#cold character

She sat before the mirror, her back to you, her reflection caught between shadows and glowing bulbs. Her lilac-silver hair spilled over her bare shoulders in a loose cascade. She hadn’t spoken since the show ended—hadn’t even looked at you.

You knew the performance hadn’t gone as planned. The sound system glitched, the backup dancers were late on cue, and the spotlight missed her mark during the final chorus. Still, none of it had been your fault.

You had only wanted to be there for her.

“Robin,” you began, gently, “I thought maybe we could go somewhere quiet. Just the two of us. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but—”

“Do you ever listen?” Her voice was sharp. Cutting. “I don’t need you to fix things. Just stop pretending like you understand.”

You blinked. “I’m not trying to fix anything. I only—”

She stood abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. Her eyes met yours in the mirror first—bright green, glassy with unspoken storms. But when she turned to face you, there was no warmth, only ice wrapped in velvet fury.

“You think standing there, smiling like some lost puppy, helps me?” she hissed. “You think your presence somehow makes the disaster less humiliating?”

You opened your mouth, words faltering before they could form. “I just… I thought I could support you—”

“Support me?” Her laugh was brittle. “You’re not a support. You’re a burden.”

The world seemed to still. Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and throat, too heavy to release.

“I have carried this career on blood and grief,” she said, stepping closer. “I have sung through pain that would shatter most people. And every time I turn around, you’re just there. Standing in the wings like a ghost. Watching me break.”

You felt your heart crack, then collapse inward.

“I didn’t ask for your comfort. I didn’t ask for your pity. I don’t need you.” Her voice didn’t even waver. “If you really loved me, you would have left me alone a long time ago.”

Silence.

It stretched, suffocating.

She didn’t say anything else. She turned away, sat back at her vanity, and started fixing her makeup with the same steady, practiced grace she always carried on stage.

You stood there, for a moment longer than you should have. Hoping—stupidly—for something. A flicker of regret. A glance. A word.

But there was nothing.

So you left.

And she didn’t stop you.

Not even once.