling ink into paper as if it could catch the way she laughed or the way her pauses carried a weight. She’d slipped into your poems in strange ways, like how light sometimes filters through the blinds and makes you notice things you’d never noticed before.

So when she’d suggested meeting up on one of her free days, you’d jotted down a list of places to show her, meticulous in your choices. Nothing busy. Nothing loud. Places that mean something to you. Comfortable. Familiar. Quiet. Places where you felt you could breathe, and hoped she would, too.

You get there early, as usual, journal in your bag, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the coffee you’d already ordered. The café is small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist. The air smells of coffee, fresh croissants and cinnamon. There’s a bakery in the back, one of the reasons you came here so often, their pastries are to die for. The place isn’t particularly popular—not flashy or Instagrammable enough—but that’s what you love about it.

The bell above the door chimes and you look up, your lips tugging into a smile almost immediately. Jenna’s hair frames her face, brushed forward a bit on purpose. She has sunglasses perched on her nose despite the cloudy weather, and a black baseball cap tugged low over her forehead. You squint slightly, trying to read the bold white lettering across it.

The corner of your mouth tilts up. “Nice disguise,” you say as she slides into the chair across from you.

She huffs a quiet laugh, tugging her sunglasses off. “It’s functional,” she deadpans.

“Mm. Definitely very subtle,” you tease, reaching for your mug. “No one would ever suspect Jenna Ortega would walk around in a Death Grips hat.”

That made her laugh properly, the sound warm and alive in the quiet café.

She takes the hat off, turning it over in her hands before slipping it back on her head. “Actually, I kind of ruined that one for myself, I’ve talked about it in interviews a few times.”

But before you can reply, a small voice pipes up from a table nearby.

“Excuse me—sorry, are you…?”

You turn your head slightly. A girl, maybe sixteen, stands next to your table with her friend. She looks shy, clutching her phone tightly in her hand. Jenna pushes the hat up a bit.

“Yes,” she says, lips curving into a practiced but still kind smile. “Hi.”

The two girls light up, but they stay at a distance, voices hushed, polite in a way that surprises you. One asks if they can take a picture, the other simply says she loves her movies. Jenna leans down slightly, poses with them quickly, and gives each of them a hug before sliding back into her chair.

As soon as she sits, she blows out a slow breath, tugging the sunglasses back up. You wait for a second before opening your mouth to say something with a teasing smile.

“It was definitely the hat.”

She snorts in amusement, sending you a playful look. “Oh, definitely. Told you I’d ruined it.”

There’s still a smile on your face as you let a comfortable silence fall.

“Sorry about that,” she murmurs eventually, but there’s still a ghost of a smile on her face.

You shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Her fingers fiddle with the sleeve of her jacket for a moment before she speaks again. “Most fans are wonderful,” she admits quietly. “Like those girls—sweet, respectful, kind. But…” She hesitates, lips pressing together for a moment. “Sometimes people are… less than respectful. Or they almost seem to forget that I’m a person. And it’s hard. I’m grateful, I really am. I wouldn’t be where I am without them. But… I miss being able to just walk outside without thinking about disguises, whether it’s more noticeable if I keep my sunglasses on inside or take them off, whether I can even go somewhere without ending up on the cover of some gossip magazine the next day…”

You listen carefully, the honesty in her tone pulling at something deep in you. Her words aren’t bitter, but they carry weight.

“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” you say softly. “I’ve… been recognized a few times, and it always catches me by surprise. I never expect it. And it’s nothing compared to…” You gesture lightly toward her, toward the sunglasses and the hat. “To all of this.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying you. “You’ve been recognized?”

You nod, a little sheepishly. “At bookstores sometimes. Or at a café. Once in a grocery store. And one time, on the subway. Someone tapped my shoulder and asked me to sign their arm. I thought they were joking.”

That makes her smile again, real and unguarded. “And what did you do?”

“I signed it, of course,” you say, a small laugh escaping you. “I didn’t want to disappoint them. But I couldn’t stop thinking how bizarre it was. Like, I’m a writer, that’s supposed to be kind of… separate from your appearance, I guess, I just never expected people to recognize me.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s… exactly what it feels like. Bizarre… And overwhelming. You can’t even imagine the things people have asked me.”

There’s a pause between you then—not awkward, but thoughtful. You watch the way she stirs her coffee, spoon clinking lightly against the ceramic. She’s still in disguise, still half-hidden, and yet sitting across from her in this quiet café, she looks more herself than she did at the art event. Less polished, less guarded. Just Jenna.

After a moment, you lean back slightly, let your smile tilt mischievously, and say, “Well, you won’t have to hide in the next place we’re going.”

Her eyebrow arches slightly. “Oh?”

“Promise,” you respond, sticking out your pinkie.

She tilts her head, clearly intrigued, but doesn’t push. Instead, she links her pinkie with yours, smiling.

---&----

You lead her through the winding streets, past cafés with tables spilling onto the sidewalks, a florist with buckets of flowers arranged in the colors of the rainbow, and storefronts with chalkboard menus scrawled in looping cursive. The area is known for its artistic undertone—it honestly feels like a movie set—but living there has always felt perfect for a poet, in your opinion.

Jenna keeps her sunglasses and hat on, though she tilts her head toward you more than toward the crowd, letting you guide her with the ease of someone who already knows these streets by heart.

When you stop in front of a narrow door wedged between two stores, she blinks at it, then at you. “This is it? Are you sure this isn’t just someone’s front door?”

You nod, lips twitching. “Trust me.”

The door creaks as you push it open, and the air shifts. It’s cozy inside, tinged with the scent of old paper, dust, and something faintly herbal, like dried lavender. The light is dim, filtered through yellowed antique lamps scattered along the walls. From the outside, the place looks no bigger than a hallway, but once you step inside, the world unfolds.

Corridor after corridor stretches away from the entrance, each one lined floor-to-ceiling with books. The shelves lean in on you, threatening to topple, heavy with spines cracked by countless fingers. Some shelves hold gleaming hardcovers still wrapped in plastic, others sag beneath antiques, their titles faded by the sun.

You glance sideways at Jenna as she follows you in. The sunglasses are sliding down her nose stubbornly, and she finally pushes them up into her hair, her eyes widening.

“Oh,” she whispers, as though afraid to disturb the silence.

You smile, pleased. “Yeah. Oh.”

She laughs under her breath, soft but delighted, and then lets her gaze drift upward, taking it all in.

The corridors narrow further the deeper you go, and brushing past the few people also in the store requires squeezing yourself against the shelves. The air is hushed—not like a library, not stiff, but alive in its quietness. Like the outside world is paused while you’re there.

“People don’t really know about this place,” you murmur, keeping your voice low as if you have to respect the atmosphere. “And the ones who do… well, they’re here for the books.”

Her lips quirk, relief flickering across her face. “Perfect.”

You spend the first half hour weaving through the corridors together. Sometimes you drift apart, each pulled in different directions, only to circle back to each other with a book you just have to show off.

“Look at this cover,” you say at one point, showing her a book with a golden edge, intricate swirls embossed on the front.

She brushes her fingers over it softly, a look of awe on her face. “It looks like it belongs in a castle.”

You grin. “It’s poetry. Late 1800s.”

She arches an eyebrow, a teasing expression forming on her face. “Of course it is. So predictable.”

You rol your eyes lightly but can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she says innocently, but her grin gives her away.

Other times, it’s her voice that calls you over. “Y/N—look.” She holds up a tattered copy of a children’s book, one you remember from your own childhood.

You blink, surprised. “You read that too?”

“Over and over,” she admits, flipping the cover open with a fond smile. “I think I annoyed my sisters with it. I used to make them act out the story with me.”

There’s something about the way her voice softens that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly—a glimpse of her childhood, of the girl she’d been before the world knew her name.

The longer you stay, the looser her shoulders seem to get, like she’s shedding layers of tension with each row of books. You both fall into a rhythm: browsing, sharing, sometimes reading small snippets aloud when something catches your attention.

Eventually, when your feet begin to ache, you lead her toward the back. The lounge area unfolds like a secret garden—oversized leather chairs, their edges worn from years of readers sinking into them, gathered around a low table stacked with magazines and stray books. A lamp in the corner casts a warm, golden light.

Jenna sinks into one of the chairs with an audible sigh. She tucks her legs beneath her, pulling the brim of her hat higher now that it isn’t needed for disguise, and exhales like she’s been waiting to breathe all day.

You sit across from her, pulling out the slim volume you’d chosen earlier—a collection of short stories from a forgotten author—and crack it open. She’s chosen a poetry collection, and you notice she doesn’t tell you what it is. She just leans back, her expression soft as her eyes scan the page.

For a while, you don’t talk. The silence is easy here. The occasional shuffle of someone moving through the shelves reaches your ears, but otherwise, it feels like the two of you are alone.

At one point, you look up and find her watching you instead of the page. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t pretend she hasn’t been caught. Instead, she tilts her head and smiles faintly.

“What?” you ask, trying not to smile.

“You read like you’re listening,” she says softly. “Like the book is telling you something out loud.”

You blink, thrown by the observation, then chuckle. “I’ve never heard that before.”

“It’s true,” she insists, her voice low. “I can see it.”

Something in your chest stirs, but you duck your gaze back to the page before it can rise too far. “Well. I suppose that’s not the worst thing to be caught doing.”

Her laugh is quiet but warm, a thread between the two of you in the dim light.

Time blurs after that. Pages turn, lamps glow, and the soft creak of chairs fills the spaces where voices don’t. You lose track of how long you sit there until a glance at your phone startles you—it’s been nearly two hours.

She’s still curled in the chair opposite you, her hat abandoned on the table, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulder as she traces a finger along the line of a poem. She looks beautiful, you think to yourself—peaceful in a way you haven’t seen before.

And then she glances up, catching your eye, and the smile that forms on her face is small and soft.

“This was a good idea,” she says simply.

You feel the warmth of it sink deep in your chest. “I’m glad you think so.”

She groans, softly, dramatically, when you close your book and gesture your head toward the front of the shop where the exit is.

“Already?” she asks, her thumb still wedged between the pages of the poetry collection she’s been half-lost in.

“You’ve been reading that for an hour,” you say gently, smiling at her mock protest.

“Exactly,” she replies, a spark in her eyes. “I’m just getting into it.”

You tilt your head, the corners of your eyes crinkling in appreciation. “Then you’ll just have to take it with you.”

She frowns, like she might argue, but you’re already standing, brushing the dust from your jeans. By the time she follows you toward the counter, her expression has softened into something amused, fond even. When she reaches for her wallet, you shake your head and set the slim volume down together with the book you’d been reading.

“Y/N—”

“It’s fine,” you say firmly, not meeting her eyes as you hand over your card. “Consider it a bribe. So you’ll keep saying yes when I ask if you want to hang out.”

For a second, there’s silence behind you. Then a quiet laugh, softer than any she’s given before. “That’s a terrible bribe,” she says, her voice warm.

“Maybe,” you admit, signing the receipt. “But it’ll work, won’t it?”

She doesn’t argue.

The city is bright when you step back outside, the morning haze burned off by a sun climbing steadily higher. Jenna tugs her hat down again, sunglasses back in place, but you notice the way her shoulders have loosened, as though the bookstore has stripped away the weight she carries everywhere else.

“Where to next?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

You hesitate a moment, savoring the anticipation, then let the words slip. “A garden. Figured we could use the fresh air. And, y’know, live our little Notting Hill moment.”

Her lips quirk. “Of course you know a secret garden.”

“Of course,” you echo, grinning.

Neither of you mentions the details of the movie. It hangs in the air, unaddressed.

It’s a ten-minute walk—through a narrow alley that smells faintly of paint and rain, up a set of stone steps worn smooth from decades of feet, past a heavy iron gate most people wouldn’t even consider trying to open. You’d learned, years ago, that the latch only stuck, and with a firm tug, it opens onto an entirely different world.

The garden spreads before you in an uneven sprawl, sunlight spilling across stone benches, wildflowers climbing trellises, vines tangling along cracked walls. It isn’t manicured like a public park—it feels alive, slightly untamed, the kind of place where time can get lost among the bees and birdsong.

Jenna freezes at the threshold, eyes widening behind her glasses.

“Y/N,” she breathes. “This is… wow.”

You smile quietly, leading her in. “I thought you might like it.”

She tilts her face toward the sun, her hand brushing over the petals of a daisy that leans into the path. For a moment, the famous actress, the media trained composure, all of it falls away. She just looks like herself—twenty-three, curious, alive.

You choose a bench near the center, warm from the sun. Setting your bag down, you pull out the small bundle you’d stashed earlier: a paper bag of pastries from the café, a packet of dried fruit, a thermos of tea.

“Seriously?” she says, amused, as you lay them out.

“What?” you ask innocently. “Exploring makes people hungry. And I didn’t want you to skip another meal.”

Her laugh carries across the garden, light and unrestrained, before she shakes her head. “You think of everything.”

“Not everything,” you say, and mean it.

She doesn’t press.

---&---

The hours unfold slowly, as though the sun itself was slowing down for you. You both read, leaning back on the bench, sometimes breaking the silence when a line is so good it needs to be shared aloud.

“Listen to this,” she murmurs at one point, tapping her book. She reads the verse softly, her voice carrying the rhythm of it with ease.

When she finishes, you sit for a moment, letting the words hang between you. Then you smile faintly. “You make it sound better than it is.”

She doesn’t respond, but her body language speaks more than words could. She smiles, genuine and wide, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Her entire posture is lighter, full of joy and relaxation. You want nothing more than to make sure it stays.

Another time, you read her one of your new poems, one you’ve memorized. Her eyes soften as she listens, her head tilting slightly as though she’s trying to read you in between the lines.

Between passages, you both nibble at the pastries—almond croissants, a cinnamon roll, something sticky with honey. You pour tea into small cups, the steam curling like smoke in the warm air. A bee hovers close once, and Jenna laughs, waving it away gently.

She leans close once, showing you a passage she likes, her shoulder brushing yours in a way that neither of you moves to correct.

Eventually, the tug in your chest wins out. You pull your journal from your bag—the black one, not the same one she’d read from before. You can tell she notices by the way she shifts, even though her eyes never leave the page of her book.

You set it on your lap, uncap your pen, and scribble half a stanza that’s been brewing at the back of your mind since the bookstore.

And then you feel it—the weight of her gaze.

When you look up, she’s already watching you, her chin resting on her hand, her sunglasses abandoned on the bench between you. Her eyes are intent, curious, patient.

Without speaking, you hesitate, then extend the journal to her, hovering in the air.

Her brows lift, faintly surprised. “Are you sure?”

You nod once, your heart hammering, though you don’t let yourself take the words back.

She studies you for a second longer, something unspoken flickering in her eyes, before she pulls the journal closer and flips it open.

You try to read again, but your attention drifts. She’s so careful, turning each page slowly, pausing to read, sometimes rereading. Her fingers brush over the ink, over your cramped handwriting, over the margins where you’ve doodled or scribbled something half-legible.

Time stretches strangely. The garden buzzes with bees, the sun shifts higher, and you sit across from her, pretending to be absorbed in your book while every nerve hums with the awareness that she’s reading you—really reading you—in a way no one else ever has. It’s different from the first journal, the new one feels far more personal.

She doesn’t rush. By the time she closes the cover and sets the journal gently back on the bench, the light has shifted into the early shades of afternoon.

You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Well?” you ask, trying for casual but hearing the tightness in your own voice.

Her eyes meet yours, steady, unreadable for a moment. Then she smiles—a slow, genuine curve of her lips that reaches all the way to her eyes.

The journal sits between you like a third presence, its black cover warmed by the sun. She’s closed it so carefully, like the pages inside are fragile, like they might crumble if she lets her hand linger too long.

When Jenna finally speaks, her voice is quiet, lower than before. “Some of them were about me.”

The words land like a stone in still water, rippling through you.

You look up too quickly, caught off guard by her certainty. She isn’t asking; she’s stating, with wonder, with something else you can’t name.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t deny it.

“Yes,” you say, steady though your heart pounds. “Some of them were.”

Her eyes widen—fractionally, almost imperceptibly—but enough for you to notice. For the first time since you met her, Jenna looks unprepared, her composure faltering.

“Oh.” The syllable slips out, unfinished, vulnerable.

You almost want to laugh, because she’s navigated entire rooms of flashing cameras, hostile interviews, endless questions, which she answered with polished grace, but here she is, undone by a few lines of ink.

Instead, you let the silence be. You tilt your head, fingers brushing over the journal cover before drawing back.

“Most great poets had a muse,” you say finally. Your voice comes out softer than intended, like you’re confessing something.

Her lips part slightly, no words coming. She blinks once, twice, then laughs—too quickly, as if buying herself time. “So I’m in the ranks of… Sappho’s beloveds? Dante’s Beatrice?”

You shrug, the barest curve of your mouth betraying a smile. “Something like that.”

It isn’t a joke, not entirely. She must know.

For a beat, she seems to search your face for proof, her gaze flicking around your face for a trace of deception. Then she leans back against the bench, exhaling, trying to reassemble the easy calm she wears so well.

“I didn’t expect that,” she admits, shaking her head lightly. “I thought… maybe I’d recognize a thought, or a detail, but—” She gestures vaguely toward the journal. “They were… they felt like me. Not just about me but…”

Words seem to fail her and she turns to look at you, as if she hopes that it’ll all make sense to you. And it does.

Heat creeps to your cheeks. You look down at your hands, unsure whether to deflect or lean in. “I write what’s in my head. I have to get it out, put it down somewhere, otherwise it drowns me.”

Her laugh this time is slower, and she tilts her head at you, studying like you’re something rare she isn’t sure how to categorize. “Do you always say like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, feigning ignorance though you can feel the air shift, the thread of something more weaving between your words.

“Things that make people…” She trails off, her lips quirking, as though admitting it out loud would tip something over the edge. “Forget how to answer properly.”

You lift your brow. “Not usually.”

The pause stretches, comfortable but charged, and you realize you’ve stopped hearing the birdsong, the hum of bees. All you can focus on is the way sunlight carves soft edges along her jaw, the way her sunglasses lie forgotten between you, the way she looks when she isn’t guarded by performance.

“So.” She clears her throat, clearly trying to steady herself, though her smile betrays her. “I’m a muse now.”

“Among other things.”

Her brow arches. “Such as?”

You pretend to think, savoring her anticipation. “An unexpectedly biased critic. You didn’t flinch at the pretentious bits.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Ouch! But you’re right, I’ve lost my touch.”

She beams at you, and something in your chest feels like it’s being squeezed.

She looks away finally, toward the wildflowers leaning into the stone wall, and says softly, “You know, most people would’ve denied it.”

You swallow. “Maybe. But I don’t want to lie to you.”

Her eyes snap back to yours at that, startled again, though she covers it with a smile. “You’re—” She stops, presses her lips together, then tries again. “You’re different.”

You tilt your head. “Good different or bad different?”

Her smirk is small, tugging at the corner of her mouth. “The kind that keeps me guessing.”

Your own smile flickers—quiet, contained, but real. “Guessing isn’t so bad. Keeps you on your toes.”

You lean back after a while, breaking eye contact before you get lost in it completely, and let the journal rest once more between you. “You can keep it for a while, if you want.”

Her head turns sharply, eyes widening again. “What?”

“I trust you,” you say simply. “You seemed like you wanted to keep reading.”

For a moment, her mouth opens, closes. She looks almost panicked, as though no one has ever placed something so personal in her hands.

“I…” She swallows, then laughs nervously, brushing hair back from her face. “That might be too much responsibility.”

“Then don’t,” you say lightly, giving her an easy out. “But it’s yours if you want it.”

She looks down at the journal again, her fingers hovering above the cover but not touching, like it might burn. After a long moment, she exhales. “Maybe just for a bit.”

You nod, and say nothing.

---&---

The sun has already begun its slow descent by the time you leave the garden, golden light catching in the branches and spilling over rooftops. The air is warm, tinged with the smell of late summer.

Jenna adjusts the strap of her bag, the book you bought her and your journal tucked safely inside, and glances sideways at you as you step through the iron gate back onto the quiet street. She hesitates, as though the words have to climb over something before reaching her mouth.

“My place is nearby,” she says at last. “Just temporary—while I’m here. But… if you’re not in a rush, you could come with? I don’t feel like—” She falters, searching, then gives a small, helpless smile. “I don’t feel like saying bye yet.”

For a second, you only look at her, that simple sentence coursing through you. She wants more time with you.

You smile, full of wonder. “I’m not in a rush.”

Her shoulders soften, like she’s been bracing for you to say no. And then you walk, side by side, your steps falling into rhythm without effort.

The streets are busier than the garden but not suffocating, people spilling out of cafés, couples weaving hand in hand. Now and then someone glances at Jenna, curiosity flickering, recognition on the cusp, but the sunglasses and hat blur her enough to keep them second-guessing themselves.

“Does that ever stop?” you ask, when one man does a double-take before hurrying past without saying anything.

She glances back, shrugs lightly. “Not really. I wish it did…” Her voice thins. “Sometimes I just miss being invisible.”

You think about the way she looked in the garden, reading without any mask, the world closed out around her. The version of herself that hardly anyone gets to see.

“I don’t think I could handle it,” you admit. “The constant… awareness of being watched.”

Jenna gives a humorless little huff in agreement. “You’d hate it.”

“Probably,” you say honestly, and she laughs, a real laugh, surprised from her chest.

The sound carries with you the rest of the walk.

Her place is only a few streets over. She unlocks the door and lets you in first, and you find yourself in a space that is both impersonal and lived-in at once: crisp white walls, sparse furniture, but her shoes by the door, her book—your book—on the table, your jacket, the one you’d let her borrow last time you saw her, thrown across the couch.

“It’s nice,” you say softly, setting your bag down near a chair. “You must feel at home here.”

The words leave you lightly, but Jenna freezes, just for a heartbeat. She shuts the door carefully and leans against it. Her face tilts down, her hat pulled off and dropped on a side table.

When she looks at you again, her smile is thin, wistful. “I don’t really have one.”

You blink, taken aback. “A home?”

“Not in the way you mean.” She crosses the room slowly, her fingers brushing the back of the couch as she goes. “I spend so much time away… filming, moving from location to location. Six months here, eight months there. I’ve spent more time in hotels than in my own bed. My apartment in L.A.? It’s more like storage. I hardly live there. The closest thing would be my parents’ house, but I haven’t really lived there in ages…”

Your chest aches. Home has always been a cornerstone for you—your little apartment with its worn rugs and secondhand shelves, your kitchen where you cook for yourself, the quiet familiarity of your desk and journals. To think of someone living without that anchor, drifting from place to place—it makes you ache for her.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently.

She shakes her head, settling onto the couch, gesturing for you to join her. “Don’t be. It’s the job. I chose it. It just…” Her voice trails, and she searches for words, then looks at you with something raw. “Sometimes I forget what it’s supposed to feel like—to come home and know it’s yours. The instant relaxation.”

You sit beside her, the space between you small but unbridged. For a moment, you don’t know what to say. Words are supposed to be your craft, but they fail you now, too simple for the depth of what she’s just confessed. You swallow the hesitancy down and reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“That’s why it means so much to me,” you say. “Having that space. It’s not just four walls—it’s where you put yourself back together after the world pulls you apart.”

Her eyes soften, searching your face as though memorizing it. “You really love your home.”

“Yes,” you say. “It’s… it’s the place that doesn’t ask anything of me. The one thing that’s steady, no matter what else happens. You deserve that too.”

She nods slowly, as though turning that thought over in her hands. Her gaze drops briefly to the floor, but she’s still holding your hand, playing absentmindedly with your fingers. “I can’t remember the last time I felt that.”

You let the silence settle, heavy but not suffocating.

Finally, she exhales, a little laugh escaping, though her eyes are still sad. “Sorry. That got… heavy.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say firmly. “You don’t have to with me.”

Her eyes catch yours again, and something lingers there—gratitude, maybe, or relief.

You talk after that, slower, deeper, words unfolding like threads. She tells you about how strange it is, living on sets that try to mimic homes but always feel like cardboard, how sometimes she wakes in a hotel and needs a moment to remember what city she’s in. You listen, letting the weight of her words settle.

And when she pauses, you offer little pieces of yourself back—about your grandmother’s old teapot that you still use, about the plants on your windowsill that you sometimes talk to when the silence grows too large, about how home, for you, is proof you exist even when the world doesn’t see you.

When the conversation lulls, Jenna leans back, stretching her legs, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You make me think about things I try not to think about.”

You tilt your head, meeting her gaze. “Is that a bad thing?”

Her smile deepens, slow and sure. “No. It’s not. Sometimes I just… carry them all for so long I forget it’s heavy… It’s nice, putting them down for once.”

---&---

The hours slip past you unnoticed. The only light is the amber glow of a streetlamp filtering through thin curtains. The world outside seems quiet, like it has folded away just for the two of you.

Jenna is half-turned toward you on the couch, one leg tucked under herself. She looks younger like this, softer, as if the careful armor she wears to meet the world has been set aside.

You’d been talking about families. Somehow, the subject drifted there naturally, pulled like a thread from earlier confessions. She hesitates now, as if weighing whether to continue, her eyes tracing the stitching on the couch before flicking up to meet yours.

“My parents told me when I started getting more projects,” she begins, her voice low, “that I was getting this… opportunity, this career, not just for myself. But to use it for something meaningful. For good. To make a change.”

Her mouth presses into a line, not quite bitter, but heavy. “And they were right. I know they were. But… it’s a lot to carry, y’know?”

Your chest tightens. You can hear the weight in her voice, the expectation pressed into her like ink into paper. And yes, of course her parents meant it out of love, out of hope. But to be young and to already feel as though the world and the people you love, demand something extraordinary from you—it’s enough to get to anyone.

You shift closer before you even realize you’re moving, your hand reaching, hovering for a moment before you place it gently on her arm. She doesn’t hesitate, not for a breath—her hand finds yours again, clinging like she’s been waiting for the smallest gesture of permission to hold on.

Her palm is warm, slightly clammy, the tension in her grip betraying what her voice tries to hold steady.

“Jenna,” you say softly, “I know they meant well. But that’s… a lot. For anyone.”

Her brown eyes fix on you, wide and unblinking, a small layer of moisture threatening to spill. You squeeze her hand, thumb tracing small patterns on it. “Making a change is hard for anyone. It’s not something you do alone, or quickly. Many people make it their life’s work. Carrying that on top of everything else—it’s a lot.”

For a moment, she doesn’t breathe. Then her shoulders slump, the smallest exhale shuddering out of her.

“You really think so?”

“I do,” you say, no hesitation. “But—” You smile gently. “I also see how hard you try. How much you care. And that matters, so, so much. More than you probably realize.”

Her lips part, her expression flickering between disbelief and something almost fragile. “That’s the part that scares me,” she whispers. “Because I want to. I want to stay true to myself, and to show my personality more. But every time I try… someone twists it into something else, something ugly. Or turns it into a headline.”

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Like—I wish I could crack a sarcastic joke on social media. Something stupid, just… me. But it’d be taken seriously. Or people would call me ungrateful, or mean, or cold. Everything I do is dissected, like… like I can’t just be a person.”

Her voice cracks faintly at the end, the sound so small it tears at you. She presses the heel of her free hand to her forehead, as if she could push back the tide of it, but her fingers stay wound tight with yours.

“Sometimes the hiding takes its toll,” she admits. “Pretending, or filtering everything I say. I feel like I’m shrinking.”

Your throat aches. You think of her in those endless interviews, polished, careful, her smile practiced. You think of her with you in the garden, laughing over a passage, shoulders unguarded, light catching in her eyes. And you hate that the world can take that version of her away.

Quietly, you say, “You shouldn’t have to shrink yourself.”

Her eyes flick to you, glassy but sharp.

“And maybe you don’t get to show that side of yourself to everyone,” you continue, slow, deliberate, “but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It’s still you. Still real. Even if only a few people get to see it.”

Her lips part again, and for a long moment she just stares at you like she can’t quite breathe. Then, very softly, she says, “You make it sound… easy.”

You smile faintly, squeezing her hand again. “It’s not, I know. But I believe in you.”

She leans back a little, her shoulders pressing into the couch, and she finally lets out a long sigh, like she’s been holding that breath for years.

“I don’t get you,” she says after a pause, voice quiet, almost to herself. “You don’t… want anything from me. You don’t… expect anything.”

“Why would I?”

Her eyes soften, but her grip stays tight on your hand. “Because most people do.”

The words linger in the room, heavier than the silence, heavier than the shadows stretching across the walls.

You want to tell her that you would never ask anything of her—that her, just her, is enough. But you don’t, not in words. You just stay there, letting the silence soothe.

The air in Jenna’s apartment feels different after her confession—thicker, but softer somehow, as though the walls have been listening too. Her fingers are still tangled with yours, her pulse a steady hum against your palm.

Neither of you speak for a long while. There is nothing to fill the silence with, and you don’t want to. It is enough—her hand in yours, the world outside muted, the dim lamp light catching on the faint curve of her cheekbone. You think, not for the first time, that she is almost too much to look at directly. Like the sun. But you also think that if you look away, even for a moment, you’ll miss something vital.

She exhales again, softer this time, like your presence has eased something in her chest. When she finally lets go, it isn’t entirely—her fingers brush yours in passing, reluctant, before she tucks them into her lap.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, “I don’t usually talk about this. Any of it.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

Her mouth quirks in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because most people wouldn’t understand. Or care. Or they’d pretend to, but it would end up in some article. Another headline. Or worse, they’d just… pity me.”

You shake your head, firm but gentle. “I don’t pity you.”

“I know,” she says, and this time the smile reaches her eyes. “That’s why I can say it to you.”

You don’t quite know what to do with the weight of that statement. It settles in your throat, making it feel tight.

Time becomes strange after that. The conversation drifts again, softer currents pulling you both along. She asks about your writing habits, your favorite time of day to work. You tell her about the hours just before dawn, when the world hasn’t woken yet and you feel like you have it all to yourself. She tells you about the way sets transform at night, when the crew is gone and the lights still burn.

And then laughter—unexpected, unguarded—when she admits she once spooked herself so badly on a set at night she called a friend just to stay on the phone with while she got her things.

Eventually, the weight of the day begins to catch up to you. You notice the shadows under her eyes, the way her body has curled more into the couch. And you realize that you’ve kept her awake when she probably needs rest more than anything.

You shift, pulling yourself upright. “I should let you sleep.”

Her gaze flicks up quickly, almost startled. “Oh—yeah. Of course.”

You rise, collecting your bag, sliding the strap over your shoulder. She stands too, walking you toward the door, her movements slower. The apartment is quiet but for the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

At the door, you hesitate, turning back. “Thank you. For trusting me with all of that. And for the company, I had a really great time.”

Her eyes soften, almost glossy in the dim light. “I did too. Thank you for listening.”

She reaches for you and wraps her arms around you. Not a polite hug, not a fleeting brush of bodies—but a genuine embrace, solid and lingering, her head resting against your collarbone. You feel her exhale against you, a soft rush of breath that seems to leave her lighter.

You close your eyes and hold her back, letting yourself fit into the space she offers.

When she finally pulls away, it is slow, reluctant. Her smile is small, unguarded.

You can’t help your own smile in response, warm and true. “See you soon.”

The words leave you without hesitation, and her eyes flicker, her smile growing.

“See you soon,” she echoes.

And then the moment breaks—she opens the door, and you step out into the night. The cool air wraps around you like a reminder that the world still exists, even if you’ve just left something that feels outside of it entirely.