â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
Chapter 1: The Offer
The email arrived at 6:17 a.m., before dawn, when your apartment still felt like an underwater chamberâdeep blue, hushed, everything filtered through glass. You looked at it without fully opening your eyes, the screen lit up on the nightstand, your full name in bold in the subject line, as if someone were calling you from another room:
"Y/N â Lead Offer: Trinity (Season 1)"
You didnât open the attachment. You stared at the ceiling and counted the seconds between your breathing and the soft hum of the refrigerator kicking on.
You wake up a little before the city every day, as if the city were an animal best observed yawning from a distance. Your body was heavy from last nightâs show, arms marked by harness straps, knees carrying that sweet ache you only learn to tame with time. At thirty-nine, softening exhaustion had become a minor art form.
And yet, your heartâŠ
Your heart did exactly what it had refused to do for fourteen years: it climbed into your throat.
Not because of the title. Trinity sounds clean, precise, ominous without trying too hard. A political series about a naval officer who becomes involved with the Secretary of Defense and discovers he may be at the center of a conspiracy capable of destabilizing governments.
No.
It was the line beneath it.
"Central chemistry â emotional arc dependent on her bond with the Secretary."
You know how to read subtext. You always have. When a major studio sends you a project under maximum confidentiality, obscene budget, global campaign practically locked in, at a moment when you could choose anything, the question isnât âWhat is this?â but âWhat do they want from me?â
You went to the kitchen, started the coffee maker, opened the balcony door, and let the cold air in. The city was half-blurred; the lights looked like badly finished stitches in dark fabric.
You unlocked your phone and opened the email again.
It was from Lidia. As always, no caps⊠except when she smells blood or money.
"TALK TODAY."
Then the technical breakdown. Budget. Shooting schedule. Contract.
And at the bottom:
RICHARD MADDEN â confirmed.
In black capital letters. Like a signature you never asked for.
You didnât know whether it was the air or your memory that shifted first.
Richard.
The muscle youâd trained for fourteen years to pretend didnât exist decided to stretch.
You met him when you were eighteen. You were already famous in that excessive wayâlike fame was a climate that wouldnât let you breathe: world tours, choreography timed to the millisecond, helicopters trailing the tour, cameras waiting even when you bought water. There were weeks your face appeared on more covers than the presidentâs. Your name wasnât a name; it was a collective shout. A registered trademark. A product.
And still, you were just an eighteen-year-old girl trying not to drown in the noise.
He was eighteen too. Heâd been working since he was a child, already knew what a set was, a tape mark on the floor, a camera pointed at his face. But he didnât have the magnitude of recognition he has now. No crowds following him. No photographers chasing him. He was an actor, yesâbut not yet the headline-filling name he is today.
You crossed paths at an event saturated with flashes. A photo. A greeting. A hallway thick with people.
Then⊠silence.
What came next wasnât seen. It wasnât confirmed or sold.
You were a secret for five years.
Airports at impossible hours. Side entrances to hotels. Messages that disappeared. Hands letting go before anyone could look. You learned not to look at each other on red carpets. To feign unfamiliarity at events where you both knew exactly where the other was standing.
You lived an entire relationship in the margins of your public schedules.
At twenty-two, you got pregnant.
You remember the cold. Not the pain. The cold.
A white room. A gown open at the back. A sound that never became a full memory.
The abortion wasnât the end. It was the crack. He didnât leave that dayâhe left one years later.
The sentence remains unfair and true: he left.
Too young, too exposed, too fragile. The right words said at the wrong time.
You broke up at twenty-five.
You left to write.
You turned the pain into albums. Into stadiums full of people screaming lyrics without knowing every metaphor had a name. No one knew the breath at the start of track three was you stepping out of a hospital bathroom. No one knew the final ŃĐŽĐ°Ń in the last song wasnât percussion.
You never made your story public. That was your one perfect pact. And you never saw each other again.
Until now.
You closed the PDF with a soft snap and pressed your forehead to the glass.
"Itâs just a series," you told yourself.
But playing a woman who suspects the man she loves should be easy. Youâve had fourteen years of rehearsal.
Your phone vibrated. Lidia.
"Did you see it?"
"I saw it."
"Itâs with him. And yes, he backed your name."
That hurt more than you expected.
You wrapped both hands around the hot mug and opened the script. The first pages were restrained. Almost cold. No music. No heroics. Just the feeling that someone is watching too closely.
You read twenty pages without raising an eyebrow.
Episode one. Your character: a decorated naval officer who begins to suspect that the Secretary of Defenseâthe man she lovesâmay be hiding information that compromises national security.
Then you reached the scene.
Episode two. Scene twelve.
A closed room in Berlin. A door swinging shut on a draft. Two bodies inches apart. No one else around.
He says:
"I thought you were dead."
She doesnât respond.
The scene rests on breath.
Youâve lived a silence like that.
You could play it with your eyes closed. There was the apex. Chemistry. Not the kind manufactured through press. Not the kind you buy with budget or get by putting two beautiful people in a roomâbut the kind that betrays you, the kind that rearranges your ethics.
You kept reading. The structure wasnât clumsy. The power didnât rest on cheap seduction, but on how one personâs gaze can alter anotherâs moral compass.
This could be good, you thought. You hated yourself a little for thinking it. It could be excellent, you corrected. Because a part of youâthe part that collects statuettes like talismans against chaosâknew you could take this story somewhere unexpected: put the camera on the face, not the uniform. Make silence the argument.
You opened the visual dossier.
Government hallways. Maps pinned with red tacks. Rain-streaked windows. Hands hesitating before touching.
Someone had thought this through.
Zoom with the showrunner at noon.
"I donât want to shoot explosions," he said. "I want to film trust breaking in real timeâand the two of you have something that canât be manufactured."
You didnât ask how he knew.
"I donât want to be a poster in uniform," you replied.
"Perfect. I want you to be the strategy."
A comfortable silence followed.
"I know you and Richard have history. I donât need details. But if youâre worried it could hurt the show, I think the oppositeâit could elevate it."
You hung up.
Your method isnât complicated: you say yes when no would be a lie.
If you said no, it wouldnât be out of prudence. It would be out of fear.
You texted Lidia:
"Iâm in."
You let it hover for a few seconds before sending it, like someone testing the temperature of water before diving in.
Sent.
That night you dreamed of a small room. Two chairs. Two scripts. Richard standing, looking at you with that contained intensity that was always his way of saying hello without saying it.
You didnât hug.
You sat.
You turned the first page.
You woke before line one.
You made coffee. In your notebook, you wrote:
Trinity
truth
boundaries
body
memory
no / yes
Underneath, in smaller letters:
"We donât have to go backâbut if we do, it has to be forward."
At three, you showered. Neutral sweater. Jeans. Hair pulled back the way you do when you donât want to lie. In the mirror, you saw someone whoâs looked like you for yearsâbut this time, she wasnât acting.
You looked at yourself before leaving.
You didnât feel brave. You didnât feel reckless. But for the first time in fourteen years, you werenât running.
"Letâs go," you said.
Because this time, you didnât want to hide.
Not from him.
Not from the camera.
Not from yourself.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
Previous Chapter
Chapter 13 â The Weight of What Returns
POV Y/N
"This Saturday, Iâm going to Harperâs birthday. Nothing you say will stop that."
That is where the conversation begins. Not with us. Not with the past. Much less with the gala. But with Harper. As always. As if we both needed to pretend the problem was something else.
I stay still by the terrace door, one hand still resting on the metal frame, feeling the cold air of the studio hit my face. Richard does not look at me right away. He remains leaning against the railing, staring out at the city as if Los Angeles could offer him a cleaner answer than mine.
"I didnât say I could stop it in any way," I answer.
He barely turns his head.
"No. You only texted me not to go."
The blow is small, but precise. Damn it, I think. It is also ridiculous that a four-word message can still feel like a confession.
I walk toward the railing, but I keep some distance. A carefully chosen distance. The kind of distance that does not look like a defense if someone sees it from the outside, but that my body recognizes as a boundary.
"Iâm not going to make Harper hate me more than she already does," I say.
"Harper hates everyone as a sport," he replies.
"That doesnât mean sheâs wrong," I add.
Richard lets out a dry laugh.
"Now youâre going to use Harper as a moral argument?" he asks me.
"Itâs more comfortable than using myself," I reply.
Silence falls between us. There it is. Again. The sentence that was not supposed to come out. Richard lowers his gaze for a second, and I know he understood it. Because that was always our problem. We could go years without speaking, but one misplaced sentence was enough to find the exact wound.
"This isnât about her," I say.
"No. Of course not. Of course it isnât about her." He pauses. "Then say it."
I look at him. Mistake. His eyes are tired. Not from sleep. From holding himself together. The tiredness of someone who has spent days trying to seem reasonable while something old moves beneath his skin.
"I donât want you to go because I donât want everything to get even more complicated."
"You already said that." He turns to look at me.
"Then you should have understood it."
"I understood it. Believe me, I did."
"It doesnât seem like it," I exclaim, disagreeing.
Richard straightens, moving away from the railing.
"What I understand is that you still think avoiding a room will avoid what happens inside us when we are in it."
I freeze. The city makes noise below. A truck. A horn. A distant laugh from someone on another level of the studio. The world insisting on being ordinary while we go back to opening up the same old thing.
"There is no âusâ," I say. "I already told you that," I insist.
The sentence comes out too quickly. Which makes it sound too rehearsed, and of course, too useful. Richard smiles faintly, without joy.
"I know. Iâm not talking as if it exists."
That annoys me more than if he had argued. Because he does not try to deny me. Because he accepts the sentence the way one accepts a safety rule. Even so, he remains there.
"Then act accordingly," I challenge him.
"Iâm trying to," he assures me.
"No," I correct him. He looks at me, not surprised. Only more attentive. "Youâre trying to prove you can be in the same place as me without anything happening."
"And you arenât?" he questions.
I do not answer. Because yes. Because that is exactly what I have been doing since I accepted Trinity. Proving. To everyone. To Sam. To Peter. To Clara. To Theo. To him. And to myself. That I can walk into a room where he is and not break. That I can share rehearsal marks, interviews, galas, midnight hamburgers, terraces, and still be a functional person. An adult woman. A professional. Someone who has already closed that door. But the problem with closed doors is that some of them still let light in underneath.
"Saturday isnât a test," he says.
"Yes, it is, and you know it perfectly well."
Then Richard looks at me. Really looks.
"For whom?"
I do not want to answer. Because the answer makes me look worse than silence. The break ends before I can say anything. The terrace door opens and an assistant pokes her head out.
"Sam needs you inside."
Thank God. Or maybe not. Richard moves away first. I take half a second longer. Before going in, he stops beside me. He does not touch me, because he really does not need to.
"Iâm going," he says in a low voice.
"I know."
"And you are too."
That does make me look at him.
"You donât decide for me."
"Iâm not."
Pause.
"But I know you. Youâll go," he assures me.
I hate him a little. For being right, and for still being right. Also, for still knowing where to place the sentence so it hurts.
I return to set behind him. For the rest of the afternoon, I act. Not in the scene, but in everything else.
POV Richard
The afternoon wears itself out in partial repetitions. Insert shots. Blocking adjustments. A tracking shot that did not come out as clean as Sam wanted. Rachel correcting minimal details of physical distance as if she were defusing explosives.
Y/N returns to her marks with an almost cruel discipline. Nothing in her trembles. That is the problem. When she is truly affected, she does not break outward.
She becomes precise. Too precise. As if her body found refuge in technique. Sam notices, of course. He notices everything he should not.
"Again from the entrance," he says from the monitor. "Less defense. More memory."
Y/N does not react. I do. Barely. But Rachel sees me. Because that is her job. To always see, and she sees me, clear as glass. We repeat the scene.
Crisis room. Long table. Screens with maps. My character, the Secretary, is hiding information. Hers, the naval officer, already knows something does not fit. The scene has no contact. Not even real proximity. Even so, every line seems written by someone who walked into our story with a flashlight.
"Not everything I hide is a betrayal," I say.
She holds my gaze.
"No. Sometimes itâs cowardice."
Sam does not yell cut. Rachel does not move. The room barely breathes. The line is in the script. I know that. I read it. Marked it. Rehearsed it. But in her mouth, it does not sound written. It sounds like something that has been waiting its turn for years. I fall half a second out of rhythm.
Enough.
"Richard," Rachel says, not as a correction, but as an anchor.
I blink. Come back. The scene continues. But I am no longer exactly there. Because walking out into the hallway minutes later, I swallow a memory without meaning to. It does not come in one piece. It comes in flashes I do not choose.
The nights that had become a torment.
Y/N getting up every dawn, running to the bathroom, retching so hard she could barely breathe. I would end up sitting on the cold floor of the hallway, holding her hair, handing her water, wiping her face. I felt useless. Worse than useless. I felt like a witness to something happening inside her body that I had no real access to, even though it belonged to me too, somehow.
Every time she looked at me after throwing up, I saw more than exhaustion. I saw certainty. The certainty that she did not want to go on with it. That night was the same. The dry sound of her retching woke me in the middle of sleep. I went after her without thinking. I found her bent over the toilet, shaking, her arms gripping the edge as if the entire world were collapsing on top of her. I crouched beside her, held her hair, rubbed her back. Her skin was burning and ice-cold at the same time. When she finally lifted her face, she was pale, with tears in her eyes.
"I donât want to keep doing this," she told me.
It was not the first time she had said it. But that time it sounded different. It sounded as if she had already decided.
"I know you want it," she continued. "I know youâre starting to picture it. But I canât. I donât want to have a child right now. Please, RichardâŠ"
She looked straight at me. Reddened eyes. No mask. No stage. No character. Just her, the woman, my wife. Her.
"Donât force me to do this, because more than bringing us together, it will destroy us. I donât want our child to grow up between two broken people, separated, seeing us only every other weekend."
I swallowed. I felt something break inside my chest.
"My love⊠itâs alive. Growing inside you. I know it isnât the right time. I know itâs your body. I know everything is complicated. But itâs ours. Itâs something we made while we loved each other, while we believed in each other. It wasnât an accident. It wasnât empty sex. It was love."
I looked at her, trying to make her understand. As if understanding were the same as changing her mind. As if love could make the fear less real.
"I donât want to force you," I added, "but tell me the truth: would you really not want to have our child?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. As if my words had been a blow.
"What youâre doing isnât fair," she whispered, still clinging to the toilet. "Youâre turning me into a monster, and Iâm not."
I return to the present with the knock of two knuckles against a door. It is not a bathroom. It is not London. It is not that night. It is more than ten years later. It is the hallway of Trinity. Y/Nâs trailer. I know because it is next to mine, and it was not my door that sounded. I pay attention. I look through the small window. I see Robert appear, half his body leaning in, wearing that familiar smile he uses to break tension without shattering it.
"Is Richard around here?"
He tilts his face to one side first, then to the other. I assume she is with someone, maybe Clara. So I decide to step in.
"Iâm here," I answer from the frame where I am watching what is happening.
Robert looks at both of us the way a stage director looks at two actors he might lose if he lets go of them. He gestures with his head for me to come out of my trailer.
I obey.
I do not know when I started obeying Robert so much. Maybe since I understood that he is usually right before everyone else. He drags me into a hallway.
"Are you all right?" he asks once we are alone.
That âall rightâ between us never asks about the body.
"Yes."
"You crossed a line today."
"I know."
"So did she."
I nod. Robert does not lecture. It is not his style. Instead, he offers me an edge so I do not fall.
"Richard," he adds, "if you go on Saturday, go in and out with empty hands. No memories. No speeches. If you canât, itâs better if you donât go. Donât turn a table of friends into another scene."
"Iâll try."
It sounds childish even inside my head. Robert looks at me with unbearable patience.
"Itâs not an exorcism. Itâs a birthday. Donât forget that."
He insists, pointing at me with his finger. I do not answer. Because I do not know if I can promise that. We each return to our own shore.
POV Y/N
At four, I arrive late to lunch with Theo. Not very late. Fourteen minutes, to be exact. Enough for him to have already ordered water for me and coffee for himself.
He is sitting at a table by the window, in a small restaurant far from the places where people with cameras usually appear. Theo has that strange ability to find places that seem normal even in a city that charges too much to pretend normality.
When I walk in, he lifts his gaze. He does not smile right away. First, he looks at me. Evaluates me. Not as a doctor. Not exactly. As someone who loves me and has learned to read my small ruins without making a spectacle of them.
"Youâre late," he says.
"I got here."
"Thatâs different."
I sit across from him.
"Hello to you too."
Now he does smile. Small. Warm. Enough.
"Hello."
He hands me the menu, even though he already knows I am not really going to read it.
"I ordered bread."
"How aggressive."
"Clinical strategy."
"Weâre not in a session."
"No. But youâre still you."
That disarms me a little. I look toward the window. Outside, Los Angeles does what it does. Cars. Light. People walking with expensive drinks in compostable cups. Theo does not rush me. That is the most dangerous thing about him. His patience. It ends up getting more than any pressure ever could.
"How was rehearsal?" he finally asks.
"Long."
"That isnât an answer."
"Itâs the one I have."
Theo nods. Does not push. He takes a sip of coffee.
"Did you see him?"
The question lands softly. Without an edge. Even so, my body tenses.
"I work with him."
"I didnât ask that."
I look at him. Theo holds my gaze without invading it. There is no jealousy there. Or if there is, it is organized. Stored somewhere adult inside his body.
"Yes," I admit. "I saw him."
"And?"
I laugh without humor.
"And what?"
"Was it hard?"
That question. Again. Always the right question. Never the one that lets me lie easily. I lower my gaze to the bread I have not touched.
"Yes."
Theo sets the cup down on its saucer. It makes no sound.
"Do you want to tell me?"
I could say no. I could, and it would be easy. Theo would accept it. That is the problem.
"We argued about Harper."
"About her birthday?"
I nod.
"She wants both of us to go."
"And you donât want to?"
"I donât want it to look normal."
The sentence comes out before I can prepare it. Theo goes still. I watch him process it. Carefully.
"And which part scares you more?" he asks. "That it might look normal to everyone else, or that it might feel normal to you?"
I hate psychiatrists. Especially when they are right.
"Donât do that."
"Ask?"
"Open me up as if I were a box."
"You are not a box."
"Theo."
"All right."
He lifts his hands slightly. Truce. The waiter arrives and saves us for thirty seconds. We order. He orders something reasonable. I order something I will probably only touch. When silence returns, Theo does not immediately pick the conversation back up.
He tells me about his morning. About a patient who canceled. About an unbearable colleague. About a broken coffee maker in his office. Small things. Normal things. I cling to them.
Because I need to remember there is a world where problems are coffee machines and not men from the past walking through studio doors.
"Iâm going with you on Saturday," he says afterward, as if commenting on the weather.
I freeze.
"You donât have to."
"No." He pauses. "But I want to."
"It wonât be fun."
"Iâm not going for fun."
"Theo."
"Iâm going with you."
His tone does not harden. It does not become possessive. That would be easier to reject. He remains calm. Precisely because of that, it weighs much, much more.
"I donât need protection."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Theo looks at me for a long moment before answering.
"Because sometimes going with someone isnât protecting them. Itâs simply being there."
I do not know what to answer. The food arrives. Lunch happens. Not perfect. Not light either. But it happens. For an hour, I manage to live at a table where Richard is not physically present, although the ghost has decided to sit there anyway between the bread and the glass of water.
When we say goodbye, Theo hugs me on the sidewalk. Not too tightly and not for too long. Just enough.
"Eat something later," he says near my ear.
"You are very insistent about food."
"I have historical evidence to support my concern."
I smile.
"Iâll call you tonight."
"Do."
He kisses my forehead. Not my mouth. That gesture hurts me in an unexpected way. Because it is care. Because it is tenderness. Because it is the present, and because, even so, as I go back to the car, I am still thinking about Saturday.
POV Richard
When Sam says, âThatâs enough,â the set falls into that kind of relief that feels like hunger. Everyone eats something. I do not.
I walk.
Rachel catches up with me near the monitors and touches my forearm like someone checking a fever.
"Good today," she says.
"That was good?"
"You listened."
I look at her.
"I listened too much."
Rachel does not smile.
"Thatâs not what I mean."
Silence.
"Thank you for listening when it mattered."
I know exactly what she means. The small ânoâ that was not part of the scene. The stopped gesture. The boundary. All the times a body says what the mouth cannot quite put in order.
"I heard it," I say.
"Thatâs why Iâm saying thank you."
We remain there for three seconds with nothing else to add. Then she leaves to review Fridayâs setup. I stay looking at the tape marks on the floor. They say âhereâ as if here were a country and the tape its flag. On the way home, the car is an aquarium where my reflection appears and disappears in the midnight windows.
I think again about why I am doing this. I could have said no. I could be in London. I could be in New York. I could be anywhere but here, in Los Angeles, inside a series that seems designed to return everything I did not know how to hold.
The answer does not change. Because it was her. Because maybe this is the only decent way I found to be by her side without asking her again for something she cannot give me.
I enter the house and silence receives me with perfect manners. Discreet luxury does not heal. But it accompanies. I leave my jacket on a chair. I wash my hands as if the memory were still there. I scrub until the backs of my hands sting. Until the water turns warm out of obligation.
Then I sit on the floor, my back against the bed. The phone vibrates. Harper.
Harper: Let me know so I can sort the guest list. Kisses.
I read it twice. I do not reply. Not out of strategy, more than anything out of incapacity.
I open the notebook. I write, as always when I do not sleep. Today I heard a ânoâ that did not ask me to stop, it asked for company.
Underneath: If you accept, I take care. If you accept, I do not hide.
I look at what I have just written and feel disgusted with myself and tender toward myself in equal measure. This is not literature. It is a man trying to place bricks where there used to be a door he pushed too hard.
The phone vibrates again.
It is not Harper, for my bad luck or for my good luck. It is Robert.
"What do you want?"
"I love you too, brother."
I close my eyes.
"Iâm not in the mood."
"You never are when itâs convenient."
I let myself fall backward against the bed.
"Did Harper call you?"
"Of course."
"Traitor."
"Worried."
"Worse."
Robert stays silent for a second.
"Are you going?"
I look at the ceiling. The phone pressed against my ear. The lamp dimmed halfway. Los Angeles outside pretending to be calm.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
"Thatâs an honest answer, at least."
I breathe.
"Sheâs going to go."
"I know."
"Theo too, probably."
"I know that too."
That makes me open my eyes.
"How do you know?"
"Because I have eyes, and because Harper doesnât organize birthdays, she organizes social collisions with catering."
I cannot help a small laugh. Very small. But it exists. Robert stays silent for another second.
"Richard."
"What?"
"Donât go there to win anything."
The sentence leaves me still.
"I wasnât planning to."
"Yes, you were. Even if you donât call it that."
I swallow.
"I donât want to win anything."
"Then go in as a friend and leave as a friend."
Friend. The most absurd word in the world when it comes to her.
"I donât know if we know how to do that."
"Then learn quickly."
He hangs up shortly after. Without saying goodbye. Very Robert. I stay there with the phone in my hand. I do not write to Harper. I do not write to Y/N. I do not write to anyone.
I turn on the kettle out of pure habit. I think about tea. About her tea. About the ridiculous way that gesture reappeared between us like a password. I understand why I sent her that absurd message. I was not asking her about a drink. I was asking about her center.
I turn off the kettle. I let the water be water, without destination. Saturday is too close. Like an edge moving closer without making a sound. Whether I go or do not go is no longer the question right now. Because I have already made a decision.
Iâm going.
What I do not know is who I am going to be when I walk in.
POV Y/N
That night, Theo calls me when I am already in bed. He does not ask if I am okay. He starts with something else.
"Harper texted me."
I close my eyes.
"Of course she did."
"She sent me the location, access code, time, and a veiled threat."
"That sounds like Harper."
"She also told me not to bring cheap wine."
I laugh.
"That is definitely Harper."
Theo stays silent for a second.
"Do you want me to go?"
There it is.
It is not the âIâm goingâ from lunch. Nor the âI should go.â Nor the âI think itâs important.â It is a question. The space. Always the space.
I look at the ceiling. I think about Richard on the terrace. About his sentence. About my message. About Harper tired of dividing friends as if we were shared custody. I think about Theo having lunch with me, without claiming territory.
I think about how unfair it is to bring him into a room where there is a story he did not live, but whose consequences he knows all too well.
"Yes," I finally say.
The word comes out low. But certain.
"I want you to go."
Theo exhales. I do not know if with relief. Or preparation.
"Then Iâm going."
I turn onto my side. Outside, the city keeps shining.
"Itâs going to be weird."
"I know."
"Maybe uncomfortable."
"I know that too."
"Maybe horrible."
"And still, weâll survive it⊠together."
I close my eyes. For the first time all day, something in my chest lowers half a note.
"Thank you."
"Donât thank me for going with you."
"Why not?"
"Because it isnât a favor."
Silence. That should be enough. But it is not enough. Because there are loves that ask for nothing and still force you to look yourself in the face. When we hang up, the phone remains on the nightstand.
Face up. This time, I do not hide it. Saturday is one day away. An edge. A table. A birthday. A room full of people who know different versions of us, and in the middle of all of that, Richard.
Always Richard.
I close my eyes. I do not know what is going to happen. I only know that this time there will be no red carpet. No cameras. No Sam asking for truth. No Rachel marking boundaries with blue tape. Only friends. Glasses. Music. Harper looking too closely. Theo beside me, holding my hand. Richard on the other side of the room, and the old truth, the one that always arrives uninvited, looking for somewhere to sit.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 12 â What Still Hurts
I shouldnât still be tired.
Thereâs a kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with sleep. I learned that years ago. You can spend eight hours in bed, close your eyes, even dream, and still wake up feeling as if you carried something too heavy all night. As if your mind kept working while your body tried to recover. As if some part of you refuses to accept rest because itâs still watching over something that happened too long ago to still matter and not long enough ago to fully disappear.
I slept.
More than I had slept in days. More than Clara and Peter probably thought possible after the disaster of the night before. Even so, I wake up feeling as if Iâve run for miles.
As if my body rested. But not my head. The apartment is silent. Too silent.
Light comes through the bedroom windows in clean strips that move slowly across the floor.
Los Angeles keeps functioning.
It always does. Thatâs one of the things I both love and hate most about this city. It doesnât matter who breaks. It doesnât matter who falls in love, who gets divorced, who disappears for six months, or who takes over every headline for a week. The city keeps going. Traffic lights change. Studios open. Flights land. Meetings start exactly on time. As if the whole world had signed some silent agreement not to stop for anyone.
I still havenât. I stay still for a few seconds. Listening. The air conditioning. Some gardener working several houses away. A dog barking in the distance.
Nothing else.
My phone rests on the nightstand. I look at it before picking it up. A horrible habit. As if every morning there might be news waiting that could change everything.
There isnât. There never is. Just messages. Emails. Reminders. And Theo.
Three messages. The last one sent a little before eight.
Theo: Are you awake yet?
Theo: I have a free window for lunch.
Theo: Before someone kidnaps you for another press session.
A small smile appears before I can stop it. Theo always finds a way to sound normal, even when things arenât. Especially when they arenât. I open the chat.
Y/N: I have rehearsal.
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Theo: I know.
Theo: Thatâs why I said lunch.
Theo: Normal people have lunch after work.
I huff.
Y/N: Debatable.
Theo: Two in the afternoon?
Theo: Three?
Theo: Five?
Theo: Next month?
I laugh. Small, but real.
Theo: Ah. There it is.
Y/N: What?
Theo: The laugh.
I laugh again, because itâs unbelievable that he knows Iâm laughing⊠then the next message comes in.
Theo: I was starting to worry.
The phone stays in my hands for a few seconds. Thereâs something dangerously simple about talking to him. Something that doesnât demand explanations. Something that doesnât force me to justify every emotion. And maybe thatâs why it feels so easy to answer.
Y/N: Iâll try to escape on time.
Theo: That means youâll be late.
Y/N: Correct.
Theo: Perfect. Then Iâll book for four.
Y/N: Optimist.
Theo: Professional.
Y/N: Insufferable psychiatrist.
Theo: Impossible singer.
The conversation ends there. Not because itâs really over, but because we both know weâll see each other later, and thereâs something reassuring about that. Something stable, something adult. I leave the phone on the bed.
I shower, I get dressed. Then I walk toward the kitchen. The coffee maker starts while I look out at the backyard through the windows, and then it comes back.
The conversation on the terrace.
It shouldnât take up so much space in my head. It was only a few minutes. We didnât even argue. No one raised their voice. No one said anything especially cruel. And yet Iâve been returning to that moment for hours, like touching a cracked tooth with my tongue.
Because some conversations matter because of what is said. Others because of what no one dares to say.
Yesterdayâs. The one Iâve been trying not to think about since it happened. Richard leaning against the railing. Both of us avoiding looking at each other for too long. As if eye contact were a dangerous substance.
âYou know Harper is going to be furious if I donât go.â
I can still hear his voice.
I can still hear the answer I gave him.
âI didnât ask you because I donât care about youâŠâ
I can still remember exactly where I was looking when I said that sentence. The precise point on the horizon. The way I avoided his eyes. As if the simple act of looking at him while telling the truth could turn the situation into something much harder to control.
And maybe that was exactly it.
God.
I didnât even understand then why Iâd said it. Because it was true. Precisely because of that, it was a mistake. I lean against the counter. I close my eyes. Memory is cruel. Because itâs also selective, and it decides to jump from one memory to another.
It doesnât return the normal nights to me. The normal dinners. The unimportant days. It returns specific moments. Isolated sentences. Doors closing. Silences that lasted too long. As if an entire story could be reduced to a collection of badly archived wounds.
It always chooses the parts that hurt the most. It doesnât remember meetings. Or contracts. Or interviews. It remembers sentences. It remembers silences. It remembers the things you should never have said out loud. Then another one appears.
Older. Much older.
A phone call. An airport terminal. A goodbye. While I hear the sound the refrigerator makes, an old sentence returns uninvited.
Not an image. Not a complete memory. A sentence. The last one. The one that still appears some nights when Iâm too tired to defend myself.
The night Richard left.
For a long time, I tried to convince myself that I remembered that call wrong. That the pain had exaggerated it. That surely some of the words hadnât been exactly like that. But years have a curious way of working on certain memories. They donât soften them. They polish them. They remove the noise. They leave only what truly hurt.
The phone ringing.
His voice on the other side of the world, and the absolute certainty that something was breaking while we spoke.
âRichard... please.â
I can still hear how my own voice trembled. I can still feel the desperation. The shame. The humiliation of begging. He was already at the airport. I knew because of the boarding announcements in the background. Because of the wheels of the suitcases. Because of the huge echo of a terminal full of people. London was waking up behind him. I was still sitting on the floor of the apartment.
âPlease. Come back. Donât leave me.â
Silence. Then his breathing. Distant. Controlled. Too controlled for someone who was supposed to love another person.
âI canât do this without you.â
I say it in a thread of a voice. I felt like I was going to die, literally. Another pause.
âYouâre everything to me.â
I said it. God. I said it. I still hate myself a little for remembering it. Because there was no pride left by then. None.
âIâm sorry. We can fix this,â I insisted, desperate. Clumsy. With a knot in my stomach, with my hands shaking, with the sobs already impossible to hide. I remember I couldnât see because of how many tears were falling uncontrollably.
The answer came immediately. Cold.
âFix what?â
I closed my eyes. I still remember how that question cut through me.
âThis. Us. We can try.â
âHow?â
Silence. Because I had no answer. Because there wasnât an answer. I understood that later, after years, songs, awards.
âWe can go to therapy.â
The sentence sounded ridiculous even then. On the other end of the line, I heard a humorless laugh.
âTherapy?â
âRichard...â
âFor what?â
I wanted to answer. I couldnât. Because deep down, I understood exactly what he was asking.
âTell me what you plan to do.â
His voice no longer sounded angry. That was the worst part. It sounded tired. Defeated.
âTell me what we do now. How do we fix what you did⊠what we did?â
I covered my face with one hand. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe.
âI donât know.â
The only truth I had. Sometimes I think that was the most honest answer of my entire life. Because people always imagine that difficult decisions come with certainty. As if one moves through life knowing exactly what theyâre doing.
I knew nothing. I didnât know how to save us. I didnât know how to save myself. I didnât know how to build a future that didnât look like the one we had just lost. I didnât know. I didnât know how to fix us. I didnât know how to survive the decision I had already made, and the one I had dragged him into.
Even today, ten years later, I still donât know.
The silence that followed was so long I thought he had hung up. Then I heard his voice. Lower. More broken, but also more final.
âDonât call me again.â
I felt something sink inside me.
âRichard... my love.â
âThere is no us anymore.â
The call ended seconds later. For years, I thought that had been the end. Now I know it wasnât. The true ending came after. Maybe thatâs the most unfair thing about some stories. They donât end when we think they do. They keep happening in silence. Underground. Like roots growing where no one can see them. While you keep working. Smiling. Giving interviews. Signing contracts. Pretending everything was left behind.
It came in the months of silence. In the calls we never made. In the conversations neither of us had the courage to start. In the ten years we spent pretending we had moved on. The phone vibrates on the counter.
I return to the present.
Theo.
Again.
I look at the screen.
Theo: Did you have breakfast yet?
The question appears on the screen with an almost absurd simplicity after everything else. After the past. After the terrace. After the call that can still wake me up some nights. Even so, it manages to do something nothing else has managed this morning. Bring me back. To this kitchen. To this house. To this day.
I close my eyes, and I laugh. Because maybe adult love looks more like this. Not like grand speeches. Not like airports. Not like impossible promises. But like someone reminding you to eat breakfast. Like someone who calls when they lands. Like someone who learns your silences without constantly trying to translate them. Like someone who doesnât demand to be the center of your world in order to stay in it. Someone asking if you ate. Someone who appears every morning. Someone who isnât trying to save you.
Just stay.
And still. While I hold the phone. While I write that Iâm having breakfast. While I promise to call him later. While I try to return to the present. There is an uncomfortable truth still there.
Waiting. Breathing.
The same one that stayed with me all night. The same one that followed me from the terrace to this kitchen. Richard was right. The problem was never Harperâs birthday. Maybe that is precisely what scares me the most.
I eat breakfast out of obligation more than hunger. An hour later, Iâm in the car on my way to the studio.
For a second, I feel something close to normality.
And normality has become a strange luxury. Before, it was something that simply happened. Now it feels like a delicate construction. Something that has to be maintained. Like a difficult plant or an antique lamp you know could break if you move it too quickly.
Clara reviews the schedule from the front seat. Matthew answers emails without looking up. I watch the city pass behind the window. Trying not to think. Failing. Because inevitably, I think about the gala. The photographs. The kitchen. The hamburgers. The message I never should have sent.
Donât come to Harperâs birthday.
The reply is still burned into my memory.
There are things you never learned how to hide. Others you did.
I still donât know which of the two sentences bothered me more. We arrive at the studio a few minutes later. I walk in with Clara. Matthew behind us. Weâre talking about something related to interviews when I look up. And I see him.
Richard.
Across the space. Watching us arrive. For a second, everything goes strangely silent. Then it disappears. I keep walking. I keep talking. I keep breathing. But I already know heâs there. And I know he knows I saw him. Half an hour later, weâre sitting around the rehearsal table.
Sam talks. Rachel corrects positions. Someone projects maps. Someone talks about international threats. Half the room pretends to listen. The other half is thinking about the press campaign. I try to focus. I manage it for approximately seven minutes. Until Rachel interrupts a scene. Until Richard stays frozen too long. Until Sam makes a joke. Until everyone laughs again, and I realize Iâm watching him.
Just for a second. Long enough. Then I look away. Because some habits are just as dangerous today as they were ten years ago. The break comes close to noon. I go out for air.
And I find him already on the terrace. Again, leaning against the railing. Looking out over the city. As if he knew I was going to appear. As if he had been waiting for me.
âIâm going to Harperâs birthday on Saturday. Nothing you say will stop me.â
Thatâs where the conversation begins. Not with us. Not with the past. Not with the gala. With Harper. As always. As if we both needed to pretend the problem was something else
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 11: What I Never Said
There are messages that should disappear after you read them. Messages you should close, archive, leave behind. Messages that should lose their weight with time. End up buried in some forgotten folder on your phone alongside promotions, reminders, and conversations that already served their purpose.
Messages that shouldnât still be taking up space twelve hours later. This isnât one of them. Because it isnât really a message. Itâs a warning. A plea. A boundary.
Y/N: Donât come to Harperâs birthday.
I read it for the fourth time. Maybe the fifth. Possibly the tenth. Iâve lost count. Not because the words have changed. Because I have. Every time I go back to them, I find something different.
A new inflection. A different fear. An interpretation I didnât want to consider the previous time. My replies are still sitting underneath.
There are things you never learned how to hide. And others you did.
I havenât written again. Neither has she. And yet the conversation is still happening. In my head. Somewhere between three in the morning and six. Between the moment I closed my eyes and the moment I accepted I wasnât going to sleep. Because sleeping requires surrender.
Last night my mind seemed to have declared war. The ceiling above my bedroom remains perfectly still. Los Angeles is already awake. I never actually fell asleep. The first sounds of the city started while I was still staring at the same message.
A garbage truck. A distant siren. The automatic sprinkler system in the neighborâs yard kicking on at exactly seven oâclock, with the irritating precision of someone who actually has their life under control. Someone jogging down the sidewalk with a dog far too enthusiastic for that hour of the morning.
The city kept moving.
I didnât.
Iâm still stuck in a kitchen that smelled faintly of hamburgers. In a conversation that shouldnât have felt that easy. In a woman who asked me not to go to a party and somehow managed to make me spend the entire night thinking about it.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand.
Naomi.
Of course.
Itâs seven-thirty. Publicists believe famous people stop being human after a certain follower count. I answer.
âTell me thereâs a fire.â
âWorse.â
Her voice comes through fast. Awake. Efficient. Threatening.
âVariety.â
âWhat did they do now?â
âNothing.â
Pause.
âThatâs the problem.â
I open one eye. Bad sign.
âExplain.â
âThey didnât publish anything bad.â
âThen I donât see the problem.â
âThey published forty-eight photos of you looking at Y/N.â
Silence. Shit.
âThere canât be forty-eight.â
âThere are fifty-three.â
I close my eyes. Worse. Much worse.
âNaomi.â
âDonât blame me. Iâm not the one who decided to behave like the protagonist of a romance novel at a gala.â
âIt wasnât like that.â
She exhales sharply.
âRichard.â
Silence.
âIt wasnât like that.â
âSure.â
The call ends ten minutes later. It doesnât improve anything. By the time I hang up, I already have three articles open. Five notifications. Two emails. And a meeting with Duncan scheduled for nine.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The first photograph appears before I even close the browser. Me looking at Y/N. The second. Me looking at her again. The third. Me smiling while she laughs. The fourth. The two of us standing far too close together for any publicistâs comfort.
The fifth.
The sixth.
The seventh.
I stop counting.
Because Naomi is right. It doesnât look like a campaign. It doesnât look like promotion. It looks like something much worse. It looks like the truth. And the truth always ends up costing more money than fiction.
Duncan arrives at exactly nine.
That alone should have warned me the conversation wasnât going to be pleasant. Managers who arrive on time never bring good news. He walks in carrying coffee. A tablet. And the face of a man who spent the morning reading the internet.
âHow bad is it?â
Duncan sets the tablet on the table.
âThat depends.â
âIt always depends.â
âDo you want the professional version or the honest one?â
âYou never ask that when the honest version is good.â
He nods. Exactly.
âThe chemistry is working.â
âThatâs exactly what Sam wanted.â
âYeah.â
He sits down across from me.
âAnd thatâs exactly what worries me.â
There it is. The real sentence. The important one. I lean back in my chair.
âWhy?â
Duncan studies me.
âBecause Iâve worked with you for seven years.â
âAnd?â
âAnd Iâve never seen you look at a co-star the way you looked at Y/N last night.â
I donât answer. Because answering would mean lying. And heâd know it. Managers survive by learning how to tell when a star is lying to them. Duncan has been watching me for too long. Long enough to know when an answer takes longer than it should. Long enough to notice silences. Hesitations. The smallest changes in expression. He doesnât know the story. He doesnât know what happened. He doesnât know there was a tiny apartment in London. Or a phone call that ended too late. Or a hospital room. Or an airport. Or ten years spent trying to convince ourselves weâd moved on.
But he knows thereâs something. Thatâs enough to worry him.
âDonât do anything stupid.â
I laugh. It sounds hollow.
âYouâre about ten years too late for that warning.â
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. For a fraction of a second I watch him register it. Watch him realize he just heard an accidental truth. Duncan doesnât smile. Because he doesnât know the whole story. And because he doesnât need to know it to know it exists.
He doesnât ask. Thankfully. Because I wouldnât have an answer for him. The Trinity set is more crowded than usual. Press. Executives. Producers. Too many people. Everyone happy. Everyone convinced something is working.
Sam seems especially unbearable. I find him talking to Rachel. The intimacy coordinator. The only person in the building capable of making me uncomfortable without even trying.
âLook at him.â
Sam points at me.
âHeâs not sleeping.â
Rachel doesnât even look up.
âNeither of them is sleeping.â
âPerfect.â
âThatâs not a good thing.â
âFor the characters it is.â
Rachel finally looks at him.
âI hate you a little.â
âI know.â
I walk over.
âMorning.â
âIs it?â
Sam smiles. Far too much.
âThe internet loves you.â
âThe internet loved cryptocurrency too.â
âDonât change the subject.â
Rachel hands me the pages for the day. I skim them. Crisis room. Military briefing. Political argument. Nothing physical. Nothing romantic. Nothing that justifies the level of anxiety Iâm feeling. It should reassure me. It doesnât. Because Iâve already learned something during the last week. The problem is never the scenes. The problem is everything else. I see her before she sees me. Walking into the studio.
Coffee in hand. Clara beside her. Matthew behind them. The three of them talking about something.
She laughs. Small. Brief. Real. My body recognizes her before my mind does. Itâs an old reaction. Automatic. Stupid. Not a decision. Not something conscious.
It just happens.
Like breathing. Like hearing a song you havenât listened to in years and discovering you still know every word. My body recognizes the way she walks. The tilt of her head when sheâs listening.
The way she holds a coffee cup. Small things. Ridiculous details. Useless information that should have disappeared a long time ago. Ten years later it still happens. Filed away in some stupid corner of my memory.
Waiting.
And it irritates me a little. Because it should be gone. Because Iâve had an entire decade to learn something else. Because people build entire families in less time than that. Because I should have been capable of forgetting the way she laughs. And yet there she is.
Exactly the same. She looks up. Finds me. For a second the exact same thing happens as at the gala. The rest of the world lowers the volume.
Then disappears. Sheâs the first one to look away. Thank God. Because Iâm still not sure I can. The rehearsal starts half an hour later.
Long table. Screens. Maps. Documents. Sam explains something about international threats. No one is really listening. Everyone is thinking about the campaign.
The gala. The headlines. The money.
Iâm thinking about something else. Rachel interrupts.
âAgain.â
We repeat it. The scene requires trust. Thatâs what the script says. Trust. Years of working together. Loyalty. History. The irony would be funny if it didnât hurt so much.
âDonât act the trust,â Sam says.
Silence.
âIt already looks like it exists.â
The words hit something inside me. Because he has no idea. Because heâs dangerously close. Because if he knew the truth, heâd rewrite the entire series. Maybe heâd be right. Because trust wasnât something we built for the characters.
It existed long before. Before the disaster. Before the silence. Before discovering that loving someone and surviving someone are two completely different skills.
The memory arrives uninvited.
As always. Hospital. White light. Too white. I hate hospitals. I hated them before. I hate them more now. Sheâs sitting there. Hands clasped together. Eyes fixed on the floor. Iâm standing in front of her.
Trying to understand. Trying to breathe. Trying not to break something.
âRichard.â
I canât remember whether she said my name once or ten times. I only remember the feeling. The feeling of falling. Slowly. With no way to stop it.
âI canât.â
Thatâs what she said.
I canât. Not now. Not like this. Not this. I heard every word. I stayed beside her anyway. Held her hand anyway. Signed papers anyway. For months I pretended I was okay. Because I loved her. Because I thought love could hold anything together. Turns out it couldnât. The worst part wasnât the decision. The worst part was everything that came after.
The distance. The silences. The conversations we stopped having because they hurt too much. The way we started moving around the subject as though naming it might break us permanently.
Maybe thatâs when the ending really started. Not in the hospital. Not in the signature. Not in the procedure.
After.
When we stopped knowing how to find each other. When the pain stopped being shared and became individual. When we started suffering separately.
âRichard.â
I blink. Rachel. Present. Set. Table. Trinity. Not hospital. Not the past.
âYour line.â
Shit. Everyone is looking at me. Sam smiles.
âNice trip.â
Ignore him.
I look at Y/N. Sheâs already looking at me. Just for a second. Long enough.
âSorry.â
I pick the scene back up. Continue. The room keeps moving. My head doesnât. The break comes around noon. I leave first. I need air. I find an empty terrace. Of course it lasts thirty seconds.
Then Y/N appears.
Naturally.
Because the universe hates me.
âHi.â
âNo.â
âYou didnât even let me start.â
âExactly.â
She leans beside me. Looks out over the city.
âAre you going?â
There it is. The birthday. We always end up here.
âHarper isnât going to forgive me if I donât go... You know that.â
âThat wasnât what I asked.â
Y/N never changes.
Thank God.
âShe wants both of us at her birthday.â
âI know. Of course I know. But this isnât about Harper. Itâs about us.â
I look at her.
âUs? I thought there wasnât an us.â
âThere isnât. Which is exactly why we need to keep our distance. Itâs a system that works. Why change it now?â
I blink.
âBecause itâs been more than ten years.â
âFine. Then I wonât go.â
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
âY/N.â
âRichard.â
Silence. She sighs.
âIâm not asking because I donât care about you... Iâm asking because I donât want everything to get complicated again. Maybe next year will be different. This is the first year weâve been back in the same room together... Letâs not make it harder than it already is.â
There it is. The sentence Iâve been avoiding since last night. The sentence I donât want to hear. The sentence thatâs probably true.
âThat doesnât help.â
âI wasnât trying to help.â
She steps away from the railing.
âJust stop acting like the problem is a party.â
Then she leaves. Damn woman. That night I return to the apartment even more exhausted than the day before. Which seems impossible. But here we are. I open my phone. The chat is still exactly where we left it. She hasnât written anything else. Neither have I. I should feel relieved after the conversation we had on the terrace today.
I donât. I sit in front of the window. The city glows below. I think about her boyfriend. I think about Harper. I think about the gala. I think about the hospital. I think about all the things I never said. Everything I kept quiet because I thought protecting her meant staying silent. Everything I buried because I thought loving someone meant accepting every decision they made. Every time I wanted to ask whether she woke up thinking about it too. Every time I wanted to tell her I wasnât okay either. Every time I chose to look strong because somebody had to.
Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe I wasnât. Ten years later it doesnât matter anymore. Or at least thatâs what I try to tell myself.
I look at the last message again.
Donât come to Harperâs birthday.
For the first time I understand something I should have understood last night.
She didnât ask me not to come because she hates me. She didnât ask me not to come because she doesnât want me in her life anymore. She asked me not to come because sheâs still afraid. And thatâs infinitely worse.
Because it means thereâs still something left to lose. I rest my head against the glass. Close my eyes. For the first time since Trinity began, I admit something Iâve spent a decade avoiding.
The real problem was never the pregnancy. Never the breakup. Never the distance. All of those things happened. All of them were real. All of them left scars. But they arenât the problem.
The real problem is that time did what it was supposed to do with almost everything.
Except her.
One of the most dangerous things Iâve learned this week is that I can still recognize her in a crowd of a hundred people.
I can still anticipate some of her reactions. I can still tell the difference between a genuine smile and a fake one. I still care when sheâs tired. I still care when she hasnât eaten. I still care far too much.
The real problem is that there are still things I havenât stopped loving. And one of them still walks through the same studio door every morning.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
Next Chapter Previous Chapter
Chapter 10 · Midnight burgers
I donât know if anyone actually heard me say Still.
I hope not.
Because some answers only exist when two people already share far too much context.
The coordinator signals again. Itâs over. Finally. One last round of photos. One last wall of logos. One last professional smile held together by exhausted facial muscles. Richard takes half a step back.
So do I.
The distance returns.
Small. Ridiculous. Necessary.
âPress line inside,â someone in a black suit and earpiece informs us.
Of course. Because apparently the torture still had another act left. We go in. And the noise changes. Outside, it was flashes. Inside, itâs money.
Low music. Champagne. Brands. Impossibly expensive dresses. Actors pretending not to notice who just arrived. Producers pretending everything is a coincidence. Executives pretending theyâre close friends.
The Vogue Hollywood Gala feels specifically designed to make you feel important and disposable at exactly the same time.
The main ballroom is divided into stations. Sponsors. Press. Interview panels. VIP sections. High tables. Some absurd suspended-glass installation that probably cost more than my first apartment.
Richard appears at my left again.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Exactly where someone stands when the industry has decided the two of you now function as a package deal.
Perfect. An absolutely perfect disaster.
A woman from HBOâs team appears almost immediately.
âFive minutes and then press rotation.â
She hands us small cards with the interview schedule.
I look at mine. Variety. Entertainment Weekly. Vogue. Deadline.
God.
Richard looks at his.
âThis feels like a diplomatic itinerary.â
âWorse. Theyâre going to ask us to describe our working chemistry.â
âWe could pretend we have amnesia.â He makes a noise through his nose that sounds like laughter, but isnât.
âWe still have time.â I answer.
That almost earns another smile. Almost. Then my phone vibrates inside my bag. I glance at the screen.
Theo.
A message.
Theo: Did you survive the first part, or are you still being used as a ceremonial sacrifice by HBO?
The air immediately cools by half a degree. Not from guilt. Not from tension. Relief. Something inside me recognizes normality. I type quickly. I know Richard is watching, even while pretending not to. I catch him from the corner of my eye looking when he thinks Iâm not paying attention, then looking away when he thinks I am.
I keep typing.
Y/N: Still alive. Iâll call you when I get out
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Theo: You donât have to call late if youâre exhausted.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Because thatâs so Theo. Never demanding. Never pulling on the rope. Always leaving space. I put my phone away.
âEverything okay?â Richard asks casually.
But we both know it isnât casual.
I look up too quickly.
âYes.â
Part lie. Part truth. Complicated. He just nods. Doesnât ask anything else. That should reassure me.
It doesnât.
They move us toward the first round of interviews. And I quickly discover something horrible. Richard and I still have timing.
Not romantic.
Worse.
Conversational.
A journalist asks how we met. We answer at the exact same time.
Stop. Laugh.
Everyone around us reacts like theyâve just discovered oil. Another question.
âWhat attracted you to the project?â
Richard answers first. I add to it. Without interrupting. Without colliding. Without effort. A terrible sign. By the fourth interview I recognize the pattern. Every time we relax for a second, people react. Every time we create distance, the energy drops.
Hollywood loves stories. It thinks itâs found one. Halfway through the next round, Sam appears. Director. Proud. Slightly manic. Far too pleased with himself.
âOkay,â he says, looking around. âThis is working ridiculously well.â
âIâm thrilled to be used as an experiment.â
Sam grins.
âYou have no idea how you look from the outside.â
Richard picks up a glass of water.
âIâm hoping normal.â
Sam laughs. Dangerous sign.
âNot exactly.â
Then he walks away before explaining. Coward. We keep moving between tables. Actors. Models. Studio executives. Far too many beautiful people in a single room.
Harper appears near the bar. She looks at us. Raises her glass. Then points two fingers at her eyes again. I hate that she has access to events like this.
Again.
Sheâs watching us. Of course she is. Richard notices too.
âYour friend is terrifying.â
âSheâs your friend too, in case you forgot.â
Robert appears seconds later. Heâs terrifying too. For entirely different reasons. Thatâs the downside of having friends who are actors, actresses, and models. If theyâre in the industry, thereâs a nine-out-of-ten chance youâll run into them at events.
Sometimes thatâs fun.
Sometimes it isnât.
Like now.
When I would have preferred it was just the two of us. Being in the same room together after everything that happened between us was already enough. Adding two mutual friends feels excessive.
âCongratulations,â Robert says as he approaches. âThe internet has officially decided youâre emotionally married.â
âThank you, Robert,â Richard cuts in.
âAs always.â
He walks away laughing. I deeply hate him. The gala keeps moving around us. But exhaustion starts settling in. Not physical. Social. That strange exhaustion that comes from regulating every glance.
Every gesture. Every inch of distance for too many hours. At some point I manage to escape to a side terrace for five minutes.
Relative silence. Cold air. The city below. Finally. I rest both hands on the railing. Breathe. I hear the door open behind me. I donât need to turn around to know itâs him. Richard. Obviously.
âFive minutes,â I say before he speaks.
âI came to hide too.â
Fair. We stand there looking out over the city. Not touching. Not looking at each other. Much more dangerous.
âAre you okay?â he finally asks.
I think about flashes. Interviews. Theo waiting for a call. Ten years compressed into a single night.
âI donât know.â
He nods slightly. As if he understands far too quickly. Thatâs a problem too. The door opens again.
A coordinator.
âNeed you inside again.â
Right. Of course. We go back. More photos. More conversations. More public versions of ourselves. By the time it finally ends, itâs late.
Very late.
The city looks different from the car on the way back.
Emptier. Less performative.
The car pulls away through bursts of flashes that still seem to follow us in the rearview mirrors.
Even though the carpet has been behind us for twenty minutes. Even though the gala is over. Even though Richard took another vehicle and disappeared with security, assistants, and people who know exactly how to escape cameras.
Inside, the air is still crowded with overlapping voices.
Weâre still operating in work mode. Clara reviews logistics from the front seat without looking up much from her tablet.
I check my phone. Three new messages. All from Theo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing invasive.
Just:
Is it over yet?
Did you eat anything?
Let me know when you get home.
âThe photos are already with the agencies. Variety uploaded the full gallery. Vogue posted video. Entertainment Weekly wants additional material tomorrow.â
One of the assistants turns slightly from the front seat.
âThe hashtag is still climbing.â
I grimace.
âI donât want to know.â
A brief silence.
Then:
âThe Unexpected Pairing.â
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I lean my head against the window. The muscles in my face are starting to hurt. Smiling for that many hours should count as an extreme sport.
Peter, my manager sitting across from me, isnât joking. That immediately makes me nervous. Because Peter only stops joking when something genuinely worries him.
He leans forward slightly.
âHow are you?â
I dodge with a tired smile.
âFine.â
âY/N.â
His tone changes. More serious. Worse. I lower my eyes. Play with the clasp of my purse.
âI know how to read a room.â
I donât answer. Because I do too. Because Iâve spent the entire day inside too many of them.
âYou werenât the only one who felt something strange in there,â he continues. âI noticed it. Clara noticed it. The team noticed it.â
Silence. Clara intervenes diplomatically.
âThe important thing is that you both got through it. You were elegant.â
Peter barely shakes his head.
âElegance wears out.â
He holds my gaze.
âDonât forget that.â
The rest of the ride fills with names. Media outlets. Schedules. Potential covers. Interviews. I barely listen. I turn off my screen. Think about Theo.
About what Iâm going to say. About what I definitely wonât say. Outside, Los Angeles glows like a city incapable of keeping secrets.
Inside, my pulse pounds behind my eyes. I know exactly what Iâll see when I close them. His hand at my back.
His voice saying: âDonât fall.â
The car stops in front of the building. The flashes are gone. But I still hear them. We all head upstairs.
Clara.
Peter.
Matthew.
Two assistants carrying absurd bags full of corporate gifts nobody asked for.
The elevator rises slowly.
Silently.
As if everyone knows the hard part still isnât over. Inside the apartment, everyone automatically takes their role. One assistant leaves flowers on the table. Another organizes boxes. Clara reviews tomorrowâs schedule.
Peter waits. He always waits. When weâre finally alone, he crosses his arms. I pretend to check my purse.
âThe last time the two of you were together,â he begins, âyou did exactly what you swore you wouldnât do.â
I look up.
âPeterââ
âLet me finish.â
His voice lowers slightly. He never needs to raise it. That somehow makes it worse.
âAfter the breakup, you worked yourself into the ground. You hid behind albums, tours, projects, interviews. It worked. Yes. But only because you got lucky.â
I swallow. No one argues. Because heâs right.
âWhile the world celebrated your productivity, I was watching you try to survive.â
The apartment seems smaller.
âI donât want to have to pick up the pieces of you again.â
There it is. The real sentence. The important one. I bite the inside of my cheek.
âItâs not going to happen.â
Peter holds my gaze too long.
âThatâs exactly what you said the first time.â
Silence. Clara finally sets her tablet down.
âTomorrow weâll go over the schedule. Try to sleep.â
I nod. Peter picks up his coat. Before leaving, he stops.
âJust promise me something.â
I look at him.
âTalk before you act.â
God. I hate how well he knows me.
âI promise.â
He doesnât look convinced. But he nods anyway. They leave. One by one. The apartment finally goes quiet. I take off my shoes first. Then my earrings. Rest my forehead against the glass. Iâm tired. So tired. Silence lands differently after events like this.
Heavier.
My phone vibrates.
Theo.
Video call. I answer. Black T-shirt. Dark circles under his eyes. Still handsome in that calm way that never demands attention.
âHey.â
Just that. One word. And something inside me immediately slows down.
âHey.â
I hear movement on the other end. His house. His routine. His normal life.
âDid you survive?â
I laugh softly. Sit down on the couch. Still wearing makeup. Still carrying traces of the gala.
âI think so.â
A short silence. Comfortable. Then he asks:
âWas it really hard?â
And there it is. The difference. He doesnât ask about celebrities. Doesnât ask about press. Doesnât ask about Richard. He asks about me.
âYes,â I finally admit. âA little.â
Theo stays quiet for a few seconds.
Then:
âOkay.â
He doesnât try to fix it. Doesnât fill the silence. He just stays. For the first time all night, I stop performing. Even if only for a little while. He just stays. That lowers my pulse more than anything else tonight.
We talk. Flights. Sleep. Schedules. Normal things.
I desperately need normal things. Twenty minutes later we hang up. The apartment becomes quiet again. I walk into the kitchen.
Open the refrigerator. Water. Half a lemon. Expired yogurt. Strawberries slowly dying. An impressive collection of terrible nutritional decisions.
Nothing edible.
Of course. I laugh to myself. Grab water. Lean back against the counter. Then I see my phone vibrate again on the kitchen island. A new name.
Richard.
I stare at the screen. Without touching it. Without breathing. Just staring. Because some catastrophes arrive disguised as notifications.
His name remains glowing on the screen.
Richard.
The echo of his voice is still tangled with the echo of camera flashes. I kick off my heels like Iâm escaping medieval torture. Leave them abandoned on the rug like defeated enemies. Tie my hair into a messy bun.
Walk toward the kitchen. My feet grateful for freedom. I try to ignore the phone because I think maybe I can delay whatever Richard is planning now.
But the sound comes again.
And again.
And again.
I finally look.
Richard: Iâd bet money youâre standing in front of the refrigerator trying to decide whether a bottle of water counts as dinner.
I freeze. Itâs ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. But my skin still prickles. Him again. Reading me. As if the last ten years never happened.
I turn.
Rest my forehead against an upper cabinet. Thereâs a Post-it stuck there from days ago. Buy food. This is becoming negligence. Theo. Of course. Always Theo.
A huge house.
Awards.
Magazine covers.
And me incapable of keeping a refrigerator stocked.
I pick up the phone. Reply.
Y/N: Amazing that youâre still awake. Let me guess: post-gala insomnia?
I pick up the water bottle again and take a long drink. The phone vibrates. This time it isnât a text.
Itâs a photo.
Two burgers. Two boxes of fries. Two sodas. Everything arranged on the hood of a black car.
I blink.
Automatically walk toward the window. And there he is. Below my building. Leaning against the car. No jacket. Tie loosened. Shirt open one button more than is socially responsible.
He looks up. Raises the bag. Then glances down at his phone. Three dots.
Richard: We can share⊠if you want.
Part of me wants to close the curtains. Another part remembers I havenât eaten since four. The worst part remembers the terrace. The red carpet. His hand at my back.
I breathe.
Look down again. Heâs still there. Like an idiot. Like a problem. Like Richard.
Y/N: Come up. Penthouse. Floor 14.
He looks at the message. Raises the bag again.
Idiot.
I go to the bedroom. Grab an oversized sweater. As I do, I notice Theoâs clothes still hanging there. Shirts. A sweatshirt. A forgotten jacket. Guilt arrives quickly. Uncomfortable. Messy.
I look around.
Theoâs coat is still hanging by the entrance. I put it away. I donât know why. I should leave it where it is. Then I see the script.
TRINITY.
My name.
His name.
I hide it inside a photography book on the coffee table.
Ridiculous.
As if hiding things actually works. A pair of boots under the couch catches my eye next. I push them with my foot.
Once.
Twice.
Until they disappear. Iâm not entirely sure what Iâm doing. Only that Iâm doing it too fast. The phone vibrates again.
Theo.
A message.
Theo: Still awake?
My throat tightens.
I type slowly.
Y/N: Yes. But Iâm already in bed.
Three dots.
Theo: Get some sleep. You looked exhausted even over video.
I smile faintly. He always notices.
Y/N: Iâll try
Theo: Love you.
I stare at the screen too long.
Y/N: Love you too.
I put the phone away just as the elevator chimes. He doesnât even get the chance to ring the bell. I open the door first. Richard is leaning against the frame. Wrinkled suit. Open collar. Bag of food. The look of a man who also survived too many hours of the entertainment industry.
âI knew you didnât have anything in the fridge,â he says as he walks in. âDonât look at me like that. Itâs not witchcraft. Itâs experience.â
I hate him a little for being right.
âYou canât just show up like this at midnight.â
âI didnât show up. You invited me upstairs.â
Fair.
Very fair.
He drops the bag on the counter. The smell of burgers instantly fills the apartment. Too domestic. Too fast.
âWere you planning to eat in the parking lot?â I ask as I look for plates.
âThe hood worked.â
I stare at him. He shrugs.
âBut Iâll admit your kitchen has better lighting.â
He hands me a soda. Sits on a stool like heâs done this a hundred times. He hasnât. Thatâs part of the problem. It feels familiar anyway.
âBy the way,â he says, âis your boyfriend really a doctor?â
I look at him.
âIâd rather not confirm sensitive information.â
Richard smiles faintly. He thinks Iâm dodging. He doesnât understand that the truth is more complicated.
I realize weâre out of napkins. I pull some from a cabinet. I donât remember buying napkins. Theo probably did.
I bite into the burger. Iâm far too hungry to pretend elegance. Richard watches me.
âYou never changed.â
âYou always say that.â
âBecause itâs true.â
A short silence. Then:
âDo you know why I came?â
I raise an eyebrow.
âBecause you knew I didnât have food. You already said that.â
He shakes his head. Slowly.
âBecause I couldnât stand the idea of you being alone after today.â
That lands too hard. Too fast.
âI didnât realize my well-being concerned you now.â
Richard holds my gaze. No humor. No irony.
âIt never stopped.â
Silence. City noise outside. Distant sirens. Two people sharing burgers after spending hours pretending professionalism. Dangerous. Correction. Very dangerous.
âDid you read the articles?â he asks later.
âI donât read that stuff.â
He does. Obviously he does.
âWhy do you?â
I wipe a little sauce from the corner of my mouth without looking away. Richard turns the cup slowly in his hand.
âBecause Iâm an idiot.â
A pause.
âAnd because I wanted to measure the damage.â
I look at him.
âAnd?â
His smile fades slightly.
âEnough to make Sam happy.â
A pause.
âEnough to make us unhappy.â
The phone vibrates on the counter. I flip it face down automatically. Richard notices. Of course.
âYour boyfriend?â
âDo you really want to talk about my boyfriend at one in the morning while weâre sharing burgers?â
That makes him go quiet. Good. We eat in silence for a while. Fries. Soda. Wrappers. Breathing. Small things. The dangerous ones. Then he speaks again.
âHarper called me.â
Damn it.
âDonât start.â
âI didnât.â
I look at him.
He holds my gaze.
âShe said we looked a little too comfortable tonight. Told me to remind you her birthday isnât a trial.â
I laugh without humor.
âFor you maybe.â
He doesnât push. Which is worse. Because he recognizes that tone. The one I use when I donât want to name the abyss. I finish my soda. Stand up.
âThanks for dinner.â
Richard does too.
âThanks for letting me come up.â
I walk him to the door. He stops before leaving. We look at each other too long. Mistake. He finally opens the door.
âGoodnight, Y/N.â
âGoodnight, Richard.â
I watch him walk to the elevator. Hear the doors close. Return to the living room. The apartment still smells like burgers. For the first time all night, I donât mind.
I look at my phone. I shouldnât text him. Enough has already happened for one night, and yet I do.
Y/N: Donât come to Harperâs birthday.
I send it before I can change my mind. The three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Come back. Disappear again.
As if heâs deleting replies. As if heâs thinking. As if we both know the birthday was never really the problem.
Finally, a message appears.
Richard: There are things you never learned how to hide.
My heart gives a sharp, sudden jolt.
Another message.
Richard: And others you did.
I stare at the screen.
Motionless.
Because he understands exactly what Iâm saying. And because, worse than that, he understands what Iâm not saying.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 9 · Between Flashes and Lies
Richardâs POV
âYou cannot wear that face on a red carpet.â
I look up from the sofa and find Naomi watching me from the other side of the living room as if she is assessing structural damage.
âWhat face?â
She makes a vague gesture at all of me.
âThat one. The emotionally devastated man in a British miniseries about grief.â
Robert, sitting at the kitchen island and scrolling through his phone, raises his hand.
âTo be fair, that is kind of his trademark.â
I shoot him a look.
It doesnât help.
Nothing helps much today.
The Los Angeles apartment is full of movement. Styling coming in and out. Garment bags open across the dining table. Someone ironing a shirt near the window. Two assistants checking watches and confirming schedules.
The television on mute, showing early coverage of the Vogue Hollywood Gala as if it were a diplomatic summit and not a red carpet.
And in the middle of all of it, there I am, sitting on my own sofa, watching the public preparation for my own emotional execution.
The gala starts in less than three hours. And technically, we are not there for Trinity. Not exactly. HBO took advantage of the event. Of course they did.
Two well-known actors. Unexpected casting. A military intrigue series still in advanced pre-production. Official photos released that same afternoon. The casting announcement posted less than two hours ago. And suddenly the internet decided to lose its entire mind.
That is how Hollywood works.
First it creates expectation. Then it pretends to be surprised when it works. Naomi drops a black garment bag on the table.
âShirt change.â
âAgain?â
âSam wants less formal.â
Robert immediately lifts his head.
âWhat was the exact description?â
Naomi checks her phone.
ââApproachable but dangerous.ââ
Robert nearly chokes laughing.
âThat sounds like a dating app description for emotionally unavailable men.â
âOr HBO protagonists,â I mutter.
Naomi does not smile. Which means she is working. Naomi is not exactly my assistant. Not only a publicist either. She is one of those strange people Hollywood creates after enough time: half media strategist, half damage control, half the person in charge of stopping actors from doing stupid things in front of millions of people.
She has been with me for almost six years. Long enough to know when I am tired. When I am lying. And when I am about to do something profoundly stupid. Today, I suspect she has detected all three.
âRichard,â she says. âListen to me carefully.â
Bad sign.
âThe studio wants memorable first images. It does not want an emotional collapse documented by Getty.â
âHow demanding.â
âIâm serious.â
I know.
That is precisely the problem. Everyone seems to be entirely serious today. I walk toward the window. Los Angeles below looks specifically designed for people incapable of sleeping.
Freeways.
Endless lights.
Helicopters.
Sirens.
Everything artificially beautiful from above. Robert appears beside me with a bottle of water stolen from my fridge. Honestly, I no longer remember when he stopped asking permission.
âImportant question.â
âNo.â
âYou donât even know what I was going to ask.â
âBecause I already know.â
He smiles faintly.
âDo you already know what sheâs wearing?â
There it is.
The question I have been mentally avoiding since I woke up.
âNo.â
âLiar.â
I stare at him.
Naomi cuts in from the dining room.
âIvory.â
I look up too fast. Fatal mistake. Robert claps once.
âAnd there he goes.â
Too late. The image appears anyway.
Ivory.
Of course.
Jesus Christ.
Naomi looks directly at me.
âI need you to behave like a functional adult tonight.â
âThat eliminates a large portion of my available skills.â
âRichard.â
There is that tone again. Not the publicist one. The one belonging to someone who has watched enough actors self-destruct.
Chemistry. That word again. As if it were a biological accident and not an entire decade of poorly archived damage. Robert sets the bottle on the table.
âTo be fair⊠it is a little obscene to watch.â
âThank you. Your emotional support always brightens my life.â
âAlways.â
One of the assistants appears from the hallway.
âHair is ready.â
And that is when the machinery officially begins. The next forty minutes become a military operation.
Hair first. Then makeup. Then someone adjusting sleeves. Then someone changing my watch. Then Naomi literally correcting the angle of a lapel. Everything happens too quickly. It always happens too quickly before a red carpet. The industrial construction of a public version of yourself.
A face. A narrative. A man attractive enough and emotionally accessible enough to sell a series that has not even started filming yet. Hollywood loves selling futures. Robert stays there during makeup.
âYou look like an elegant hostage.â
âI feel like an elegant hostage.â
Naomi appears behind me.
âDonât hunch your shoulders.â
âI didnât know I was doing that.â
âThatâs because youâve been dissociating for hours.â
Fair. Very fair. The phone vibrates. Sam. I answer.
âTell me youâre not calling with another brilliant idea.â
Sam laughs. Production noise behind him. Chaos. Movement.
âRelax. I just want to make sure youâre still alive.â
âHow considerate.â
âListen to me carefully. Tonight, I donât want characters.â
I laugh without humor.
âThat seems optimistic.â
âI donât want a performance. I just need you to look comfortable sharing space.â
God.
That is exactly the problem.
Sam continues:
âThe first casting images blew up.â
âIn what sense?â
âIn the sense that Variety posted the script-reading photo and now everyone wants to know why you two look like youâve known each other for twenty years.â
Silence.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
âAlso,â he continues, âthey think I found a rare combination.â
Rare combination. Much better than the truth.
âRichard.â
âWhat?â
âWhen you look at her tonight, remember there will be cameras.â
That leaves me still. Because even he noticed. He does not know why. But he noticed. He hangs up. Naomi crosses her arms.
âThat did not reassure me.â
âMe neither.â
Robert smiles.
âHonestly, Iâm excited.â
âOf course you are.â
By the time they are done with me, the apartment is quieter. Part of the team has left. Naomi remains. Two assistants. Robert.
The television shows new headlines:
âIs HBOâs unexpected duo already the talk of the night?â
âInternet reacts to Trinity casting.â
âReal chemistry or excellent marketing?â
Jesus Christ.
One of the assistants appears.
âThe car is here.â
And everything shifts. Phones. Schedules. Final instructions. Naomi immediately takes control.
âListen to me. Individual photos first. Then the coordinators will move you to the main panel. Variety. Entertainment Weekly. HBO line. Do not improvise.â
âI never improvise.â
Robert literally laughs in my face. Naomi continues.
âAnd for the love of GodâŠâ
She stops.
âDo not look at her as if the rest of the world disappears.â
Silence. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. The black limousine is waiting downstairs. I get in.
The door closes.
Silence.
Only the engine.
The city moving behind the dark windows. Los Angeles passes by in streaks of light. And beneath the stylists.
Marketing.
Press.
Prestige television.
The real problem still exists. In a few minutes, I am going to see her. Not on a set. Not between blue marks. Not hidden behind characters.
Her.
The limousine stops. Immediate noise. Flashes. People. Voices. The coordinator opens the door.
âRichard, thirty seconds.â
I nod. I step out. And the world explodes. Photographers shouting. Cameras firing.
The Vogue Hollywood Gala wall illuminated behind me. And beside it. The new panel.
Small.
Discreet.
HBO logo. Trinity logo. Official announcement. First public appearance.
Perfect.
I walk. I pose. I smile automatically. Actor. Professional. A perfectly constructed public version. I hear crossed instructions.
âRichard, over here!â
âOne more!â
âLook up!â
Then the volume changes.
Like a wave. Another car arriving. I do not need to see her. I know it is her. The door opens.
Ivory.
Of course.
The air vanishes just like it did ten years ago. The photographers immediately raise the volume. Not because they are fans yet. Because they recognize a story when they think they see one. The coordinators signal.
âTogether.â
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
I walk toward her. Flashes exploding.
Noise.
Chaos.
And when I finally reach her side, for half a full second, the rest of the world does, in fact, disappear.
âDonât fall,â I murmur, barely moving my lips.
She smiles faintly.
âDo your job and pose.â
The photographers shout.
âCloser!â
âLook at each other!â
âTogether!â
We move automatically.
As if we had rehearsed this.
Worse.
As if we had already lived it before.
Reader POV
âDonât fall.â
He barely moves his lips when he says it. Just enough for it to reach me. Just enough for my body to remember far too many inconvenient things at the same time.
I smile toward the cameras. Not at him. That is important. Very important. Because there are hundreds of people around us.
Photographers.
Publicists.
Security.
Executives.
Journalists.
And because that has always been Richardâs problem: he manages to make the rest of the world disappear when he is too close.
âDo your job and pose,â I answer without looking directly at him.
The flashes explode again.
âCloser!â
âLook here!â
âTogether!â
âRichard, Y/N, center!â
I feel his hand move toward my back. Not touching yet. Moving closer. Which is worse. The red-carpet coordinator gestures wildly from the side. Closer together.
Of course. Obviously. Because the universe is funny.
I take half a step to the side. Richard makes exactly the same movement. We end up shoulder to shoulder.
The photographers react immediately.
God.
Photographers are predators. They detect things. Micro-movements. Hesitations. Breaths.
âLook at each other!â
Bad idea. Terrible idea, but we do it anyway. There is the real problem. Not that he is still attractive.
That would be manageable. Not that he still smells the same. Not that either. The problem is familiarity.
The way my body still registers specific distances. How much space there is between us. How he tilts his head slightly when he is trying to listen. How his eyes change a little when he is uncomfortable.
Ten years.
Ten years and I still recognize the smallest versions of him. That should be illegal.
âYou guys look incredible together!â
I do not know which photographer shouts that. I do not want to know either. Richard smiles professionally. So do I.
Actors. Excellent. Wonderful. Nothing traumatic here. Just two emotionally functional adults promoting a series that has not even begun filming.
âYour publicist looks like she wants to kill me,â he murmurs.
I keep smiling.
âYour friend wants to sell tickets to our emotional destruction.â
âRobert wants to sell tickets to anything.â
That almost makes me laugh. Almost. The coordinators move us again.
Central panel.
HBO logo.
Trinity logo.
First joint public appearance.
What an innocent concept. Because technically, yes. Publicly, we are new. Privately, we are ancient ruins. I hear movement to my left.
Harper.
She is near the side press area. Perfect. Because of course she is watching. She crosses her arms when our eyes meet. Then she raises two fingers toward her eyes and points at us.
Iâm watching you.
Very subtle.
Emily would have been more discreet.
Probably.
âDid your friend just threaten us?â Richard asks. As if she is not his friend too.
âYes.â
âGood. That reassures me.â
We keep moving forward. Another mark. Another group of photographers.
Another rain of flashes.
There is something strange about a red carpet.
It is constant noise. People shouting your name. Crossed instructions. Lights so bright they leave temporary stains in your vision. Even so, inside all of that, I notice absurd things. Richard shifting slightly to give me room. The coordinator physically pushing us closer every thirty seconds. His hand hovering near my waist without touching.
Without touching.
Always without touching.
Worse.
So much worse.
âY/N!â
We turn.
Entertainment Weekly. Of course. A smiling journalist holds out a microphone.
âFirst public appearance together. How are you feeling?â
Safe answer. Prepared. Rehearsed. I open my mouth. Richard speaks first.
âTerrified. Sheâs very intimidating.â
The journalists laugh.
Traitor.
I glance at him. He keeps his expression perfectly professional. Actor.
Idiot.
âOnly when Iâm forced to do red carpets,â I answer.
Another round of laughter.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
The journalist smiles again.
âPeople online are already obsessed with this casting.â
God. The internet. Of course. The internet existed. I forgot for five minutes.
Mistake.
âWeâre still in pre-production,â I reply. âEveryone should probably lower their expectations.â
âDonât do that,â Richard murmurs faintly.
Without dropping the smile. Without looking at me.
âWhat?â
âDonât ask people to lower expectations. Sam will have a heart attack.â
I keep my smile fixed.
âAre you worried about Sam?â
âIâm worried heâll make us do more tactical rehearsals.â
That does make me laugh. For real this time. Small. Brief. Real. Fatal mistake. Because immediately I hear twenty photographers react.
âTHERE!â
âThat smile!â
âAgain!â
Shit. Richard notices at the same time. I know because his eyes drop slightly. That tiny gesture. The same as always. When something matters too much. We keep moving.
Another panel. More press. More noise. And beneath all of that, the real problem appears. I am starting to get tired. Not physically. Emotionally. Because maintaining distance takes energy. A lot of it.
âAre you okay?â he asks under his breath.
He should not notice that. He notices anyway.
âYes.â
Lie.
âOkay.â
Another lie. We move toward the next mark. The coordinators signal. Last round of joint photos.
Thank God.
They position us in front of the main wall. Closer this time. Too close. The photographers start shouting again.
âCloser!â
âHands lower!â
âLook at each other!â
Richard tilts his head slightly toward me. Without fully looking at me.
âWeâre surviving.â
He says it so low it is almost lost beneath the noise. Almost. I look forward. Keep smiling. Breathe. I answer just as quietly:
âFor now.â
The flashes explode around us again. For the first time since I got out of the car, I understand something dangerous. I am not worried about the carpet. Or the internet. Or the press. I am worried about how easy it is becoming to find our rhythm again.
That was always much more dangerous than fighting.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 8: Shared Custody
The set is still breathing behind me as I walk toward the trailers. Lights still on. Crew dismantling equipment. Someone laughing too loudly near catering. The metallic noise of a structure being moved on the other side of the studio and beneath all of that, still clinging to my skin like a second uncomfortable layer, the feeling of Richard too close to me all day.
I donât turn around. I donât need to in order to know heâs still back there somewhere on set. Rachel still talking to the technical team. Sam reviewing takes on the monitors. Robert probably stealing somebody elseâs food.
Hollywood continuing its machinery, even while emotionally several people inside it are standing two inches away from collapse.
I let the air out slowly as I climb the trailer steps. Iâm exhausted. Not physically. Worse. That strange exhaustion that appears when you spend too many hours trying to control something your body insists on remembering on its own.
I rest my hand against the door just before opening it.
"Donât go in yet."
Harperâs voice comes from behind me. I turn around. Sheâs walking through the improvised parking area between trailers with a coffee in one hand and her sunglasses still on even though itâs already nighttime. Of course. Harper wears sunglasses the way other people wear armor.
"Did you come to finish ruining my emotional stability or are you just bored?" I ask.
"Both."
She stops in front of me. Studies me for barely a second. There it is again. That expression of hers. The look of someone too intelligent to pretend she isnât watching a slow-motion car crash.
"You look awful," she says finally.
"Thank you. What a relief to have such maternal friends."
"Iâm not maternal. Iâm observant. You two are starting to look dangerously comfortable inside the disaster."
I open the trailer anyway. Harper walks in behind me without asking permission because she stopped asking approximately nine years ago. I throw my bag onto the small couch beside the window.
She stays standing. That alone already makes me nervous. Harper only stays still when she came prepared to say something important.
"What is it?"
She sighs slowly.
"This year I want both of you there."
I blink.
"What?"
"At the party."
I donât understand for half a second. Then I do.
And my entire body tightens.
"No."
Harper raises an eyebrow.
"You didnât even ask which party."
"Because I already know which one."
Her birthday. Of course. The ridiculous tradition. The unspoken agreement. The most absurd emotional shared custody arrangement in modern history. Harper sets the coffee down on the table.
"The system is over."
"Harperâ"
"No. Listen to me first."
She crosses her arms.
"Itâs been ten years. Iâm tired of organizing birthdays like youâre children from a traumatic divorce."
"Thatâs exactly what we are."
"Not officially."
"Emotionally? Absolutely."
That makes her close her eyes for barely a second. Because she knows Iâm right.
London, 2017.
The first birthday after the breakup. Richard arrived first. I arrived forty minutes late believing he wouldnât be there. Nobody warned us. Nobody thought it would be necessary. I still remember the uncomfortable silence when I walked into the bar. Robert stopping mid-sentence. Emily staring at her shoes. Harper trying to calculate how many people would need to die for the evening to end well. And Richard⊠Richard looking at me like somebody had ripped open a wound directly in front of him.
It was Harper who broke the silence.
"Okay. New system. One year one of you comes. The next year the other one does. That way I can stop organizing tables like Iâm negotiating a peace treaty."
Everyone laughed. Even me. Especially because it sounded like a joke.
Then it stopped being one.
It worked far too well. Separate birthdays. Divided Christmases. Strategically organized trips. Robert with Richard. Emily with me. Harper emotionally managing the disaster like it was a full-time job. And now sheâs here, standing inside my trailer, saying the exact thing she never wanted to say out loud: the system no longer works.
"Harper, this is not going to work."
"Why?"
I laugh without humor.
"Do you seriously need to ask that after watching us today?"
She tilts her head slightly.
"Precisely because of that."
That leaves me still.
"I saw you on the monitors, Y/N."
Her voice lowers slightly.
"And Iâm not talking about acting chemistry."
I immediately look away.
Mistake. Because Harper detects emotional avoidance like a trained animal.
"Donât start."
"Iâm not starting anything. Iâm saying that after ten years the two of you still react to each other like the rest of the world is interference."
I swallow hard.
"That doesnât mean anything."
"Of course it means something."
She walks toward the trailer window. Looks out at the illuminated studio.
"Robert thinks youâre going to end up sleeping together before the first season is over."
"Robert also thought Jared Leto was going to start a cult."
"I still think that could happen," a voice says from outside.
Harper doesnât even blink.
"You can come in, Robert. We already know youâve been listening for five minutes."
The door opens immediately. Robert walks in holding a bag of chips and exactly zero shame.
"In my defense, I wasnât listening. I was emotionally present."
"That doesnât mean anything," I mutter.
"It means espionage with snacks," Harper answers.
Robert drops onto the chair in front of me like he belongs there. Honestly, he probably belongs there more than I do.
"I only came to get Harper," he says while opening the chips, "but now I want to stay for anthropological reasons."
"Out."
"No."
Harper massages the bridge of her nose.
"See? This is exactly what I mean. We all keep orbiting around the two of you like youâre still an active bomb."
Robert raises a finger.
"Because technically you are."
"Thank you for the emotional support, Robert."
"Always."
I let myself fall onto the small trailer couch. Iâm tired. Too tired to keep pretending normality in front of people who have known me far too long. Harper watches me carefully.
"Does Theo know?"
That makes me lift my gaze immediately.
"Know what?"
"That working with Richard is bringing things back up for you."
Silence. Robert stops eating. Thatâs new. I stare at the floor for a second before answering.
"Theo knows Richard exists."
Harper snorts softly.
"I donât mean Wikipedia-wise."
"Then yes. He knows."
The answer seems to surprise them slightly. Especially Robert.
"And heâs not having a homicidal crisis?"
"Theoâs a psychiatrist, Robert. Not an HBO character."
That earns a brief smile from him. But Harper keeps staring at me too intensely.
"And what did he say?"
I think about the elevator call. About the way Theo never asks questions from ego. Only from concern.
"Youâre starting to burn out again."
God. I deeply hate when heâs right.
"He said surviving something doesnât mean you have to live through it again."
Robert falls silent. Harper too. Because both of them immediately understand the weight of that sentence. Theo never met Richard as a celebrity. Or as an actor. Or as a media problem. He met the aftermath. He met me months after the collapse. Insomnia. Anxiety. Panic attacks disguised as productivity. He met me when I stopped eating properly and started writing songs like hemorrhages, and he still chose to stay.
That makes everything worse. Much worse. Because Theo doesnât compete with Richard. Thatâs exactly the problem. Theo belongs to another world. Stable routines. Ordinary silence. Real breakfasts. People who donât turn emotions into audiovisual content.
And stillâŠ
Richard is still Richard.
Harper sighs.
"Okay. Iâm about to say something horrible."
Robert raises a finger again.
"My specialty."
"No, your specialty is making situations unnecessarily worse."
She ignores him before looking back at me.
"I think Theo is probably the best person you could possibly be with."
That leaves me motionless.
"ButâŠ"
There it is.
That damned but.
Harper finally sits down across from me.
"But the two of you never actually finished anything."
The air inside the trailer changes immediately.
Robert sets the chips down on the table.
"HarperâŠ"
"No, enough. Iâve spent ten years watching this."
She looks directly at me.
"You didnât break up. You collapsed."
Nobody speaks. Because once again sheâs right. Richard and I never had a final adult conversation. There was no closure. There was loss. Silence. Distance. And then survival.
That is not the same thing.
"Harper," I murmur finally, "even if you were right, what exactly am I supposed to do with that?"
She holds my gaze.
"Nothing."
I blink.
"What?"
"Iâm not telling you to get back together with Richard. God forbid. Iâm just saying pretending thereâs nothing there isnât working anymore either."
Robert nods slowly.
"The entire set can feel it."
That makes me tense all over again.
"What does that mean?"
Robert grimaces awkwardly.
"Nothing specific. Itâs just⊠people talk."
"Talk about what?"
He exchanges a quick glance with Harper. Bad sign.
"That you look like people who were already in love once."
The silence afterward lasts too long. Because that is exactly the kind of observation impossible to deny. Harper intervenes again before I panic.
"Nobody knows anything real. They just think you have incredible chemistry."
Chemistry.
The word is starting to feel insulting. Such an elegant way to name a decade of emotional ruins.
"Sam is obsessed," Robert continues. "He thinks he found television gold."
Of course he does. Naturally. A director looking at authentic pain and calling it cinematic quality. Very Hollywood of him. I rest my elbows on my knees. Cover my face for a second.
"I canât do this and survive a party together too."
Harper immediately leans forward.
"Yes, you can."
I look up.
"Why are you so determined about this?"
Then she finally says it. The full truth.
"Because Iâm tired of feeling like I have to choose between the two of you just to stay friends with both of you."
That hits harder than expected. Because I never thought much about the cost for everyone else. Emily organizing strategic dinners. Robert avoiding specific names. Harper editing guest lists for a decade. Everyone adapting themselves around our inability to exist in the same room without tension.
"I donât want to keep doing emotional shared custody," she says more quietly. "I want both of you under the same roof again. Even if itâs just for one night."
The sentence hangs between us. Robert lowers his gaze. So do I. Because suddenly it no longer sounds ridiculous.
Just sad.
Harperâs phone vibrates on the table.
She checks it.
Then lets out a dry laugh.
"And speaking of the devilâŠ"
"Richard?" Robert asks.
"Yeah. He says: âDid she survive or is she still planning to murder me?â"
I canât stop myself from smiling.
Fatal mistake.
Harper immediately points at me.
"That. Exactly that. Thatâs the problem."
"I have no idea what youâre talking about."
"Yes, you do."
The phone vibrates again. Harper reads the next message and smiles wider.
"Oh, this gets worse."
"What did he say now?"
"âTell her I promise not to discuss traumatic feelings before dessert.â"
Robert bursts out laughing. I deeply hate that I want to laugh too. Because there it is again â the real disaster:
the ease.
The way Richard still manages to enter a room even when he isnât physically inside it.
Harper slowly puts the phone away.
Then looks at me.
"Friday. Eight thirty. Both of you are going."
And for the first time all night I understand something worse than fear.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 7 · What Weâre Trying to Hold Together
The third day of pre-production begins before sunrise. There are no final scenes yet.
No official shooting.
Just tests. Camera tests. Chemistry tests. Movement tests. Sam insists that Trinity cannot rely solely on dialogue and romantic tension because the series is not really a love story. Itâs a military intrigue series disguised as a political thriller where two people end up trapped inside the same machine.
"I want them to look dangerous together even when they arenât touching," he said that morning during the production meeting.
Now everybody is trying to translate that into physical language. Half the set looks like a rehearsal room. The other half looks like a tactical operations center. Unloaded weapons spread across black tables. Replica pistols for positional drills.
Fight choreographers reviewing movement patterns.
Specialists explaining how to enter a room armed without blocking camera angles.
Rachel coordinates physical boundaries while the stunt team works on body rhythm and movement memory. Because Sam wants the characters to look like people who already survived operations together.
Who anticipate each other. Read each other. Whose bodies react before their minds do.
Thatâs the problem.
Because she and I already know how to do that.
Far too well.
For almost an hour we rehearse absurdly technical sequences. How to hold a weapon without invading the other personâs visual space. How to cover an angle. How to move through a narrow corridor without colliding. How to look like two people instinctively used to relying on one another.
The tactical coordinator keeps correcting details.
"Closer."
"Stop overthinking."
"Trust the movement."
"Again."
Sam, watching from behind the monitors, looks increasingly satisfied. Which makes me increasingly nervous. Because nobody really understands why things between us look so natural so quickly.
It isnât training. It isnât talent. Itâs history. The wardrobe fitting from the previous day didnât help either.
I can still remember Y/N standing in front of the mirror while the styling team discussed color palettes as if they werenât dressing two emotionally unstable people, and then came Harperâs comment that morningâ our beloved mutual friend.
She showed up at the studio because technically it was my birthday and apparently decided that gave her the right to personally supervise the disaster. She walked in carrying coffee, dark sunglasses, and exactly zero patience.
"Thirty seconds in here and I already want to sue HBO for emotional damages," she said the second she saw the monitor.
Robert appeared behind her like heâd been summoned by narrative chaos itself.
"I came for free catering and secondhand psychological suffering."
Harper snatched an energy bar out of his hand.
"Liar. You came because you want to see Richard collapse before lunch."
"That too."
Sam barely registered either of them.
Thank God.
Far too busy staring at the monitors where Y/N and I repeated a hand-to-hand combat sequence specifically designed to end absurdly close.
The instruction was simple: she enters the corridor first.
I follow her. My hand settles just behind her back to move her out of the line of fire. Nothing more. No real contact. Rachel made the boundary painfully clear.
The problem was that even the almost-contact felt far too intimate.
Sam⊠Sam smiled.
Like he had just found the exact series heâd had in his head.
Fifteen-minute break.
Officially itâs for water, resetting marks, correcting camera positions, giving Rachel time to review boundaries before the next setup.
Unofficially itâs so nobody notices how close the room came to combusting.
I head toward the water table for another bottle. Y/N arrives at the exact same time. We stand side by side without looking at each other, and then the memory slips in.
Not here. Not now. Somewhere else. Another room. Another life. Her voice calm in that terrifying way it became whenever she needed to say something she already knew would split me open.
"I love our life together. I love what we have, but I donât want anything beyond this. Us. What we have is enough for me. You are enough. I donât want that to change. I donât want children. And I canât promise I ever will."
At the time I didnât argue. Or maybe I convinced myself I hadnât. I didnât even ask her to repeat it. The words went straight through me anyway. I tried to understand them that night. God, I tried. But the only thing I managed to understand was the frustration they left behind, and the truth.
The one I kept trying to push away from myself.
I looked at her and realized she wasnât talking about the present. She was talking about the future. It wasnât fear. It was a decision, and inside that decision there was no longer any place for me or for anything I might want.
That was the hardest part.
Letting go of someone you love because continuing to love them will only keep hurting you.
Until then I had wanted to believe the abortion had been a storm. Circumstance. Something time would eventually allow us to name without guilt once we were older and steadier.
But that sentence â spoken with the serenity of someone signing her own freedom â taught me it hadnât been a mistake or an exception. She had drawn a border.
I didnât hate her at first. I hated her later. I hated her when I listened to the songs. When I read the interviews. She spoke to everyone except me. I wanted to go to her door and say: tell me to my face. But eventually I convinced myself that wouldnât save either of us.
Not her grief. Not my love for her and the fact I no longer knew where to put it. I only understood, with that mute clarity that doesnât require translation, that I had to live with the decision she had made.
She would win Grammys. I would supposedly gain the freedom to find someone else to love, and now, standing beside her with a bottle of water between us and everything we never said still within reach, I think that was the day I truly loved her. Because I understood she wasnât mine, and still, ten years later, Iâm standing here trying not to look at her too long in case I stay again.
Rachel claps once from the other side of the rehearsal space.
"Five minutes."
Reality slams back all at once. The studio is colder today. That industrial warehouse cold that makes everything feel sterile. Temporary. Technical.
Cameras mounted on rolling rigs. Tape marks across the floor. Focus monitors glowing softly beneath the dim rehearsal lights.
This still isnât principal photography. Not exactly. These are chemistry tests on camera disguised as rehearsal. Sam wants to see how tension behaves depending on the lenses before official filming begins next week.
Harper called it: "Emotional forensics with a studio budget."
She wasnât wrong.
The intimacy coordination team has already adjusted the blocking twice because apparently the distance between our bodies changes the entire scene.
Of course it does.
Rachel approaches holding her tablet against her chest. Professional. Precise. Far too perceptive for my peace of mind.
"Weâre tightening the corridor between you two," she explains. "The 50mm lens is flattening the distance too much. We need less physical space and more hesitation."
Y/N exhales slowly beside me. I donât look at her. At this point thatâs survival instinct.
Rachel continues:
"This isnât about contact. Itâs about interruption. About the body making the decision before the mind catches up."
Jesus Christ. Sam appears behind the monitors. Coffee in hand. Human disaster.
"Exactly," he says. "I want restraint that already feels doomed."
Robert materializes out of nowhere beside me carrying a protein bar and unsolicited opinions.
"You know, most actors would kill for direction this specific."
"Most actors arenât emotionally endangered by it."
That earns him a grin. Robert opens the bar. Looks around. Everything appears like a normal set, but underneath it we all know itâs a minefield.
"Thatâs why this is expensive television."
Harper arrives ten minutes later during another break carrying two coffees and the exact expression of someone supervising explosives. She hands me one. Black. No sugar. Of course she remembers.
"You look awful," she says casually.
"Good morning to you too."
"No, seriously. Your face says âaward-worthy performance,â but your nervous system says âVictorian tuberculosis.â"
Robert laughs loudly enough to attract attention. Harper doesnât even look at him. Her eyes remain fixed on the monitors where Y/N is talking with Rachel about hand placement and camera angles.
Then she looks back at me. And there it is. That look. The one that says she knows exactly how dangerous this project is starting to become.
"You need to stop looking at her like that when the cameras are rolling."
I keep my eyes fixed on the rehearsal floor.
"I donât."
"Richard."
Robert coughs dramatically into his coffee.
"Yeah, he does."
Traitor.
Harper crosses her arms.
"Sam thinks he discovered chemistry. Rachel thinks sheâs managing emotional rhythm. The studio thinks it struck marketing gold. Meanwhile you two look like people trying not to remember each other in high definition."
I finally look at her.
"Very helpful."
"Iâm serious."
Thatâs the problem with Harper. While everyone else chooses comfort, Harper always chooses accuracy. She lowers her voice slightly.
"Youâre not twenty-eight anymore. You donât get to romanticize emotional self-destruction just because the lighting is good."
That lands hard. Robert lets out a soft whistle.
"That should be framed."
Harper ignores him completely.
"Do you know what worries me?" she continues. "Itâs not the chemistry. Itâs that neither of you seems capable of turning it off once the cameras stop rolling."
I donât answer. Because I canât. Because sheâs right.
Again.
Across the rehearsal space Y/N laughs at something Rachel says and the sound hits me with ridiculous precision. Harper notices immediately. Of course she does.
"Jesus Christ," she mutters. "Youâre both completely fucked."
"Language," Robert says automatically.
"Shut up, Robert."
"Fair."
Sam claps once from video village.
"Positions."
The room reorganizes immediately. Crew moving. Focus pullers adjusting marks. Rachel checking distances again. Harper steps aside, but grabs my wrist before I walk away.
I look at her.
"Whatever happens," she says quietly, "donât confuse unfinished with destiny."
That hits harder than it should. Because unfinished things are exactly what she and I have always been experts at. I pull away gently and head back toward set.
Sheâs already standing on her mark. Dark blouse. Hair tied back.
Still not in full wardrobe because this is technically still pre-production, and somehow she still looks more dangerous dressed this simply than fully styled.
Rachel guides us through the corrected movement again.
"Richard takes the first step. Y/N waits half a beat longer. You arenât moving toward each other equally. That imbalance matters."
Sam nods immediately.
"Yes. Exactly. He moves like someone who already lost this argument years ago."
My stomach sinks slightly. Because thatâs dangerously close to the truth. Y/N lifts her eyes toward me. Tiny glance. Barely a second. Enough to destroy concentration. Rachel keeps talking.
"Still no contact. The almost-contact is working better than actual contact."
Robert mutters from behind camera:
"Story of their lives."
Harper elbows him hard enough to shut him up. Thank God. The assistant director raises a hand.
"Rolling rehearsal."
Still no official slate. No final take. Just cameras observing. Documenting. Testing.
Somehow that feels more intimate than actual filming. Because these moments still arenât protected by the characters. Sam watches from the monitors with terrifying concentration.
"And⊠action."
I walk toward her. First mark. Second. Pause. Y/N lifts her gaze at exactly the right moment and something inside my chest reacts before thought reaches the body.
Damn it.
The body language comes easily now. Far too easily. The scene breathes. Not performed. Breathed.
Rachel was right about the corridor distance. Less space between us changes absolutely everything. The body registers proximity before the mind organizes language around it.
I stop exactly where Iâm supposed to. Two inches before contact. Y/Nâs breathing shifts slightly. Mine answers before I can stop it. Sam leans forward behind the monitors.
Predatory satisfaction. He thinks heâs watching actors discover rhythm. What heâs really watching is muscle memory.
"Again," he says immediately.
We reset. Again. This time slower. The silence lasts longer. Y/Nâs hand lifts slightly during the scene and I swear to God every nerve ending in my body registers it.
Donât touch.
Almost.
Rachel inhales sharply from somewhere off-camera. Sam doesnât interrupt. That means he loves it. Of course he does. Because the tension now looks nearly unbearable on screen. Which would probably flatter me more if it werenât actively destroying my emotional stability.
"Cut."
Nobody moves immediately. Thatâs new. Usually actors break tension the second a scene ends. But she and I remain still half a second longer than normal. Long enough for Harper to mutter:
"Oh, this is catastrophic."
Robert answers without missing a beat:
"Yeah, but visually⊠incredible."
Harper shoots him a murderous look.
"You are the worst emotional support system imaginable."
"And yet people still invite me places."
Rachel approaches carefully, like someone nearing unstable chemicals.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Thatâs the version."
Sam stands immediately.
"That is exactly the version."
He points at us.
"That hesitation right before contact? Keep it. Donât clean it up."
Y/N finally steps back. So do I. The air rushes back into the room all at once, and suddenly everyone starts moving again.
Crew. Lights. Voices. Reality. But the damage is already done. Because Sam found exactly what he was looking for. And the worst part is that neither of us had to invent it.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Chapter 6 · What Still Exists Between Us
We repeat the exercises three, four times. On the fourth, Richardâs hand lifts toward the mark for the caress barely a centimeter and betrays him by a millimeter; it brushes one of my fingers. Itâs nothing. But at the same time, itâs everything.
"Richard, careful," Rachel snaps immediately, dryly. "We cross that line tomorrow."
"Sorry," he says, but he isnât saying it to her.
I glance at him discreetly. For a second I think I see the smallest smile. A little ironic. A little tired. A little⊠ours.
We continue.
The scene starts settling into place like a bone sliding back where it belongs. When Rachel finally says:
"Thatâs enough for today."
My muscles arenât shaking. The parts of me you canât see are. I feel like Iâve run a marathon. This is definitely the worst idea Iâve had in decades. It isnât a professional risk.
Itâs elegant suicide.
I canât help watching him when he turns and walks toward the cart set a few feet beyond the rehearsal marks, filled with water bottles, protein bars, and mediocre food designed to keep actors functional during inhuman workdays.
Iâm grateful for the cold water.
But Iâm even more grateful for the useful silence.
The studio lights are starting to feel like midsummer directly above my head, and Iâm grateful I took two painkillers before coming here. I rub the back of my neck for half a second before looking up and finding Sam watching us.
He hasnât moved.
Heâs standing at the back of the room as if heâs watching a scene only he completely understands. Thatâs exactly what makes me nervous. Because he understands nothing, and somehow heâs still seeing far too much.
I look at him. Then Richard looks too, surprised, a bottle suspended halfway to his mouth.
"I want memory. Think about something you can give your characters, not something you have to take away from them."
His eyes move from me to him like scalpels searching for an exact scar he still hasnât found. He takes a breath.
"Do you know what the problem between you two is?"
Neither of us answers. I keep my eyes fixed on Sam. Richard does too.
"You donât know how to fake memory. Neither of you. Up until now youâve been trying to hide it, and the camera is going to betray you the second we hit close-ups. So⊠outside this room," he continues, leaning back, "do whatever you want, with whoever you want, but in here I need truth. The kind neither of you wants to give me yet."
He pauses. The room turns cold even though the air conditioning has been dead for hours. I blink just to make sure Iâm still breathing. Because he doesnât know. Nobody knows, and still every word lands dangerously close to something real.
I donât know whether heâs talking to the characters or to me. Iâd bet Richard doesnât know either. Sam leans forward again.
"Again from the top."
Break over. Back to positions.
Again.
And again.
A bead of sweat slips down the back of my neck. The room turns suffocating. I drag my tongue across my lips â an involuntary habit that always appears when Iâm nervous â and even though Rachel says nothing, Sam notices.
Of course he notices. That man is a brilliant vulture.
"Stop holding back," he insists sharply. "That doesnât help anyone. If youâve got something to lose, put it here. Otherwise the scene will be anything but real."
Silence. Nobody breathes. Nobody answers. I look at Richard. He gives me a brief glance back. Trapped just like I am.
Weâre trapped inside a job we were probably never actually prepared for.
"Did you understand?" Sam pushes again, more irritated this time.
I know exactly why he is. Heâs still chasing the chemistry he saw during the camera test. That strange tension he wanted for Trinity. What he doesnât understand is that we arenât building anything.
Weâre trying to contain it.
"Yes," we answer almost at the same time.
Something uncomfortable slips into that yes. Something fractured. As we repeat another pass, I start remembering things that donât belong to the script.
Richard removing his makeup in the hotels we shared for years.
The sound of his key turning in my apartment door as if he had always belonged there. His shoes abandoned across my living room whenever he spent weekends with me.
The way I used to lean toward him inside late-night taxis pretending I wasnât doing it. He was always my favorite magnet. I know exactly when those memories start affecting the scene because I see the corner of Samâs mouth twitch slightly, satisfied. But it doesnât last.
Because then the memory changes.
I reach the last things we said to each other before we separated.
Dry words.
Cold ones.
His distance turned into a weapon. His inability to stay. My body still remembers the warmth of his laugh, but it also remembers the coldness with which he left.
The truth Sam wants is the one thing I canât give him. Because what hurts isnât the scene.
Itâs remembering something that once didnât need a script.
Suddenly Richard exhales far too hard. I notice it. Everyone notices it. Sam leans forward again and studies us once more.
"A polite yes doesnât help me when your bodies are saying something else."
His voice rises an octave higher than usual. Absolute silence.
"If either of you canât handle this, tell me now. Iâd rather have honest discomfort than elegant lies on camera."
The back of my neck burns. I press my lips together. Richard lowers his gaze, uncomfortable. Neither of us answers. Then Sam smiles without warmth, like someone confirming a suspicion.
"Thatâs what I thought."
He stands slowly.
"Back in two minutes."
We need water. Oxygen. Something. I watch Richard grab a bottle with the faintest tremor in his fingers, then I watch the grip change â steadier now â as he looks ahead with a calmness that tells me heâs decided to commit fully to his professional suicide.
He walks toward me.
"Y/NâŠ"
His voice comes out lower than normal, rough. Because he knows perfectly well what he needs to tell me, and somehow itâs still uncomfortable saying it out loud, saying it to me.
"Youâre thinking too much."
I lift my gaze toward him. His eyes are bright. Blue like the sky right after rain. That brightness I thought Iâd buried years ago. I swallow hard.
"Donât think about it. Forget everyone else and just focus on looking at me."
His eyes stay locked on mine when he says it.
"Just me," he repeats more quietly, making sure I understand exactly what he means.
I bite my lip. I donât answer. I just nod half a millimeter.
But I know itâs enough.
Two minutes of truth to survive the rest of the rehearsal. It isnât a formal agreement. It feels more like a truce.
We return to our marks, and this time something changes. Holding the tension hurts, and it works. The exercise comes out cleaner. Less trapped behind clenched teeth. He stops looking at me with that insolent calm he uses as a defense mechanism.
He gives half a centimeter. Moves close enough. I think Iâm going to step back, but I donât. I just follow him, and suddenly the air thickens. The tension forms on its own.
Not like script. Not like technique. But like something built by two people carrying too many memories between them and using all of it as raw material to construct fiction.
"Thatâs it⊠keep it there," Sam says softly. "Donât touch it yet. Let the waiting hurt."
The silence lasts longer than before. I can hear our breathing blending together. What everyoneâs watching no longer looks like acting.
It looks like survival.
Rachel lifts a hand.
"Cut."
Sam leans forward slowly.
Satisfied.
"See? This is what Iâm looking for. You donât have to act something that already exists. You just have to let it out."
Richard swallows hard. I, meanwhile, understand something worse:
we just placed a mirror in the middle of the set and I still donât know how well weâre going to survive our own reflection.
"Thatâs enough for today. Great work, both of you," Rachel says with a smile.
I step away immediately.
"I need food," I mutter.
Because itâs a factual reality that I need sugar not to pass out and ibuprofen because my head feels like itâs about to explode. Richard probably needs caffeine, because he leaves the set in a hurry. I couldâve stayed in my trailer, but I donât. When I see Richard heading into the studio cafeteria, I follow him.
The menu is depressing even by production standards: lukewarm burgers, indefensible coffee, and sad salads.
He sits at the only open spot. Thereâs a chair beside him.
I sit down like I havenât overthought the decision. We donât speak at first. I focus my attention on a burger that looks clinically dead. He stirs his coffee as if heâs trying to hypnotize it.
The conversation appears on its own.
"Do you miss London?" I ask finally, like someone testing water temperature before stepping in.
Richard lifts one eyebrow slightly.
"Sometimes. But houses here donât rain indoors."
"People donât eat properly here," I correct, pressing my thumb into the bun with resignation.
"You never ate properly. Donât use the English as an excuse."
A laugh slips out of me.
Real.
Awkward.
The kind only he ever managed to get from me. I clear my throat immediately afterward to cover it up. I remind him of the underground bar he took me to years ago.
I say:
"Unsanitary."
He says:
"Romantic."
Now heâs the one laughing. Then the inevitable silence arrives. I take a breath. I donât look directly at him when he speaks to me; I keep focusing on the dead burger in front of me.
"You know weâre not going to be able to hide this much longer."
I stop moving the wrapper when I hear him.
"Hide what?" I ask back.
"Whateverâs happening between us in there. It shows." he says, stirring his coffee again.
Classic refuge.
"I donât know what youâre talking about."
He laughs without humor.
"The camera doesnât lie. You know it. I know it. Sam knows it."
Now Iâm the one who smiles faintly.
Dry. Defensive.
"They pay us an obscene amount of money to pretend, Richard. That is literally the job."
He lifts his gaze toward me.
"And thatâs exactly what weâre going to do," I insist.
I pause without looking away from him.
"Pretend," I add.
The word hangs between us.
"For whatever else youâre suggesting, the studio budget wouldnât even cover it." I conclude.
I stand up.
"Donât confuse yourself. Whatever we had died ten years ago when you got on that plane back to London."
I make it clear, then leave the rest of the sad lunch untouched. He doesnât contradict me, doesnât follow me, doesnât stand up with me. I leave everything suspended there.
Around that word: us.
The word that doesnât exist and still feels far too alive.
Clara intercepts me the second I step off set.
She doesnât even manage a proper hello before hooking her arm through mine and dragging me toward the side hallway near the wardrobe trailers.
"I need to warn you about something before you find out through Variety and hate me," she says.
I look at her, exhausted.
"That narrows the options considerably."
Clara sighs like someone whoâs spent far too many years putting out other peopleâs fires.
"The studio wants to market you two as a package."
I blink.
"Excuse me?"
"Chemistry. Dramatic reunion, even if technically you never reunited⊠âTwo intense performers sharing the screen.â You know how these people work."
Of course I do. We havenât even shot a single official scene yet and already weâre marketing strategy. Product. Narrative. Promotional content. I lean against the wall trying not to feel nauseous.
"How romantic. Do the fries come included or does that depend on the budget?"
Clara laughs. Thank God. Because I desperately need somebody to laugh or Iâm going to end up punching an HBO executive.
"Donât make that face. Iâve seen worse campaigns."
"Yeah, but worse campaigns usually donât involve destroying my emotional stability before nine in the morning."
"That wasnât in the contract."
"It shouldâve been."
Clara laughs again and for a second it softens how grotesque it feels to become merchandise the moment you sign onto a major series.
Then I notice movement at the end of the hallway.
Richard.
Heâs walking toward us with that absurd way he has of looking relaxed even when he clearly isnât. I hate him a little for still looking that good under murderous fluorescent lighting.
"Whatâs going on?" he asks as soon as he reaches us.
Clara and I exchange a quick glance.
From the way heâs looking at us, I know immediately he understands the topic involves him. Of course he does. He always understood things connected to me far too quickly. Clara jumps in before I can answer.
"The studio wants to market you two as a promotional package."
Richard blinks once. Just once. But I notice it. Because I know his microexpressions far too well.
"Ah," he says finally.
That ah carries exactly the right amount of Scottish exhaustion to make me want to laugh and strangle him simultaneously.
"Congratulations," I tell him. "Now we come with executive combo meals included."
Richard lets out a short laugh through his nose.
"Hopefully it at least comes with a large drink."
Clara shakes her head.
"I hate both of you."
"Not more than we do," I mutter.
That makes her sigh again. Then she checks the time.
"Wardrobe in twenty. And please try not to look emotionally divorced during interviews."
Richard and I answer at the exact same time:
"No promises."
Clara closes her eyes.
"Perfect. Iâm quitting."
She walks away before we can keep tormenting her. The silence she leaves behind changes temperature immediately.
Richard stays beside me, leaning against the wall.
Too close.
Again.
I still donât understand how there can be so much physical space and so little air at the same time.
"âPromotional package,â" he murmurs eventually. "How romantic."
"Hollywood ruins even tragedies."
That pulls another small smile out of him. And there it is again, the real problem:
I still like making him laugh. Far too much. Richard tilts his head slightly toward me.
"Could be worse."
"Donât say that. The universe takes it as a challenge."
He watches me one second too long. I look away first. Because my body still reacts before logic does. Because I still know exactly what it feels like when Richard Madden looks at me too long, and because I desperately need to remember weâre inside a studio full of people.
Another producer appears from the other end of the hallway, saving us from ourselves.
"Wardrobe. Now."
Thank God.
Half an hour later Iâm standing in front of the fitting-room mirror while three different people decide what kind of woman Iâm supposed to look like today.
âPowerful.â
âIntimidating.â
âElegant.â
âApproachable.â
Hollywood always wants women to be five contradictions simultaneously.
Someone adjusts a perfectly structured dark blazer on me while another person pins the hem of my skirt.
Then Richard walks into wardrobe, and the damn suit looks obscenely good on him. Of course it does. Because the universe clearly enjoys humiliating me. Heâs wearing dark grey. Restrained. Clean. Dangerous.
The kind of clothes that donât attract attention until he walks into a room and suddenly everybody understands whoâs in control.
The designer motions us closer together to check camera proportions.
"I need to see you both under the same visual line."
Perfect. Exactly what I needed to survive the day. Richard steps beside me in front of the mirror. Shoulder to shoulder. Without touching. The problem is I donât need contact to notice his presence. The reflection gives back a strange image: us.
But also the characters. Two people about to make a terrible and probably inevitable decision. The designer adjusts my sleeve. Then Richardâs lapel. She steps back, satisfied.
"Yes. This works very well."
Of course it does. Thatâs exactly the disaster. Richard moves his hand slightly and his fingers brush mine for half a second. Accidental to anyone watching from outside. Not to us. The body notices things the rest of the world never sees.
He disguises it by adjusting his lapel. I straighten a strap that clearly doesnât need fixing.
Old reflexes. Old defenses.
Nobody says anything. Nobody else seems to notice the microscopic shift in the air. But we do. We always do. Richard tilts his head slightly without taking his eyes off the mirror.
"You were always better at pretending to be normal than I was."
My heart gives one completely unnecessary blow. Because I hate when he talks like that. Low. Calm. Like some private language still exists between us. I keep adjusting the nonexistent strap. I donât answer, and he immediately understands what my silence means.
Limit. Distance. Survival. Either we do this right or we donât do it at all.
The designer keeps talking about fabric tones and camera contrast, completely oblivious to the tiny emotional war happening in front of her mirror. Iâm profoundly grateful for that ignorance.
Because so far nobody knows. And I desperately need it to stay that way.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 5 · Invisible Border
I wake up in my Los Angeles apartment knowing that today Iâm really going to see her for the first time.
Not in a photograph. Not on a cast list. Not on a production call.
In a room.
I say apartment and it sounds generic, but it isnât. Itâs in West Hollywood, inside one of those modern buildings where everything feels too clean to feel completely lived in. Polished concrete. Massive windows. Pale wood. Expensive silence. Iâve had this place for years, even though I spend more time coming and going than actually living in it. London is still home. This is⊠functional residency. The place where I leave clothes, scripts, and versions of myself I donât want to carry onto planes.
Even so, this morning the place feels different. Smaller. More aware.
I glance at the oven clock from the kitchen: 5:41 a.m.
I donât use alarms. My body still wakes up early as if I still had theatre rehearsals first thing in the morning. I lean against the counter and take inventory of who she is to me today, in this city, on this absurd morning.
One: the actress any director would dream of working with. Precise. Intelligent. Uncomfortably honest on camera.
Two: the only woman with whom silence never felt like a form of disappearing.
Three: probably the worst professional risk Iâve accepted in years.
I head for the shower. Cold water first. Warm after.
Steam fogs the mirror and I can still see the dark circles under my eyes. I dry my hair with a towel too rough to feel affectionate. White T-shirt. Dark jeans. Grey hoodie.
When I crack the curtain open just slightly, Los Angeles is already beginning to roar in the distance. The freeway sounds like an artificial ocean.
I make coffee.
I open the Trinity script on the kitchen island and reread notes I already know by heart.
Not full scenes. Sensations. Contained danger. Political attraction. Trust slowly fracturing. The character Iâm playing doesnât seduce because he wants to. He seduces because power and intimacy start blending together until nobody understands where one ends and the other begins.
Thatâs the problem. Because that⊠that I know how to do. Far too well. I take a sip of coffee and rest the black notebook on the counter.
I write two words:
Nobody knows.
They arenât poetic. Theyâre survival instructions. I repeat them in my head like someone listening to emergency procedures before takeoff. While I force myself through breakfast without appetite, the memory of the phone call with the director weeks earlier comes back.
Sam Esmail.
Because of course someone like him would direct a series like Trinity: elegant political paranoia, psychological tension, relationships built on secrets and power.
The first time we spoke was over the phone. I was standing exactly where I am now.
"Richard," he said without preamble, "I donât need easy chemistry."
"Then what do you need?"
A brief silence.
"I need two people who look at each other like theyâve already survived something together."
That shut me up.
Not because I thought he suspected something.
Worse.
Because he had landed dangerously close to the truth without realizing it. Sam noticed my silence immediately. He always does. He has this uncomfortable way of listening to pauses as if theyâre part of the dialogue.
"Iâm not interested in empty tension," he continued. "There are actors who know how to flirt on camera and still communicate absolutely nothing. I donât want that."
I leaned against the counter, staring out at the city through the glass.
"Then what exactly do you want?"
"I want history."
I frowned.
"History?"
"Yes. The feeling that these two people carry something prior, even if the audience doesnât understand it yet. I want them to look at each other like theyâve already broken each other before the first episode."
Silence settled again.
I had to remember to breathe.
Because Sam was talking about dramatic construction. Subtext. Narrative.
He had no idea he was describing something real.
"I donât need easy romance," he continued. "I need adult emotional tension. That strange kind of shit where two people are far too aware of each other even when they arenât touching."
Direct. Irritating. Exact.
"I think the two of you could do that very well."
The two of you.
He didnât even say our names together in a suspicious way. To him it was casting. Intuition. Potential chemistry. And still, I felt the absurd urge to defend myself against something nobody was accusing me of.
"And if it doesnât work?"
Sam let out a short laugh.
"Then we donât make the series," he said with a grin.
That simple. That brutal. He stayed quiet for a few seconds before adding:
"But honestly, I donât think thatâs going to be the problem."
"No?"
"No. I think the problem is going to be getting you two not to hold back too much."
That left me completely still.
Because he still knew nothing.
Nothing.
And yet he was standing dangerously close to the exact center of something Iâve spent ten years trying to keep buried.
He never spoke to me about her directly after that. Never asked personal questions. He didnât need to. Sam isnât interested in gossip. Heâs interested in what the camera detects before people do. The worst part was that I knew exactly what he meant. Because even after ten years, just thinking about her was enough for my body to react before my mind did, and that was exactly what terrified me about this project.
Not seeing her.
Not working with her.
Recognizing her too quickly.
I didnât sleep well that night. I accepted the project anyway. Not out of bravery, but curiosity. I wanted to find out what happened when I stopped negotiating with the things that still hurt.
Ten years should be enough to turn something into the past.
Clearly, it isnât always.
I come back to the present.
Empty mug. Open script. Los Angeles waking up beyond the windows.
The coffee has gone a little cold. I finish it anyway. I pace through the apartment trying to suppress the ridiculous anxiety lodged in my chest since the moment I woke up. For the third time, I check whether Iâve got my keys. The script. My phone charger. As if forgetting something practical could distract me from what actually matters.
It doesnât work.
Because the problem isnât the rehearsal.
The problem is her.
The idea of watching her walk into a room after ten years and having to pretend my body wonât recognize her instantly.
I rest both hands on the kitchen island and close my eyes for barely a second.
Mistake.
Because memory works like an opportunistic animal.
It gives me small fragments of her.
Her asleep face-down in a hotel bed in Berlin, stealing my pillow.
Her laughing with her mouth full of fries inside a taxi in New York while the driver pretended not to recognize us.
Her walking into my London apartment without ringing the bell because she already had a key.
The ease of it.
That was the worst part. The naturalness with which she existed inside my life before everything broke apart.
I open my eyes quickly.
No.
I canât do this today. Today I need to function. I grab my keys, the script, and two painkillers I hope I wonât need. The drive to the studio takes forty minutes and feels like a military approach toward enemy territory.
Los Angeles is fully awake now. People jogging in clothes far too expensive to genuinely sweat in. Assistants talking through headsets. Trucks unloading equipment outside other studios. The sky has that pale color that comes right before the unbearable midday heat.
My agent texts:
Photographers at the main entrance. Use side access.
Production:
âChemistryâ rehearsal at 10. Sam arriving earlier.
Chemistry rehearsal, I think. What an elegant way to describe a possible emotional disaster. The driver drops me off in the underground parking structure. The second I step out of the car, Iâm hit by that mixture of concrete, cheap coffee, and overheated cables every studio seems to have.
Assistants running. Technicians moving lights. Actors pretending to be less nervous than they are. The industry functioning from early morning like a machine physically incapable of stopping. They hang the red lead-cast pass around my neck.
I spin it between my fingers while trying to control my breathing.
Four seconds breathing in. Six breathing out.
The usual mask. It hides nothing. It just organizes the chaos. Then Robert appears. Old friend. Brilliant actor. The kind of man who detects emotional problems like a trained bloodhound.
"So youâre finally going to see her."
He doesnât even say her name. He doesnât need to.
"Good morning to you too."
Robert studies me for a few seconds.
"Ten years sound poetic until the person is standing two meters away from you."
"Thanks. Very reassuring."
"Itâs not poetry. Itâs emotional logistics. Are you sure this is a good idea?"
No⊠I think, but I also donât think it matters anymore.
"Iâm here to work, Robert."
"That doesnât answer anything."
"Itâs the only answer Iâve got."
Robert sighs.
"Did you really invite her for coffee?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because I needed to know whether we could still exist in the same space without turning into ruins.
Because the coffee was never courtesy.
It was a test.
"Because if she could sit with me for an hour without running away, we can probably survive an entire season."
Robert laughs.
"You talk like youâre negotiating inside a war zone."
I donât answer.
Because thatâs exactly what this is.
Then I see her.
The entire parking structure loses focus for half a second. Dark glasses. Script pressed against her chest. Steady stride. Far too beautiful for someone who still makes me nervous at this age.
The air catches inside my left lung.
Breathe.
Let it go, I tell myself. Two meters of distance. Robert steps away before she reaches us.
We should say hello, but we donât.
"No coffee armor today?" she asks me.
She turns it into a joke before I ruin something. Thatâs very her too.
"Today I came unarmed."
"Dangerous."
"For both of us."
Thereâs a strange second.
Dense.
Ten years compressed into a ridiculously small conversation. Then she adjusts the strap of her bag.
"Ready to find out if Sam was right?"
I laugh without humor.
"Iâm not sure I want to find out."
That makes her smile faintly. Thereâs the real problem: I still know exactly how her face changes when sheâs trying to hide emotion.
I still understand the smallest language of her body. The tension in her jaw. Her breathing. The way she avoids looking directly at me when something affects her more than she wants to admit, and thatâs dangerous.
Because we know how real we were in the past, even if nobody else does, even if there were never photographs, headlines, or scandals, and we became exceptionally good at hiding ourselves even while we were in love.
Especially while we were in love.
We did break each other in the worst possible way⊠and here we are now, walking side by side into a rehearsal designed specifically to detect things that should remain invisible.
We walk into the studio together.
Reception.
Corporate smiles. Giant posters staring down at us from the walls. She clips her pass on like military uniform. I keep spinning mine between my fingers.
"Nice color," I murmur, glancing at the red plastic.
"Matches the blood," she replies.
I laugh.
I deserve that.
Rachel is already waiting for us inside the rehearsal space. No sets yet. Just marks on the floor, temporary couches, and dead cameras.
Sam, the director, sits at the back watching everything in silence. Thatâs the worst thing about him. He never looks like heâs doing anything, and yet he somehow sees far too much.
Rachel explains simple dynamics. Distance. Proximity. Rhythm. Eye contact. Synced breathing. Tools for building trust on camera.
Dangerous tools for people who already had far too much real trust.
"Today weâre not rehearsing scenes," Rachel says. "Just proximity. Rhythm. Breathing. We need to figure out where comfort exists and where tension begins."
Perfect.
Exactly the hell I imagined.
Rachel tapes blue marks onto the floor.
You here.
You there.
Step closer.
Stop.
Step back.
Look at each other.
Again.
Everything seems absurdly simple until you realize that standing close to someone you once loved can feel more intimate than touching them.
"Donât think about the characters yet," Sam says from the back. "Just exist together in the space."
Easy thing to say when youâre not the one whoâs spent ten years avoiding exactly that.
Y/N stands in front of me.
Two steps away. I can barely smell her perfume. Soft woods. Tea. Something citrusy. My body remembers before my mind does. It was always like that with her.
Rachel starts guiding us through absurdly innocent exercises. Maintaining eye contact. No talking. Breathing in sync. Walking toward each other and stopping before touching.
Everything clinical. Professional. Everything dangerously close to something real.
"Again," Rachel says.
We walk back toward our marks. We stop closer this time, and thatâs when it happens.
That tiny invisible shift. The tension. Not acting. Not nostalgia either, but recognition.
Sam straightens slightly in his chair because he notices immediately. Of course he notices. But he doesnât understand what heâs actually seeing, and thatâs killing me. Because to him this is cinematic instinct. For us itâs muscle memory.
"That," he says softly. "Donât force it. Itâs already there."
The silence between us changes density. Y/N holds my gaze one second longer than normal.
Mistake.
Because suddenly memories come rushing back that should not exist here. Her laughing in London while leaving shoes scattered all over my apartment. The way she leaned against my shoulder inside taxis at night pretending she wasnât doing it. Her fingers removing makeup in front of hotel mirrors in places where we half-lived together. The absurd feeling of waking up and finding her still asleep while the city kept existing outside.
And then the last things come back too.
The distance. The cold. The flight home. The version of myself that chose to leave. Sam keeps watching us as if heâs just confirmed some dangerous theory.
"Again," he says.
And we repeat it.
Closer.
Slower.
The air starts feeling far too thick.
Y/N exhales sharply. I notice the faint tremor in her fingers. Rachel says nothing. Sam says nothing either. Theyâre watching us discover something in real time, and the most terrifying part is that they think theyâre creating it.
"Stop trying to hold back," Sam finally says. "The camera always knows when someone is hiding something."
Absolute silence. And thatâs when I understand the real purpose of this rehearsal. They donât want to build chemistry. They want to confirm whether it exists, and the worst part is that it does.
â ïž DISCLAIMER & CONTENT WARNING: This is a work of fiction that, while it may reference real public figures, does not represent their real behavior, actions, or relationships; all events and dialogues are entirely invented for entertainment, with no disrespect or harm intended, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes and is intended for readers 18+ only; reader discretion is advised. It is also a reader-insert narrative, meaning YOU (Y/N â Your Name) are the protagonist in a fictional relationship with a celebrity character.
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Chapter 4 · Ghosts
The night moved slowly.
Not in that romantic way indie films portray, where city lights look like fallen stars and the right song appears exactly when someone needs to understand something about themselves. No. The night moved with the real rhythm of uncomfortable things: slow, uneven, far too aware.
I stayed sitting on the balcony long after the tea stopped steaming.
Below, the cars traced lines of light between the buildings. Traffic lights changed color as if the city were breathing on its own, indifferent to the fact that my world had shifted a few inches toward a dangerous place.
That was the worst part. Nothing had exploded. There was no fight. No tears. Not even a confession. Just coffee.
Just Richard sitting across from me, looking at me as if time hadnât quite finished doing its job.
I rested the cup against the balcony railing and closed my eyes for a second.
Mistake.
Because the second I did, that absurdly physical sensation that had followed me all afternoon came rushing back: the exact awareness of him. The texture of his voice. The way he rested his elbows on the table. The pause before asking if I still hated him.
Fourteen years.
And still my body reacted as if it had learned his language before anyone elseâs.
I opened my eyes quickly.
The city was still there. Dark blue. Distant. Real.
So was I.
Thatâs what I kept trying to tell myself as I walked back into the apartment.
The cold floor beneath my bare feet. The soft sound of the balcony door sliding shut behind me. The floor lamp barely lighting the living room. The script still sitting on the table, lying open diagonally like an unfinished conversation.
I didnât want to think anymore. I truly didnât.
I went to the kitchen only because I needed something to do with my hands. I washed the cup even though it didnât need washing yet. Let the water run longer than necessary. Opened the refrigerator without being hungry. Closed it again. Leaned against the counter and breathed.
Silence. Too much silence.
I had spent years learning to enjoy it. After the tours, the hotels, the reporters, the endless lights, silence had become a luxury. A private form of survival.
But that night it wasnât silence. It was echo.
I changed clothes slowly. Old sweatshirt. Thick socks. Hair tied back carelessly. I tried to convince myself it helped, as if domestic comfort could neutralize what had happened that afternoon.
It didnât work.
Because the second I sat down on the couch, I looked at the script again.
Trinity.
The black cover. The white lettering. The office scene folded at the corner. I picked it up before deciding to do it.
Mistake number two.
I opened it directly to the marked page.
BERLIN â NIGHT
Him:
"Not everything that looks like betrayal actually is."
Her:
"Then explain why the names disappear right after you authorize them."
I laughed quietly. Fucking bastards, those writers. I wasnât even sure they fully understood what they had written or if theyâd simply gotten lucky. Because that was exactly what had always been dangerous about Richard and me: it was never the obvious intensity. Never the screaming matches or grand reconciliations.
It was the tension.
The constant feeling that something important was happening even when neither of us spoke. I closed the script. Too late. I was already thinking about him again. About how much he had changed.
More restrained. Quieter. More of a man. But underneath all of it, Richard was still there. The real one. The one who touched the back of his neck when something mattered too much. The one who looked away for half a second before saying something honest. The one who made jokes precisely when a conversation became unbearably intimate.
I stood abruptly. I needed something else. I opened the bottle of wine the way someone opens a diary: already knowing the pages are going to hurt.
The corkscrew scraped against the glass. The cork came free with a soft sigh and, for a second, the sound filled too much of the apartment.
I poured a glass.
Just one.
I left my bag on the dining chair and the script on the table, still marked with sticky notes and folded corners. The office scene remained open. Berlin. The door closing. The suspended breath between two people who no longer know if they can still trust each other.
I laughed softly. What irony.
I took the glass and dropped onto the couch, still wearing my socks. Outside, Los Angeles kept breathing with that artificial calm cities have when they never fully sleep. Distant lights. Muted sirens. The constant murmur of traffic drifting through the half-open balcony door.
But inside the apartment there was silence.
Too much.
The problem with reconnecting with someone who knew your younger self isnât nostalgia.
Itâs the body. The body remembers things the mind learns to archive. The way Richard ran a hand over his beard when he felt uncomfortable. The way he avoided interrupting when he was truly listening. How he lowered his voice when something genuinely mattered to him.
Fourteen years later and I would still recognize his breathing from the other side of a room.
I took a sip of wine. Then another, and eventually the inevitable happened: my mind started filling in the empty spaces on its own.
Not present-day Richard.
The other one.
The twenty-year-old version.
The one who still walked like he didnât know what to do with his arms. The one who blushed if I looked at him too long. The one who pretended confidence while clearly falling hopelessly in love.
I closed my eyes for a second. Mistake. Because that was all it took for the memory to come back whole.
The first time.
It hadnât been planned. None of our things ever were.
We were friends. Or something close enough to friendship that we could comfortably lie to ourselves.
We had spent the night in a rented apartment in New York after an exhausting shooting day. Pizza boxes lay open on the coffee table, along with two glasses of cheap wine and a wrinkled script covered in fluorescent highlights.
Richard was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, legs stretched out, wearing that slouched posture that always made him seem younger than he was.
We were both twenty, but I still didnât understand the danger of a man looking at me as if I were a person beneath all the machinery.
I climbed down from the couch and sat beside him on the rug, resting my back against the wooden frame.
"What are you doing?" he asked, smiling faintly, never taking his eyes off me.
"Company."
He turned his head just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. The warmth of his body slipped through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"That sounds suspiciously intimate."
"Not everything has to be so complicated."
The television was still on with the sound muted. Blue and gray lights flickered rhythmically across the dim apartment, drawing long shadows on the walls. Outside, it was snowing. I remember because New York felt quieter than usual, a mute city under the weight of winter, and because Richard had spent hours talking passionately about some absurd scene from the shoot.
I was tired. He was too. You could feel the weight of the day in our eyelids, in the looseness of our muscles. Maybe thatâs why we stopped pretending.
I donât remember who leaned in first. I only remember the exact instant the air between us became dense, electric, and I understood that if I kissed him there would be no going back, and I did it anyway.
The first kiss was clumsy, a hesitant collision of dry lips, the awkward scrape of teeth. The second wasnât. Richard held my face with a gentleness that still hurts to remember; his fingers, cold from the room, tangled into my hair, holding me as if he were convinced I might disappear if he startled me.
After that, everything happened too quickly and too slowly at the same time.
The walk became a clumsy stumble of bare feet down the dark hallway, our mouths never separating. A nervous, muffled laugh vibrated against my lips when we hit the bedroom doorframe. The room was colder here, but urgency erased the temperature.
A dull creak sounded when we fell onto the mattress. Hands that had moved timidly before turned impatient, clumsy with buttons and seams. The sound of fabric being dragged aside and bare skin against heavy cotton sheets filled the room, weaving together with the increasingly uneven rhythm of our breathing.
I shivered when his hands slid over my sides, a warm pressure leaving trails of goosebumps behind. The friction of our bodies, the shared dampness of kisses moving down my neck, the accumulated tension transformed the space into something claustrophobic and perfect. It was a back-and-forth of weight and teenage awkwardness, the rough scrape of his unshaven jaw against my shoulder, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress while we tried to figure out how to fit together.
Every muffled sound got trapped between our mouths, a muted echo competing with the distant hiss of the heater. It was messy and intense, marked by inexperience and accumulated hunger, until the rhythm slowed in one final shared effort that left us exhausted, our pulses hammering in our throats.
Then silence returned to the room. Richard propped himself up on one elbow, staring at me through the darkness, hair a mess, chest rising and falling sharply, as if something impossible had just happened to him.
I stayed lying beside him, feeling the sweat cooling on my skin, trying to catch my breath while the ceiling seemed to spin. That was when Richard let out a low laugh, a rough sound that shattered the solemnity of the moment.
I turned my head toward him, cheek sinking into the ruined pillow.
"What are you laughing at?"
He covered part of his face with one hand, still smiling.
"Itâs just⊠this makes no sense."
"Very romantic of you."
"No, Iâm serious." He turned toward me. "I feel like the class nerd who, because of some cosmic mistake, just got kissed by the prom queen in the middle of the gym."
I laughed so hard I ended up hiding my face against his chest.
"Prom queen? Richard, I grew up working. I didnât have dances."
"You know exactly what I mean."
I lifted my head. And there was that look. The dangerous one. The honest one.
"You were always impossible to me," he admitted quietly. "You were already⊠you."
Something strange shifted inside me. Because nobody talked to me like that back then. Everyone talked about the star. The phenomenon. The contract. The numbers.
Richard talked about me.
"You just made me feel ancient."
He laughed.
"Not ancient. Just⊠unreachable."
"Since when have you thought that?"
He hesitated briefly.
"Since I was fifteen."
I stared at him incredulously.
"Jesus Christ. That makes you sound dangerously obsessive."
"I probably was."
I smiled. Then we stayed there. Quiet. My head resting on his chest. His hand absently playing with my hair. As if the world outside werenât waiting to destroy us sooner or later. But even then â there, inside those younger and stupider versions of ourselves â there was something I understand better now.
Richard never treated me like a fantasy. That was incredibly rare back then.
By twenty, I had already spent years learning to distrust people who got too close too quickly. Executives. Producers. Actors. Musicians. People fascinated more by the noise surrounding me than by me.
Richard was different. Not because he was perfect. God knew he wasnât.
He was emotionally chaotic. Stubborn. Proud. Capable of disappearing into himself for days whenever something overwhelmed him. But with me⊠with me he had this clumsy honesty that completely undid me.
I remember something else from that night.
After we had been quiet for a while, he lifted his head slightly and asked:
"Are you scared?"
The question surprised me.
"Of what?"
Richard shrugged lightly.
"That this might ruin something."
I thought about it for a second. Snow kept falling outside. The heater clicked intermittently. The television continued throwing silent light across the ceiling. And for the first time in a very long time, I didnât feel alone.
"Yes," I answered finally. "A lot."
He nodded as if he understood perfectly. Because he probably was scared too. We were too young to handle something like that. Too exposed. Too starved for affection. Too good at pretending we could control the damage.
Richard shifted slightly toward me after that.
"We can stop."
That sentence still breaks me even now. Because he meant it. Not as manipulation. Not as strategy. He was giving me an exit. And I was the one who shook my head.
"I donât want to stop."
He looked at me for a few more seconds. Then he kissed me again. Slower this time. As if he already knew he was going to fall in love with me and wanted it anyway. I opened my eyes suddenly.
The apartment reappeared around me.
The wineglass was still in my hand. The script still lay on the table, and Richard⊠Richard was still under my skin in a way that clearly never fully left.
I took another sip of wine.
Slowly.
As if I could trick my body into believing the warmth was coming from somewhere else.
I stood from the couch and walked to the window.
Los Angeles kept moving below. People walking into restaurants. Taxis stopping. Couples laughing on sidewalks. An ambulance cutting across the avenue with its lights flashing.
Life kept going.
Mine should too. And yet there I was, nearly forty years old, thinking about a man who still had the absurd power to alter my breathing just by looking at me over a cup of coffee.
I leaned against the cold glass.
Maybe Emily had been right years ago. Maybe some people never become ghosts. Maybe they simply learn how to live quietly inside you, and that was far more dangerous.
Because ghosts, at least, belong to the past. Richard didnât feel like the past.
That was the problem. He felt suspended. Like a conversation interrupted halfway through an important sentence. I closed my eyes again. This time the hospital didnât appear.
Nor the breakup. Not even the songs. Instead, it was Richard laughing against my neck in that New York apartment while snow fell outside and we were still far too young to understand how long a wound could last.
I opened my eyes quickly.
No.
That path was dangerous. Because memory has something perverse about it: it edits. It trims away the cruelest edges. Softens abandonment. Turns silences that actually destroyed things into something poetic.
Richard broke me too. I couldnât forget that just because he still looked at me like I mattered. I finished the wine in one swallow. The apartment was warm. Quiet. Safe. And still, I felt strangely exposed. As if the real danger wasnât seeing him again.
