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delivzz · 17 days ago

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STOP ITS HAPPENING EVERYONE

࿐𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃- 𝐜𝐡.𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

⚢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆— Actress!Ellie x Actress!Reader

⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — a promise made under lamplight helps you survive: you were going to be stars, or at least work hard enough to try. But stardom doesn’t save you. It exposes you. Two weeks after the leak detonates their past into pixels and headlines, the fallout is nuclear and love—old, new, broken, bruised—won’t stay in its box. Old flames ache, new ones flicker, and when one last script lands like a match in gasoline, everyone has to ask—who gets to tell the story now?

⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 14,6k

⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — chaotic and dialogue-heavy, funny moments, vulnerability, post-leak trauma, grief spiral, depressive episode, alcohol use, smut references (Ellie x reader/ Ellie x Dina), yearning as a disease, crying on friends, Chris, Rachel and Jesse being chaotic saviors, queer shame, outing (non-consensual), media harassment, past family trauma, i love snitching comedy in devastation, multiple POVs, AFAB!reader. minors and men DNI.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⭒࿐

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟

𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐲, 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.”

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝒕𝒘𝒐 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 →

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑤𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛, 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑟, 𝑛𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛, 𝑛𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑...”

𝐓he tripod was crooked, as always.

One leg shorter than the others so the camera leaned just slightly, catching the room at a tilt, like even technology was conspiring to remind you that your life had never been level. Ellie crouched on the floor, twisting the plastic knob to tighten the hinge, muttering something under her breath about how Craigslist had robbed her blind for a hundred bucks.

It was the same camera. The same one that had caught the flush of your cheeks under her, the grainy sound of your laughter spilling against her throat, the sweat on your skin.

But now it was going to catch something else: two kids too in love and too broke to know any better, trying to convince faceless strangers on the other side of a casting call that they could be anybody but themselves.

“Okay,” Ellie said, standing up with a little grunt, brushing her palms against her jeans. She tilted her head at you, eyes glinting in the lamp-light. “You go first.”

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, script pages trembling slightly in your hands. The scene was supposed to be for a low-budget horror—something about a group of friends in a cabin, a killer, and the role you were auditioning for was the scream queen who lives long enough to deliver the final blow. The paper smelled faintly of printer ink and dust, like everything else in the apartment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled, tucking your hair behind your ear, already nervous.

“Like what?” Ellie smirked, plopping herself on the couch cushions and leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“Like you’re about to roast me.”

She grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Baby, I would never. You’re the star of the show.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the laugh still slipped out, delicate and unwilling. You lifted the first line, let it drop from your mouth, but the words sounded wooden in the stale air. Your hands fidgeted, your throat felt tight.

Ellie tilted her head. “Hey. Don’t think so much. Just—say it like you’d actually say it. Like—fuck the lines, ya’ know?”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” you muttered, pressing the edge of the script to your lips, half-hiding your smile.

Ellie leaned back, hands spread wide as if she was magnanimous. “Fine. Watch me then.”

She snatched the script out of your lap and flopped dramatically onto the floor, rolling onto her back with one hand pressed to her chest.

“No, Jason, don’t go in there!” she wailed, voice high and absurd, “The killer is—” She broke off into laughter, clutching her stomach. “Okay, okay, maybe not like that.”

You dissolved too, falling sideways into the cushions, tears stinging at the edges of your eyes from laughing so hard. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” she said simply, rolling onto her side, chin propped up on her hand. She was looking at you with that expression—the one that made your stomach flip every single time, hey green eyes glinting when they caught yours.

The laughter softened. Your smile lingered as you adjusted your posture, script crumpling in your lap. You tried again, this time looking past the words, trying to imagine the terror, the grief. It was shaky, but it was something. Ellie nodded, her mouth twitching upward.

“Better,” she murmured. “But…” Her eyes sharpened, mischief curling at the corners.

“You remember when you didn’t get Glinda in junior year?”

The words hit like a pinprick. You froze, blinking at her.

“Ellie.”

“Hey, don’t kill me,” she said quickly, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying… you cried so hard. Like—ugly cried. And that’s the kind of energy we need here.”

You swatted at her knee with the back of your hand, but the memory already bubbled up—the fluorescent lights of the auditorium, the squeak of sneakers on stage, the name called that wasn’t yours. You’d walked home that day with your throat raw and your face blotchy, Ellie trailing behind you the whole way. She cracked the most stupid jokes ever heard every step, failing to keep you from collapsing completely.

You swallowed, blinking fast. “Fuck you.”

“Perfect,” Ellie leaned forward. “Do it again.”

You did. And this time, the tears flowed freely, the words catching in your throat in a manner that felt too real, too familiar. You concluded the line with your voice trembling, and Ellie’s smile shifted into something deeper—pride, wonder, love.

“See?” she whispered when the scene was done, leaning over to peck your damp lips. “Told you you’re a star.”

You shoved her shoulder lightly, “Your turn.”

Her audition was for the drama, a slow-burn suspense, the kind of role that lived and died in the silences between lines. The lead was an intelligent woman, her charm only a mask for something feral lurking beneath. Ellie sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the couch, script clutched in her hands, the corners torn from how long she’d been worrying them. She tapped it against her knee like she always did when she was restless, the rhythm betraying her nerves.

“…You sure you see me for this part?” she asked suddenly, peeking up at you through her lashes. “Feels backwards. I should be in the horror, and you in the drama.”

You leaned forward, chin propped on your palm, watching her with an expression that was half fond, half exasperated, all affection. “Babe. I know. You would rock a drama, even more than you think.”

She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but looked back at the page.

When she started, her voice was low and even, each syllable precise, as if placing bricks in a wall. It was good—controlled, careful—but it wasn’t alive. The words sat on her tongue instead of burning through it. You crossed your arms, waiting for the spark. It didn’t come.

“Too stiff,” you said flatly.

Ellie’s head snapped up, glare cutting sharp. “Oh, so you’re the expert now?”

“Yes,” you said, completely deadpan, stretching the word out like it was fact carved in stone. Then you lowered your voice into mercilessness. “And if you don’t put your all in this audition tape, you’re not munching for two weeks.”

Her eyes went wide, green sparking in the lamplight. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

For a beat, the room held still—the blinking red light of the camera, the hum of the old lamp, the tap of her foot against the rug. Then Ellie’s throat worked, jaw locking tight, and her eyes began to glisten. You bit your lip, fighting the laughter, but she turned back to the script with a glare sharp enough to split you open.

When she spoke again, her voice cracked—just slightly, just enough to bleed.

You smiled as she finished, clapping slowly, your smile syrup-sweet. “Damn, babe. That was incredible. Guess threats work better than encouragement.”

Ellie tossed the script down like it had betrayed her, cheeks flushed, eyes still wet. “You’re evil.”

“And you love me.”

Her sigh was long, dramatic, like she was carrying the weight of the entire world. Then she leaned back until her head landed in your lap with a thunk, staring up at you upside down. “Yeah, but that doesn't mean that i'm wrong.”

You laughed, reaching for the camera and flicking it off; the red light died, leaving only the warm glow of the lamp. The sudden stillness felt sacred. No blinking lens, no silent witness, just you and her and the hush of a city filtering in through cracked windows.

Your fingers slipped into her auburn hair, twisting gently through the strands until her eyes softened, still glistening from the performance you’d dragged out of her. She let them fall shut with a sigh, as if the world had finally gone quiet.

Ellie then cracked one eye open, her gaze catching yours. “We’re gonna get these parts,”

You snorted. “One of us, if we’re lucky.”

“Both,” she insisted with that stubborn fire of hers. “Because the universe owes us. Because we’re fucking unstoppable.”

You bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Fine. But if I don’t, the munching ban goes into effect.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. Curling into your stomach, cheek pressed against you, she muttered, “Oh. So you hate me.”

“I could never,” Your voice almost whispered, as your fingers threaded idly through her hair. She stayed in your lap, one arm crooked behind her head, the other draped possessively across your thigh—territory she had claimed years ago, never needing to renegotiate.

The lamplight made everything seem delicate — the sweep of her lashes, the scatter of freckles across her temple, the slight sheen of her bitten lip. She looked impossibly young and impossibly certain, her body heavy against yours, her breathing steady. She looked impossibly real.

“What happens when we’re famous?” you asked suddenly. The question slipped out quiet, tentative, as if voicing it might shatter the moment.

Ellie cracked her other eye open, squinting up at you. “When,” she repeated, slightly mocking.

“Yes, when,” you countered, flicking her forehead. “Play along, loser.”

She smirked, closing her eyes again as if to see the future better that way. “Okay… when we’re famous… we live in some glass house in the Hills. The kind everyone pretends is modern, but really it’s just a giant fish tank.”

You tipped your head back against the couch, laughing. “And we get robbed instantly ‘cause everyone can see our shit.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “But we don’t care, because we’re making ten million a film.”

“Ten?” you gasped, feigning outrage. “Ellie, please. Think bigger. Hundreds. They’ll be throwing Oscars at us.”

She hummed like she was weighing the math. “Fine. Hundreds. And we get matching Oscars, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed.

The room went quiet again, filled only with the hum of the fridge in the corner, the occasional rush of a car outside.

“We’d still be us though, right? Even if we’re… big.”

Your hand stilled in her hair when her voice came. She was nineteen, sharp and brilliant and fragile in ways you didn’t know how to shield. You tilted your head down until your eyes caught hers.

“Yeah,” you said, sure in that way you only are when you’re young and in love. “Still us. Always us.”

She blinked at you, as if imprinting the promise, then smiled that crooked, lopsided smile that you loved. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna get famous if it means I can’t come home and eat cereal on the couch with you.”

You tugged lightly at her hair. “That’s your big dream? Cereal and a couch?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. Some people would kill for this lifestyle.” She gestured around at your crooked little apartment—the peeling wallpaper, the leaning bookshelf, the stained carpet.

You both broke into laughter, the kind that curled you over each other, the kind that made your ribs ache. When it faded, Ellie reached up blindly until her fingers laced with yours, warm and sure.

“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “we’re not letting nothing break us.”

Your throat tightened. She meant it. She always meant what she said, her words always held more certainty than time and life and destiny itself. And in that moment, with her head in your lap and the lamplight painting the room gold, you believed her.

You kissed the crown of her head. “Never,” you whispered. “We’re unstoppable, remember?”

Her smile spread slowly against your stomach. You sat like that for a long time, wrapped in a silence too full to be empty.

“Can we watch La La Land again before I have to return it?”

“You already know the answer.”

“...𝑁𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠; 𝑛𝑎𝑦, 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡.”

— 𝑱𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝑨𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝑷𝒆𝒓��𝒖𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝐓wo weeks.

That was all it had been. Two weeks since the video detonated like shrapnel through your chest, since the ground under you split open and swallowed whatever life you thought you had left.

Your apartment stopped feeling like home. It became a cage lined with shutters and blinds. The sidewalk below turned into a hunting ground, clogged from sunrise to midnight with paparazzi packed shoulder to shoulder, their cameras lifted like rifles, every lens locked on your windows.

Even the sound of them—shutters clicking, voices shouting your name, the scrape of shoes on pavement—bled through the walls until you swore you could hear it in your sleep. The first time you tried to go out for groceries, the flashes hit you so hard you staggered backward, vision spotting white. After that, you stopped trying. The fridge emptied, the air went stale, the curtains stayed drawn. Days passed without you stepping past the door frame.

The crying wouldn’t stop. It came like the tide, dragging you under at unpremeditated hours. Sometimes in bed, fists tangled in the sheets, pillow damp and clenched tight against your face. Sometimes in the shower, shoulders shaking while steam fogged the mirror, hot water beating down until your skin burned. Sometimes in the middle of the day, a sob ripping out of your chest so sudden it startled you.

You told yourself it was your career—that it was over, that the world had finally decided it had no use for you anymore. And maybe that was true.

But in the quietest hours, you knew it wasn’t just that.

The grief you couldn’t even think of without unraveling had a name and a face.

You haven’t seen Ellie since the conference room. When the doors shut, she walked one way, you walked the other, and the world made sure there was no way back.

But you can’t stop replaying every fragment: the cadence of what she said, the raw edges of what you said back, the silence that hung between like a wound that wouldn’t clot. You keep thinking about the way she smelled when you held her—same cologne you choose, threaded through with a note that was hers alone, familiar enough to undo you. The memory burns, steady and unbearable.

And you can’t stop yourself from thinking you would give anything to bury your face in her shoulder now, to press yourself into the hollow there until the rest of the world dissolved.

The agency didn’t waste time. The calls started the next day, executives huddled in glass towers you’d never set foot in, spitting words like scandal and liability. They debated cutting you loose, making you vanish before the damage bled further into their profits.

Rachel fought until her voice broke. She fought harder than you could, harder than you knew how. She shoved back until they offered what looked like mercy but tasted like ash: another contract.

You saw the clauses yourself, whispered them under your breath as you traced each line with trembling fingers. The contract was no longer about projects or opportunities, it was about control. You weren’t just theirs to sell anymore; you were theirs to stage, to sculpt, to suffocate. They called it a “rebrand.", but you knew it wasn’t rebranded.

Chris was part of that script. More standing at his side, more staged photos and red carpets, more glossy smiles and kisses pressed against his cheek for cameras you hated.

One clause said it outright: appear publicly with Christopher Parker in order to reaffirm stability and trust with the audience. Stability. Trust. Words that meant nothing and demanded everything.

Rachel tried. God, she tried. She argued across long conference tables, her voice cracking and, insisting you couldn’t be shackled to a lie forever. But the executives didn’t care. They wanted contracts honored, profits salvaged, damage reversed. They wanted to hold you tighter, not looser. And in the end, Rachel’s voice broke against a wall that wasn’t meant to move.

Chris agreed, of course. Chris always agreed. He said he didn’t mind, that it was fine, that he understood. Maybe he was pleased, maybe this was easier for him than it was for you. He said you’d get through it together. He said all the right things. And you—you were too tired to argue, too hollow to fight. You nodded, you signed, you let the ink seal the coffin.

And so your life went quiet.

Quiet except for the rumors, the comments you read and then couldn’t unsee. Threads dissecting your life in real time, strangers pulling apart your body, your choices, your past. Everyone suddenly a detective, a judge, a biographer of a life they’d never lived.

And all of it orbiting one thing: your sexuality.

A part of you wanted to scream it from the roof, to tear the curtains wide and say yes, that was me. That was her. Her. To let it stand in the open instead of festering in the shadows.

But another part of you—older, wearier, carved hollow by your family’s judgment, by your agency’s careful scripts, by even your own insecurities—knew better. Knew how dangerous honesty can be.

Even if you hate it, you can’t picture a world where you aren’t standing beside a man, can’t imagine what it would mean to face the storm without that buffer. To walk into it alone.

And so you swallowed the truth. You signed the statement. You played the part. And still, no matter what words you released into the world, people decided they already knew you. They wrote their own version of your life and handed it back to you, like you had no say in the matter at all.

Quiet. Quiet except for the mob outside your door. Quiet except for the choking hum of your own thoughts. Quiet except for the static of what you’d lost and what you’d never get back.

You’re curled on the couch, face buried in the same pillow you hadn’t washed in days, raindrops slapping against your windows when the back door creaks open. For half a second your stomach clenches—paparazzi, a break-in, the worst. Then the sound of whispered bickering floats through the hallway, the clumsy shuffle of feet, the faint clink of glass bottles.

“Shh, you’re stepping on the bag!” Rachel hisses, her voice sharp as a slap.

“I’m stepping around the bag, hoe” Chris whisper-yells back, dramatic as ever. “And by the way, this is the least stealthy operation I’ve ever been part of.”

You sit up just as they tumble into view, arms full. Rachel has three bottles of wine tucked under one arm like ammunition, a pizza box dangling precariously in the other hand. Chris trails behind her, carrying a paper bag that smells distinctly like garlic knots, his grin already too wide for the room.

“Surprise, bitch!” Rachel sings out the moment the door swings open, hip cocked, stiletto heel nudging it shut behind her with practiced flair.

Always stilettos, always. Even for a midnight ambush. Her brunette bangs blown out to perfection, her blazer crisp as if she’d just stepped off a magazine cover instead of into your wreck of an apartment. Rachel. Immaculate, impossible.

She flashes a wicked grin, eyes sweeping the room. “Bet you thought you’d seen the last of us.”

You blink, disoriented, the silence in your chest breaking just enough to let a small, fragile smile slip through—the first time your lips had remembered how in days. “Hey, guys…”

Chris gasps as if he’d just won the Powerball. “She smiled. Oh my God, she smiled. Rachel, did you see that? My work here is done. I can ascend.”

His blond hair sits glossy and styled, not a strand out of place. Versace shirt gleaming, not a wrinkle in sight. Chris. Diva. Always a diva—walking into a crumbling apartment like it was the Met Gala, every move choreographed, every sigh an aria.

Next to them you feel homeless, hollow-eyed in your sweats.

With a dramatic flourish he drops the bag on the coffee table, fanning himself wildly with one hand as though on the verge of swooning. “Saint Christopher, patron of lost divas, signing off.”

Rachel rolls her eyes so hard you swore they’d never recover. “Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable. Sit down before you sprain your gay little wrist.”

“Gay big wrist, thank you,” Chris corrects, planting himself on the arm of the couch with all the grace of a Broadway star between acts. “You’re looking at the future Mr. Henry Cavill. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh. Rachel smirks, satisfied, and drops the pizza box on the coffee table with a loud thunk. “There. Carbs and alcohol. The two pillars of survival. You’re welcome.”

Chris immediately snatches a slice, holding it up like an offering. “You want me to feed it to you? Say the word and I’ll Lady and the Tramp this bitch.”

“For fuck’s sake, Chris. She’s depressed, not feral.”

He pretends to swoon into the cushions. “Rachel, you’re killing the vibe. I’m trying to distract our girly pop from the hellscape outside, and you’re over here auditioning for the role of the biggest byotch.”

The room quickly fills with their bickering, their ridiculous back-and-forth, and for the first time in what felt like years the silence in your apartment turns into noise. You curl your knees up to your chest, pizza warming your hands, and let yourself laugh—quiet at first, then louder, until it felt like something was loosening inside your chest.

Rachel pours wine into three glasses she found in your kitchen, sliding one into your hand with a firm look. “Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

When your glass clinks against theirs, the sound is warm, solid. For a brief moment, the paparazzi didn’t exist, the internet didn’t exist, the leak didn’t exist.

Until 1 am. Because by 1 am, the three bottles of wine were gone—90% your fault—and the pizza was just a grease-stained box on the table. The apartment was thick with that late-night hush, rain still pouring outside but muffled like you were in some fishbowl separate from time.

You’re drunk. But not the glittery, high-heeled, Kesha kind of drunk. Not the hot girl, knees on the floor, Megan Thee Stallion drunk. This is a sad, heavy kind of drunk, where the air presses down instead of lifting, where your laugh sounds foreign in your own mouth.

Depressed and repressed drunk.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, glass dangling between your fingers, eyes glassy. Chris sits sprawled across the rug like a Victorian heiress, one arm draped dramatically over his forehead, while Rachel perches in the armchair as your overworked therapist, swirling the red in her glass with the severity of a judge.

Your voice cracks open to talk, again. Alcohol always made you talkative, and you damn sure had a lot to talk about.

“And yeah....” you exhale, rubbing your temple, “that was me and Ellie. And we dated. I'm ready to spill the tea.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Groundbreaking revelation. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Chris gasps, clutching his chest with sarcasm. “Dated? You mean the sex tape was not method acting?”

You tip your head back, eyes closing as if going back in time. “We dated for six years. Yeah, six—you didn't hear wrong. Met at fourteen in drama club. She had these… Super-Man boxers, like, y'all know those with the cartoon all over them? I found them so cool. And the worst jokes. And these… freckles… God, those stupidly gorgeous freckles. She was so… so pretty. She was it for me. Loser and all.”

Chris lets out a dreamy sigh. “Ugh, freckled loser. Always the downfall.”

You lean forward, your inexpressive face from hours before now suddenly animated, pointing at them with the neck of your empty bottle. “And she liked when I wore my retainers! My retainers! Who does that?!”

Chris’s eyes go wide. “Wait. You had braces and retainers?!”

“I was so fucking ugly,” you groan, falling back against the couch cushions. “I swear to God, I had the biggest glasses. Like, telescopes. My hair was so ugly too, and I had the worst acne. I was a total loser too. Now, I'm a proud ex-loser.”

Rachel swirls her wine. “Oh honey, you’re still a loser. You just get paid more now.”

You bury your face in your hands. “And I was so fucking gay. Like, aggressively gay. We were so gay we made scissoring look straight.”

Chris lets out a shriek, slapping the floor. Your laugh cracks into a hiccup, then softens. “We waited two years. Two fucking years before we… y’know.”

Chris perks up. “Two years?! What were you doing? Hand-holding? Y’all were loser lesbians final boss.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but your smile wobbles. “It was the backseat of her dad’s truck after prom. We won prom queens even though we didn't even run, and I swear I still stare at that polaroid all the time. She ate me out bad. Like, objectively bad. We didn’t even know how to scissor, but I still came because I liked her THAT much… it was magical.”

Chris flings a cushion over his head. “Noooo, not ‘being each other's first time’!!”

Rachel rolls her eyes, but her smirk twitches. “Backseat of a truck. Original.”

You exhale, reaching for your glass even though it was empty. “I wonder how Joel’s doing…”

Chris tilts his head. “Who 's that?”

“Her dad.” Your throat tightens. “I wonder how he’s doing after his daughter won a fucking Emmy. She—she won an EMMY! She didn’t even want to do dramas! She was like, ‘I’m gonna be Hugh Grant, babe. I’m gonna fall into a pool in a rom-com.’ And I was the one who told her she could do drama. Me. And then she goes and fucking wins an Emmy. And the worst part? She totally deserves it! She's so talented it makes me wanna DIE.”

Rachel exhales like smoke. “Hugh Grant? That tracks.”

Chris mutters under his breath, "I told you she killed it in Backstage..."

You laugh weakly, then press your sleeve to your face. “Wait, where was I? Yeah, so… we moved into this horrendous apartment after high school. Like, crooked walls, smelled like mold, the whole deal. I swear it was as big as the kitchen here. We were so broke I had to beg my stupid ass mom for cash every week—she hasn’t even called me now, by the way—and she only gave me like twenty bucks, like that fixed anything!”

Chris’ mouth curls, sharp as a paper cut. “Mothers are a scam.”

“Exactly!” You drag your palms down your face, fingers digging into your temples as if you could press the ache out, feeling tears slowly but surely forming.

“We literally ate cereal for lunch and dinner. But she—” your voice cracks as the more you talk, shattering mid-syllable, “she was so pretty, so fucking pretty. She still is. And funny, and kind, and stubborn. We were happy, even with no money and no idea what the fuck we were doing, because we were so stupidly in love. It was enough. Then we made the tapes, and suddenly we could pay rent… and we fucked every day, it was so fucking good—like crazy fucking levels of good, she made me come like crazy, and I was so—”

You choke on it, eyes squeezing shut, “I was so fucking happy.”

The room goes still. Even Rachel doesn’t have a quip locked and loaded.

Your lip trembles, breath snagging in your chest, and then it breaks. The sob rips out of you, raw and jagged, tearing its way up like glass in your throat. You fold in on yourself, small and ruined, wine-slick tears running hot down your cheeks as the words keep spilling, faster than you can catch them. Confessions and secrets you've harbored in the most profound depths of you for far too long, desperate to break free through the re-opened cracks.

“And now I’m rich and hot for society. I have diamonds, rom-coms, and fucking magazine covers, and I swear I was happier back there. Not having anything. Not having money. Just having her, waking up next to her, breathing the same air of that moldy apartment with the ceiling leaking and my stupid two-dollar coffee. I was so happy, and couldn’t even realize it. I thought Hollywood was gonna fix me. I thought LA was gonna make me happy. I convinced myself all these years that I could leave my past in some fucking box, cut my hair different, do photo shoots, forget about musicals, forget about my family, forget about drama club, forget about her—"

You wail and press your hands hard against your chest, as if you could hold yourself together. "But I can’t.”

“And then—then... and now—now… SHE’S JUST BACK!” You slam your palm weakly against your knee, voice cracking. “And the whole fucking world knows what we were—but they don’t know. They think they do. They know that we fucked, but they don’t know what we were. Because I’m not allowed to say it."

Rachel leans forward, eyes sharp, voice quieter than usual but no less cutting. “You are allowed to say it. You just did. That’s not going anywhere.”

But you can’t stop. The words tumble out, wine-slick and ragged. “I feel so... exposed. So ashamed. Everyone saw me—saw us—like that. People are talking about me, about my sexuality, every time I open my phone it’s rumors and comments I can’t unsee. And I keep thinking—why me? Why is this happening to me? Haven’t I given enough? Haven’t I already bled enough for this career?”

Your chest heaves, sobs clawing up your throat. “And the worst part is—” your voice breaks into something guttural, “I always hated my body. Always. Since I was a kid. Too much this, not enough that. I hated looking at myself, and now the entire fucking world has seen me at my most raw, my most—vulnerable. I feel like I’m on display in a museum of shame. Like they’re all pointing and laughing.”

Chris doesn’t even hesitate. He climbs onto the couch like a kid clambering into a blanket fort, wrapping his arms around you with ridiculous, exaggerated care. “Shhh. Shhh, diva. Cry on my Versace. It’s fine.” He rocks you gently side to side, humming something off-key. You gasp out a wet, broken laugh into his chest, but the sobs keep shaking you.

Rachel sets her wine glass down, leans forward, and plants her hand steady on your knee. “Listen to me. You are human. And people who pretend they’ve never had sex, never been messy, never been vulnerable—they’re lying. The only shame here belongs to the people who stole from you. Not you. Do you hear me?”

You shake your head against Chris’s shirt, voice muffled. “But everyone saw—every flaw, every angle I’ve hated my whole life—”

“And they’re still breathing, aren’t they?” Rachel cuts in, voice sharp but warm underneath. “They didn’t explode from the sight of you, because there was nothing to survive. You are beautiful, you always have been. You’re the only person in this entire world who can’t see it.”

Chris pulls back just far enough to cup your cheeks with both hands, forcing your tear-smeared face up toward him. “She’s right. You’re hot, babe. Even when you’re ugly-crying. Especially when you’re ugly-crying. Vogue could do a whole spread"

Rachel smirks, though her thumb rubs soft circles against your knee. “If you cry on my Louboutins, though, I will bill you.”

That earns another hiccup-laugh out of you, even as tears keep streaking down.

Rachel exhales, eyes softening for once. “And about Ellie... people keep thinking love disappears. It doesn’t. It just changes costume. It sneaks in your life and puts on a new wig. Sometimes it’s ugly, sometimes it’s unbearable, but it’s not gone. And shame? Shame is the same thing, it’s just an old script you keep performing.”

Chris gasps dramatically, eyes wide. “That was poetic as fuck. Who are you and what have you done with my Rachel?”

“Shut up,” she says flatly, though her gaze stays locked on you, steady and unflinching. “I’m trying to save her from drowning in her own melodrama.” Then, softer, “You don’t have to swallow it, you don’t have to spit it out. You just… have to carry it until it stops being this heavy. And it will. I promise.”

Chris presses his chin to the crown of your head, murmuring through your tangled hair. “And until then, I’m available for unlimited hugs and duets where we both scream Adele until the neighbors call the cops.”

Rachel snorts, but squeezes your knee tighter. “Pretends? Honey, I’ll disown you in public. But here, in this room—” her eyes soften again, “—we’ve got you. Always.”

The sobs slow, your breath hiccupping in shaky gasps, the storm still raging but quieter now under their weight, their hands, their refusal to let you drown alone.

You laugh through the sob, but it wasn’t even a real laugh—more like a broken hiccup wrapped in snot as you press harder into Chris’s shirt, voice muffled. “God… it’s 3 a.m., I should be like, dancing on a fucking table… instead I’m here being depressing as shit.”

Chris tilts his head, the way someone does when they’re about to lob a grenade without realizing it’s live.

“Wait… is this why Rachel told me you and Ellie were hugging and crying the other day at that terrace? Like, you two have crazy lore. Rewind—dated for six years, you said? Fucking hell, that’s like a full lesbian timeline. That’s like… season one to season ten. That’s Grey’s Anatomy level.”

“Chris—” Rachel cuts in as she hears you starting to cry again. Her eyes narrow, shooting him a look across the couch. Her manicured hand waves behind your hunched shoulders like a warning sign. Shut. The fuck. Up.

But Chris was leaning into the bit, oblivious. “Like, goddamn. Six years is marriage length. That’s—like—taxes together length. Like, you probably had a joint Spotify account, huh? And Rachel tells me you were hugging her like it was the series finale—like, damn, girl, what happened, y’all were the blueprint.”

Your tears smeared against Chris’s chest as you sobbed even harder than before, mumbling into the fabric. “Six years. Six years, taxes together, and the spotify account we shared was paid by Joel. Six years and now I’m crying on your shirt, and Rachel’s threatening to sue me over her shoes, and none of this makes any fucking sense!”

Rachel shoots him a sharper look, mouthing stop. you’re gonna kill her, while her other hand smoothed gentle circles over your thigh. He raises his hands halfway in surrender but still whispers, “Sorry, sorry… but damn, six years is like—”

Rachel makes a face so deadly you’d think she was casting a curse, then leans closer to you, soft only for you. “Ignore him, darling. He’s like a drunk Wikipedia page with no citations.”

You groan, sinking even deeper into his chest, as if his shirt might just swallow you whole. Your fists bunch into the fabric at his collar like it's the only thing tethering you to earth.

“I HAVEN’T BEEN THIS SAD SINCE I DIDN’T GET GLINDA!”

Chris blinks, stunned, then bursts out laughing. “Oh my god.”

Rachel arches a brow. “Don’t encourage her. She’s about to go full theater trauma.”

But you're already spiraling, words tripping out between hiccuped, kid-like sobs. “Do you even know—do you even know how sad I was?! Nobody could play Glinda like me. NOBODY. I knew all the songs, I practiced in the shower, I had the hand gestures, Chris! The hand GESTURES!”

Chris gasps dramatically. “The hand gestures?!”

Rachel rolls her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “This is why she didn’t get the part. They could smell the desperation.”

“I wasn’t desperate, I was talented! I AM TALENTED! IT’S JUST THAT NOBODY CAN FUCKING SEE IT!” you cry, and before either of them can stop you, you lift your chin and launch straight into song—half-sobbing, half-singing, slurring the notes of Popular like you were on stage at the Tonys and also three bottles of wine deep.

“POPULAR YOU’RE GONNA BE PO-PU-LAR—”

Chris glances helplessly at Rachel, who only rolls her eyes harder and hisses under her breath, “This is what happens when you let theater kids drink past midnight.”

Your voice cracks on the last note, and instead of winding down, you only crank the drama higher, throwing your arms wide like you're dying on stage. “AND NOW EVERYBODY KNOWS I GOT MY TITS DONE BECAUSE OF THE DAMN TAPE!”

The room freezes for a single, stunned beat. Then Chris sits straight upright, eyes as wide as dinner plates, both hands flying to his mouth. “I KNEW ITTTT!” he shrieks, the sound loud enough to rattle the wine glasses. “I fucking knew it, Rachel! You owe me fifty bucks!”

Rachel doesn't even flinch. She just sips her wine, utterly unfazed. “I ain't giving you shit.”

You wail harder, collapsing into the throw pillows. “It wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge! I was going to deny, deny, deny!”

Rachel groans, dragging her palm down her face. “God, kill me.”

“Oh my god, wait—” Chris cuts himself off mid-laugh, sitting bolt upright again, scandal lighting up his face like a Broadway marquee. He grabs your wrist dramatically. “Pause. Pause again. What happened to Abby Anderson? That hot hockey player you were fucking on the low?”

You only cry louder. “She fucking ghosted me! That fucking blonde bitch ghosted me!”

Rachel’s laughter breaks out sharp, incredulous, bubbling from her throat like champagne poured too fast. She slaps the table for emphasis, wine already sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “Oh, this is rich. You got ghosted? Sweetheart, people write sonnets about you. People fall at your feet on tiktok edits. Chanel and Dior are obsessed with you. And Abby Anderson just... walked out of the chat?”

“I hate you both!” you scream, words damp and pathetic.

Chris smooths your hair back in exaggerated, motherly strokes, rocking you like a toddler. “No, babe, no—you love us.” He kisses the top of your head with a loud, dramatic smooch that makes Rachel gag. “But also—ghosted? Ghosted? That’s like… illegal.”

“She didn’t even say bye,” you mumble, “Not a text. Not a fucking Post-It. Nothing.”

Rachel makes an exaggerated face of mock pity, pouting her lips. “God. Imagine being so emotionally constipated you ghost you.” She leans over, “Tell me on record, for the jury: was the sex at least worth the therapy bill?”

That only makes you cry harder, shoulders shaking so violently Chris glances up at Rachel in alarm. He mouths—what the fuck did you just say—but she only shrugs and grins at him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Chris says quickly, tugging you closer when you let out another broken sob. “Forget them. Forget the blonde. Forget the auburn. Forget the lesbians. Abby Anderson and Ellie Williams can choke.”

“On what?” Rachel asks dryly.

“On regret!” Chris declares, clutching you tighter as if delivering a prophecy and taking care of his wailing baby. “On eternal lesbian regret!”

“ADD DINA WOODWARD TO THE CHOKING LIST!” you snap, stabbing the air with your finger.

Chris stops mid-dramatic sway, his eyes going cartoon-wide. Who’s Dina? he mouthS, scandal dripping off every syllable.

Rachel leans in without missing a beat, whispering sharp as a knife dipped in venom. “Ellie’s girlfriend.”

Chris’s jaw drops so hard it nearly hits the pizza box. He whipps back to you, eyes huge, mouthing with silent, horrified clarity: ELLIE HAS A GIRLFRIEND?!

Rachel just sips her wine like it was communion, head tilting, slow nod of disapproval.

“I HEARD YOU!” you wail, pointing at both of them as if the betrayal had been personal. “She has a model girlfriend! A MODEL, CHRIS. I—”

And a knock cuts through the room like a blade.

All three of you freeze, the kind of stillness that has its own weight. Rain threads against the windows—thin, steady needles—and somewhere down on the street a siren dopplers past, then the hollow quiet returnS. The knock came again, quieter this time, like whoever was outside was careful not to spook you.

Rachel slides off the armchair in one clean motion, mouth already primed for violence. She pads to the door, heels in her hand, peers through the viewfinder, and then snaps her head back to you, eyes large, incredulous.

She mouths it, no sound, just the shape:

ABBY?

You sit up too fast, the entire room tilting. Your hands flew to your face, scrubbing at your cheeks, then yank your hair into something like order. You tug down your sweatshirt, pat the pizza crumbs off your thighs, will the wine out of your breath.

Behind you, Chris springs to life, scooping bottles and sliding them toward the kitchen like he clearing a crime scene. Rachel points at him, then at herself, then at the kitchen doorway. Hide. They ghost away, a rustle of fabric, a shared grimace, the clink of a bottle neck rolling against tile.

The knock came a third time. You swallow, set your shoulders, and finally open the door.

Abby stands in the hall with rain spangling her braided hair, a dark jacket clinging to the cut of her shoulders, damp jeans cuffed above boots that left clean crescents of water on the mat when you focus your view.

She looks annoyingly good, in the way people look when they don’t know what to do with their hands, all that size forced into apology. One hand grips a crumpled paper sleeve, and only then did you notice the bouquet—bright flowers in supermarket colors, daisies and carnations bleeding rainwater down the stems. The kind of gesture that looked clumsy, almost juvenile, but so earnest it lodged in your throat.

Her eyes find yours, then dip to your mouth, then back, as if she couldn’t stick to one place without burning herself.

“Hi,” she says, voice low, careful.

You stare. “Oh. Now you appear?”

The words land harder than you intend, but you don't pull them back. Abby flinches, almost imperceptible, fingers tightening around the wet bouquet, then nod once like she figured she deserves that much and steps past the threshold when you don't move to stop her. The smell of rain rode in with her, wet wool and pavement, the faint green bite of crushed stems, a little cold that made your living room feel smaller.

“Look,” she starts, hands flexing at her sides, bouquet dangling awkwardly now, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you. I’m so sorry. It’s just that everything is so… complicated. I should have. I should have, and I didn’t. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“How did you even get here? It's so late,” you ask, because it was easier than answering the apology. “The paparazzi—”

“Aren’t out there,” she says. “Not right now. Rain chased them, and your back alley’s blocked by a delivery truck. Your doorman—Gabe?—likes me.” A ghost of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “I brought him empanadas from the place on Ninth. He put me in the service elevator.”

You let out a breath that tastes like wine and nerves. “Well, you could have just texted.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, throat tight, the words almost drowned by the hiss of rain outside. A bead of water slides from the ridge of her eyebrow down to her jawline, glinting under the dim light. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

Her eyes lift to yours, searching, cautious. “I just… I just wanted to see you. Are you okay?” Her gaze drags over your face, lingering on the puffiness around your eyes. “You look like you’ve been...crying.”

You let out a brittle laugh, one with no humor in it. “Do I seem okay?”

The answer hangs sharp between you, and Abby shifts her weight, big hand flexing uselessly at the bouquet before she forces herself to still.

“I’m gonna be sincere, okay? Just… honest.” Her eyes flick away from your face, tracing the wreckage of the night—the empty glasses scattered across the coffee table, the wine bottle listing sideways in its cradle of napkins, the greasy pizza box half-collapsed in defeat. For a second she looks like she’s going to lose her nerve, but then she drags her eyes back to you.

“Watching that tape—even a few seconds—it was a lot.”

You stiffen. “We’re really doing this right now?”

“I don’t want to fight,” she says quickly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just— you never told me you dated another... woman.” A beat. “Her.”

“Me and Ellie were a long time ago.” Your voice comes out smaller than you liked. “This is… honestly? Ruining my life.”

“I know,” she says, and she meant it. You could hear the bruise in the words. “But still... you were never like that with me.”

Something in your chest tightens into a fist. “Abby, I don’t owe you explanations about my past. I had a lot with Ellie. We were together for a long time. And this—” you gesture vaguely towards the world, the window, the rain, the echo of a million hungry eyes “—this is the past coming back to eat me alive.”

Silence. In the kitchen, a bottle clinks once and goes quiet; Rachel’s face briefly edged into the doorway and vanishes, her mouth a flat warning line at Chris.

You look at Abby because you had to. “Also,” you say, “we never… you and me never dated.”

Her jaw works, a slow grind. Your honesty doesn't surprise her; it only hurts.

“I want us to,” she says, finally letting the sentence out into the room. “I want us to be more. I’ve been saying it for a while, and you keep dodging the question.”

You laugh—short, mean to yourself, and a little bit mean to her too. “You know how messy everything is right now.”

“I know,” she mutters, stepping closer without touching you. “And I’m sorry I made it messier by disappearing. I panicked. I was jealous. It’s ugly. I—” She exhales, then crosses the last inch as if it burned and put her arms around you, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. You can feel the petals caress and burn your back.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she murmurs into your hair, voice breaking across the nickname. “I really am.”

You froze, words hanging between your bodies like a live wire.

You feel her heartbeat thumping against your ribs, profound and sincere. You feel your own heart racing, striving to catch up with a past that stubbornly refuses to remain where you left it.

“I forgive you,” you hear yourself say.

Abby’s breath hitches against your temple. She doesn't move, as if any shift would spook the moment. Her hands are big and careful at your back, the kind of careful that admits what it could break.

Over her shoulder, the kitchen doorway blooms with two faces for a single heartbeat—Rachel, eyes narrowed, reading every molecule of this like a contract; Chris, wide-eyed, clutching his still damp shirt as if it might lower him through the ceiling and out of this scene. Rachel mouths don’t, and he nods, swallowed, vanished.

You stood there in Abby’s arms and listened to the rain stitch itself across the city. Somewhere under your sternum, something softens; somewhere else, something bristles.

Love, says one part. Compromise, hisses another. Performance, says the contract folded like a blade in your desk drawer. Story, says the red light on a camera that wasn’t here anymore but never really left.

“I shouldn’t have made you apologize for my ghosts,” you say finally, voice rough. “But I can’t— I can’t carry anyone else’s certainty right now. I have none left.”

Abby’s grip eases, just enough to see your face. “Then let me stand here with you while you get it back.”

You almost laugh again. “You think it works like that?”

“No,” she says. “I just think it’s raining, and you’re alone, and you shouldn’t be.”

You look past her shoulder, past the damp strands of blond hair clinging to her jaw, to the window. The glass was black, a mirror smeared by storm, and your reflection was dissolving into the city lights. A blur. A smudge. A person who no longer recognized herself. Your throat aches from all the crying you’d done—hours, days, weeks of it. Crying you thought had wrung you dry, until tonight proved otherwise.

“I’m actually not alone,” you say, voice low but steady. You flick your eyes toward the kitchen. “Rachel and Chris are eavesdropping.”

A beat. Then, Rachel’s voice from behind the cabinet door:

“YES, WE HEARD EVERYTHING!”

“Every single syllable!” Chris chimes in, sing-song.

Abby startles, then laughs—a small, surprised sound that shook her head loose, softened her shoulders. She looks back at you with an expression caught somewhere between Jesus Christ and of course they are. The sound of her laugh fills the air, a foreign, fragile warmth after so many nights of static silence.

She steps closer, tilting her head until she could press her lips against your forehead. It was quick but heavy with something that felt like both a promise and a question she wasn’t ready to ask. When she leaned back, her eyes were steady.

“Fine, then,” she says, quietly. “I’ll come tomorrow. We’ll… figure something out. We’ll find a way to be together.”

Her words hang in the air like steam from a kettle—visible, fragile, threatening to vanish if you don't believe in them hard enough.

You swallow, throat raw. “Okay then,” you say, matching her softness. “See you.”

Abby’s arms untangle from the hug, her hand fumbling as if she’d forgotten what she was holding. She lifts the soggy bouquet between you, petals bent. “These are for you, by the way.”

Your chest clenches as you take them. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I love them.”

She leans in and kisses you—soft, fleeting, but searing all the same. Abby lingers, her hand twitching like she wants to touch your face, to say your name again just to prove she still could. But she doesn't. She steps back, turns, and the lock clicks behind her.

For a long moment, it was only rain again. Rain and the faint hum of the kettle you hadn’t turned off, rain and the pounding of your heart against the echo of her words.

Then Rachel emerges from the kitchen, arms crossed, expression carved sharp, Chris trailing behind her, eyes wide.

“Well,” Rachel mutters flatly. “That was a fucking soap opera.”

Chris’s gaze drops to the bouquet in your hands, his nose wrinkling. “Oh, honey. Those flowers are tacky.”

“Seriously tacky,” Rachel adds with a scoff.

You groan, looking at the flowers in your hand, “Oh god—she tried!”

They exchange a look, more like a side eye, then in perfect unison:

“Girl…”

𝐄llie’s world stopped spinning the night the video resurfaced.

The air in her apartment was stale, heavy with the kind of stillness that clung to the walls. The curtains had been drawn so long that daylight and darkness blurred together into the same flat shade of gray; the hours only announced themselves through the crawl of the clock hands, a merciless reminder that time was passing whether she moved or not.

Dina had her on ice law—cool, distant, nothing more than clipped words and silences sharp enough to bruise. And just like that, the one anchor Ellie thought she still had slipped loose, leaving her adrift.

Outside her building, the swarm was constant. Paparazzi clustered on the curb like carrion birds, cameras primed, flashes ready. Their voices carried through the glass when she dared peek outside, shouting her name as though she owed them pieces of herself she no longer had to give.

Her phone never stopped. Erin called like clockwork, every hour, sometimes more, her voice clipped and demanding. Here’s what you have to do. Here’s what’s next. Here’s the statement we’re drafting. Here’s the fight I’m having with the agency so they don’t cut you. The calls stacked on top of one another until Ellie could feel her sanity fraying at the edges. The words blurred together into orders, corrections, negotiations—Erin always fighting, always strategizing, but never letting Ellie breathe. Each call left her rattled, her hands shaking, her chest tight with the suffocating weight of a life that didn’t feel like hers anymore.

She hadn’t seen you either. Not since you’d both walked out different doors and let the world devour you whole. She didn’t even let herself say your name aloud, as if it might summon another storm.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your face bloomed in the dark whenever she closed her eyes. Your voice carried itself in the silence of her rooms, threaded into the walls. It was like a curse stitched into her skin—every part of her body remembered you, remembered the years, remembered what it felt like when life was simple and brutal and yours.

In the shower, she let herself break. The spray masked the sound, water scalding hot, steam turning the mirror blind. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her forehead to the tile, whispering excuses she didn’t believe.

It’s my career, it’s the contracts, it’s the future slipping away. But even as the words spilled out, the truth carved itself raw inside her: it wasn’t just the career. It wasn’t the roles she’d lose or the red carpets she’d never walk. It was the loss of you all over again, even more painful this time, because now the whole world knew what you once were to each other.

Ellie scrubbed her palms over her face until her skin went raw, as if she could rub you out of her memory, out of her bloodstream, but nothing worked. When she stepped out of the shower, dripping, hair plastered to her face, she carried you with her. Into bed. Into the kitchen. Into every fucking room.

A ghost that wasn’t a ghost at all, because you weren’t dead. You were just unreachable.

And that was worse.

By midnight, Ellie had worn a track into the apartment. Back and forth, back and forth, her nerves sparking under her skin like faulty wiring. By one a.m., she’d decided. By two, she was already halfway down Ninth Street in a cab, hood pulled low, denim jacket zipped to her chin, baseball cap shadowing most of her face. No makeup, no jewelry, no hint of the Ellie the cameras wanted. Just someone trying not to be recognized, just someone trying to outrun herself.

She stopped at a corner bodega before she hailed the cab, the fluorescent light bleaching her skin in the convex mirror above the register. She grabbed two six-packs without thinking, like muscle memory, like old nights when beer was the only thing that could slow the thrum in her chest. The guy at the counter didn’t look twice—just slid the bottles into a brown bag and handed them back. For a moment, the simplicity of it almost broke her.

The cab smelled like cigarettes and stale vinyl. She kept her head angled toward the rain-streaked window, watching the city blur, every passing block heavy with memory. Her heart knocked against her ribs like it wanted out.

When the driver slowed in front of Jesse’s building, she shoved a handful of crumpled bills at him before he could even tell her the fare. She wanted out of the cab, out of the night, out of her own skin.

The stairwell smelled the same. She kept her cap low, clutching the bag of beer. At his door, she hesitated. The hallway light flickered overhead, and she counted one breath, two, three, then raised her knuckles and knocked.

It took a moment. Then the latch clicked and Jesse appeared, hair sticking up, eyes bleary, hoodie thrown over whatever shirt he’d fallen asleep in. He blinked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real. “Ellie?”

“Hi. I, uh—I want to talk.” She lifted the bag in her hand, sheepish, voice low. “I brought beer.”

For a long second, he just looked at her. Then his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t quite pity either. He stepped aside, the door creaking wider. “Come in.”

Jesse’s apartment was warm, lived-in, the kind of place you could tell had been built piece by piece. Not as big as Ellie’s loft, not nearly as expensive, but it had heart—plants leaning toward the window, books stacked sideways on shelves, a guitar propped against the wall. He’d made good money since Backstage, more than Ellie ever expected. He had potential, she thought, a career ahead of him. The kind of clean, forward path she couldn’t see for herself anymore.

Two beers in, Jesse was loose, shoulders relaxed, sipping at the bottle in his hand like he was pacing himself. Six beers in, Ellie was gone. Elbows on the kitchen island, cap tossed aside, hair a tangle.

Her words poured out without filter, tripping over themselves, chasing one memory into another, her voice rising and breaking as though she couldn’t keep up with what was spilling out of her.

“So yeah…” Ellie says now, waving her bottle like it was a conductor’s baton, slurring just a little. “We dated. Me and her. God, Jesse—she was so pretty. She still is. She looked gorgeous even with those fucking retainers in, and the braces before that, and the biggest glasses you’ve ever seen on a human face. Like, cartoonishly big. And I—” Ellie slaps the counter, nearly knocking over her bottle for emphasis.

“I used to sketch her all the time in my notebooks. Like, pages. Like a creep. I was such a fucking dork. Still am. Still a loser. And Jesse—” she points at him like she’d just caught him in a lie, “I used to jerk off just thinking about her smile. Her smile, Jesse. Who the fuck does that? That’s not even horny. That’s like—pervert shit with a cherry on top.”

Jesse raises his brows, smirking. “You’ve always been a hopeless romantic. Just, y’know, the version with cum stains.”

Ellie barks a laugh, then groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Exactly! Cum-stained Romeo. That’s me.”

She tips her bottle toward him as if she was confessing in church. “I had Superman boxers, Jesse. Superman boxers and forty comics in my backpack at all times. And she—she still looked at me like I wasn’t just a loser. Like I was… I don’t know. Like I was something.”

Her voice softens, broke at the edges. “It was like—wow. You know when someone just wows you? That was her.”

“Fourteen, right?” Jesse asks, rescuing another empty bottle before it went rolling.

“Fourteen. Drama club. I saw her once and that was it. Since then, we didn’t spend a single day apart.” Ellie’s eyes glaze, words spilling faster, as if the story was dragging her along instead of the other way around. “We went to prom together. We slow danced. I rigged the entire vote to make her prom queen because she said it was her dream. Never told her. Then we had our first time in the backseat of my old man’s truck.”

She laughs through her nose, almost fond. “We scissored. It was magical.”

Jesse winces, and then chuckles. “TMI, El. I don't need this mental image.”

She ignores him, plowing forward. “Then we moved into this tiny-ass apartment that smelled like mold, but Jesse—listen to me—I have never, ever been so happy. Just me and her. Me and her and nothing else. And it was enough.” she leans closer, eyes glassy, “But nobody called us back. Not one audition, not one callback, we were broke as fuck. Couldn’t even afford ramen some weeks.”

Jesse tips his chin, trying to keep her tethered. “But you figured it out, right?”

“Yeah.” Ellie’s laugh is jagged, like glass in her throat. “We made the tapes. My idea, of course it was my fucking idea. Who else would it be? She never would’ve. She was smart. Smarter than me. Always smarter. And I thought I was being clever—like, ooh, indie porn star, rent money, whatever—but it was stupid. I was stupid. She loved musicals, Jesse. Do you get that? Musicals. We watched La La Land and she cried all five times I made her watch it. Five times, five. And every time she looked at me with those big wet precious eyes like it was the end of the fucking world.”

“You made her watch La La Land five times?” Jesse said, horrified. “Honestly, I’d dump you.”

Ellie wheezes out a laugh, half sob. “Shut up. She loved that movie.” Her words trip over themselves, spiraling faster now. “Wait—where was I? Yeah—the tapes. We uploaded them, made money for rent. And we fucked every day. Every damn day. It was so good, Jesse. I don’t even have words for it. Like, stupid good. Like, life-ruining good.”

Jesse sat back, quiet, letting her run, his beer untouched on the counter.

Ellie’s voice cracks lower, taking a false swig of her empty beer. “They’re still on my iCloud because I’m the shittiest person alive. Like, I never deleted them. I couldn’t. I still can't. And sometimes—fuck—sometimes I jerked off to them. A thousand times, maybe more. Sometimes I’d jerk off and then cry. Or cry first and then jerk off. Like, which order even matters? I’m a sick fuck. The sickest fuck.”

Jesse drags a hand down his face, muttering into his palm, “Bro, you need therapy, not more beer.”

“And not even one year later, she has a boyfriend!” Ellie bellows suddenly, slamming her bottle against the counter so hard the sound cracked through the apartment. “A BOYFRIEND! Can you believe that shit? She’s out there doing these silly-ass rom-coms with her Brad Pitt-coded man, like she didn't wake up next to me every day. Doesn’t add up, Jesse. It doesn’t fucking add up! GOOD LUCK, BABE!”

“Good luck… babe?” Jesse echoes, lips twitching. “Brad Pitt-coded? What does that even mean?”

“It means he looks like he’s allergic to real problems,” Ellie snaps, tears streaking hot down her cheeks. “It means he gets paid ten million to stand around looking tall while she—she—is carrying the whole damn movie on her back. And she could do so much better! She’s so fucking talented! She could do dramas, she could win awards, she could win everything. I know it. I fucking know it. But instead, she’s parading with him and turned herself into some kind of sex symbol.”

Ellie’s voice shreds on the next words, breaking open completely. “And me? I’m here. Drunk as fuck. Talking about Superman boxers at two a.m. With you.”

She tips forward onto her folded arms, forehead pressed against the cool marble of the island, shoulders trembling with a laugh that was way too close to a sob. The sound echoes small and pitiful against the clean kitchen, bouncing off tile and stainless steel. Jesse just stares at her for a long moment, the weight of all those years spilling across the counter between them.

Finally, he clears his throat. “And what about… Dina?”

Ellie groans like the name itself had a physical weight, then lifts her head just to slam it back down against the counter.

Thunk. Again. Thunk. Again. THUNK—

“Okay, okay—okay!” Jesse yelps, half-laughing, half-panicked, lunging across the island to grab her by the back of the head before she cracked her skull open. “Jesus, stop trying to concuss yourself in my kitchen.”

Ellie lifts her face, cheeks blotched pink, her forehead pressed red from where she’d been knocking it against the counter, eyes bleary and glassy. For a second she looked wrecked, frayed at every edge.

Then, like nothing happened, she dragged a fresh beer out of the half-empty carton, hooked the cap against her teeth, and cracked it open with a sharp pop.

“She has me on ice law, can you believe it? Like—frozen. Siberia. Bare minimum.” Ellie flings her free hand up, almost sloshing beer onto the counter. “She saw the tape and now she doesn’t talk to me except for these little snarky comments.” Her laugh comes out bitter, hollow. “And I mean, I get it. I do. What the fuck do you even say when—when that—is everywhere? I wouldn’t know how to react either.”

She tips the bottle back, throat working as she swallows hard, then drags her sleeve across her mouth. Her eyes catch Jesse’s—glassy, sharp, fractured. “It’s so… intimate,” she rasps. “It was only mine. Ours. And now it’s everywhere, even when our agencies scrubbed it, deleted it, nuked it from the internet—they still saw it. It makes me want to fucking vomit knowing everyone saw us like that. Saw her like that, and I can’t do anything about it.”

For a beat the apartment hummed quiet, just the fridge buzzing low and the rain pattering against Jesse’s windows. “Okay. But how does that make you feel, El?”

She let out a jagged breath, eyes darting to the counter, anywhere but him. Her voice cracks open when she speaks. “Disgusting. Ashamed. Exposed. But she's in the most vulnerable position. And I—” she swallows hard, shaking her head. “I don’t know. It’s like I flinch every time I remember, my own body rejects the memory.”

Jesse’s jaw works, but he doesn't joke this time. He reaches out, resting a steady hand on her wrist where it pressed against the cold marble. “Ellie… you can’t keep taking the whole world on your shoulders. You didn’t leak it, you didn’t ask for this. People love acting like saints, it’s ugly and it’s cruel, but it’s not your fault, you hear me?”

Ellie blinks fast, her throat bobbing around the lump lodged there. She doesn't answer, but doesn't pull her arm away either.

Jesse exhales, rubbing his thumb against her sleeve. “Okay,” he says gently, like he knew she couldn’t handle more about that topic. “Let’s go back to Dina. How do you feel about her?”

Ellie blinks at him, mouth tugging like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh again or fall apart. She twists the bottle between her palms.

“I do… I do love her. I really do. But it’s different, Jesse. It’s—” she exhales sharply, words tumbling out, “you know how much Backstage fucked me up. And I’ve felt like there’s been this hollow inside me ever since. Like… a pit. And Dina was there for me when that happened, she held me up when I couldn’t even stand on my own. But even with her, I still feel like…” She swallows, trying to line the words up right. “Like I’m living life on automatic. Like my body’s moving but I’m not really there.”

Jesse nods slowly, eyes steady on her.

“And the Emmy…” Ellie’s voice cracks, her laugh bitter. “God, winning that was supposed to fix everything, right? Dream come true. And it did, for like five seconds. Then it all just crashed down again. Joy doesn’t stick to me anymore. It slides right off.” She sets the bottle down with a clink and presses her palms flat to the marble, “I can’t get my head out of that place, Jesse. I sunk myself so deep I don’t even know how to climb out.”

Her throat works around the next words, tear tracks running in her cheeks. “And now all this is happening—the tape, the press, the agencies—and I keep thinking, what did I do wrong? What kind of karma am I paying back? What did I break in a past life to deserve this shit storm?”

She drags her sleeve across her face, sniffs. “And she was there at that meeting, you know? And seeing her again was like…” Ellie trails, shaking her head, the beer-buzz shifting into something raw. “Fuck. Just… fuck. Like every feeling I’ve ever had for her just washed over me all at once. Drowned me. And then—” her voice drops to almost nothing, “she was gone, and I’m sure I’m not gonna see her ever again.”

Her hands tighten into fists on the counter, her shoulders hunching like she was bracing for a blow. The kitchen hung quiet, the air thick with it.

Jesse watches her cry in the silence, eyes red, knuckles pressed white against the marble. For a long moment he doesn't say anything, just lets her breathe through it, lets the storm burn itself out a little. Then he sighs and leans forward across the island.

“Ellie,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me.”

She drags her head up, lashes wet, face blotchy.

He gives her the kind of look only Jesse could—half patient, half exasperated, threaded through with care so deep it didn’t need to be explained. “I know it feels like the world’s falling apart right now. I know it feels like it’s eating you alive. But listen—this can’t be the thing that brings you down. Not you. Not after everything.”

Ellie blinks at him, lips trembling.

“You’ve still got Dina,” Jesse presses. “Whatever you feel—messy, complicated, whatever—it’s real. She loves you. She’s there. And maybe it’s not the same as what you had before, maybe it doesn’t burn the same way, but that doesn’t make it less. Sometimes steady is what keeps you alive.”

He nudges her beer away, and curls his hand over hers until her fingers stopped shaking. “You’ve got a future, El. A real one. You can’t let this—” he jerks his chin toward the window, toward the noise of rain and paparazzi and chaos—“you can’t let this eat you. You’re bigger than a scandal. Bigger than a leak. You’re one of the best actors of your generation, and that's a fact. You’ve got too much ahead of you to bury yourself in what’s already gone.”

Ellie’s mouth twists, her voice breaking low. “But I can’t stop thinking about her. I feel so fucking guilty.”

“I know.” Jesse’s voice softens, firm but kind. “Of course you can’t. First loves are like tattoos—you think they’ll fade, but they don’t. They just change shape. But you can’t live in that ghost forever. You’ve got Dina, you’ve got a career people would kill for, you've got so many people that care for you. Don’t set it all on fire because of this.”

Ellie stares at him, wet-eyed, lips parting like she might cry again, but instead she lets out a jagged laugh. “You’re too fucking good at this pep talk shit.”

Jesse smiles faintly, squeezes her hand once. “Nah. I just know you, El. Better than most. And I know you’re stronger than this.”

The taxi’s headlights cut through the wet black of the street, hissing against puddles as it pulled away. Ellie stands in the hallway for a full minute after she’d paid the driver, her damp hoodie clinging to her skin, the beer sloshing stubborn in her stomach. She could already feel the excuse forming on her tongue like bad gum: I was with Jesse. I just needed air. Don’t be mad.

Her hand fumbles at the lock, keys rattling loud in the quiet building, and when the door gave, she slipped inside as quietly as her clumsy limbs would let her.

And there she was.

Dina.

Sitting upright on the edge of the bed, the lamp casting soft amber light over her face, shadows brushing under her eyes. She wasn’t scrolling her phone, wasn’t pretending to be distracted. She was just waiting, chin tilted slightly, gaze catching Ellie the second she crossed the threshold.

Ellie freezes like a kid caught sneaking in after curfew. “I—uh.” Her voice stutters. She scratches at the back of her neck, suddenly aware of the rain dripping off her hair, the smell of beer hanging on her breath. “I went to Jesse’s. Just Jesse’s. I should’ve told you. I know I should’ve. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Ellie,” Dina says softly, her voice steady and low, cutting clean through her stammering. “I’m not mad.”

Ellie’s stomach twists. “You’re not?” She laughs nervously, fumbling with her hoodie zipper like a loser. “Because I swear it wasn’t—I wasn’t out, like, doing anything. I literally just sat there and drank too much and cried. That’s all. Nothing else. I promise.”

Dina’s expression softens, a crease appearing between her brows. She shooks her head. “I said I’m not mad. I’m not. It’s not about Jesse, Ellie. It’s about us.”

Ellie’s throat tightens. “Us?”

Dina pats the mattress beside her, eyes steady, asking without words. Ellie hesitates, then shuffled over, perching awkwardly at first, hands knotting in her lap.

Dina studies her for a long moment, then speaks slowly, like she’d been turning the words over in her head for days. “All of this—the tape, the paparazzi, the calls—it’s been… too much. For you. For us. And I feel like somewhere in the middle of it all, I lost you. Even before that. You’re sitting next to me but you feel… miles away.” Her voice catches, eyes glassy now. “And I don’t want that. I don’t want you far away from me.”

Ellie’s jaw works, useless sounds lodging in her chest. Dina presses on.

“I want you to trust me, Ellie. That’s all. Trust me enough to let me in, even when it’s ugly. Even when it hurts. You didn’t have to tell me about her—about… the past. I didn’t tell you about every person I’ve been with before you either. But when I saw the tape—”

Dina shuts her eyes briefly, shaking her head. “God, I was jealous, so fucking jealous. I hated myself for it, but I was. Because the way you looked at her… the way you two were—” her voice cracks again, but she kept going, “I’ve never seen it before, you know? And suddenly it was everywhere, shoved in my face. And I thought—Why aren't you like that with me? What if that’s a part of you I’ll never touch? What if I’m just holding the leftovers?”

“Dina—” Ellie starts, but her voice is hoarse, broken.

But Dina doesn't let her off. She leans closer, her tone firmer now, though her hands trembled where they clutched the blanket. “But then I remembered—everything that happened to you is horrible. Nobody deserves that. Not you, not even her. No one deserves to have their whole life blown apart like that. And I don’t want to be another person who makes you feel smaller, or guilty, or dirty. Because you’re not. You’re Ellie, my Ellie, and I love you. I’m here, and I want to stay here.”

Ellie stares at her, every nerve screaming, her chest tight with words she couldn’t form. She finally collapses down onto the bed beside Dina, like her body gave up pretending. Their knees brush. Ellie drops her face into her hands.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers. “I feel like I’ve been running on empty since Backstage. Like something inside me broke and I’ve been walking around hollow ever since. And the Emmy—it didn’t fix it. It was five seconds of joy and then—” she snapped her fingers, “gone. Right back to empty again.”

Dina’s hand creeps over, slow and careful, resting over Ellie’s clenched fists.

Ellie lifts her wet eyes, voice jagged. “And now all of this chaos happens, and I’m here, with you, and I don’t want to fuck that up. I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to stop drowning in it.”

Dina’s eyes shine, but her voice is steady as stone. “Then don’t do it alone. Let me carry some of it. Let me in, Ellie. You don’t have to prove anything, don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. You just have to let me stay.”

Ellie’s lips tremble. She lets Dina’s hand slide into hers, their fingers knotting. For the first time in days, the storm inside her quiets just enough for her to breathe. She slumps sideways until her temple presses against Dina’s shoulder, the familiar warmth breaking through the static.

“I don’t deserve you,” Ellie murmurs.

Dina kisses the crown of her head. “You’ve got me anyway.”

Ellie lifts her head from Dina’s shoulder, eyes still wet, lips parted like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to move. Dina cupps her face with both hands, thumbs sweeping at the tear tracks. For a moment they just stared at each other—Ellie, cracked open and trembling, Dina steady and unflinching—and then Dina leaned in. The kiss was soft at first, cautious, tasting of salt and the faint bitterness of beer, but Ellie let out a low, broken sound and pushed closer, chasing more.

The warmth between them builds fast, like a match catching tinder. Dina tilts Ellie back onto the bed, fingers sliding into her hair, holding her steady as if she could anchor her there. Ellie clings like she's afraid Dina might vanish if she let go, their mouths urgent, teeth clashing, breaths hot. Her chest presses against hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Ellie felt present—fully in her body.

“I love you,” Dina breathes against her mouth, words spilling raw and certain. She said it like an oath, like she was stalking a claim on Ellie in that single sentence. Her hands roam Ellie’s sides, greedy.

Ellie stills for half a second, the words striking somewhere deep inside her chest, then surged up to meet Dina’s mouth again. “I love you too,” she whispers back, fierce, desperate, as if saying it back would make it truer. Her hands fist in Dina’s shirt, dragging her closer.

Their kiss deepens, the weight of grief, jealousy and fear pressed out between their bodies until only heat remained.

𝐀 week later, you're folded into the couch with Abby, the two of you pressed together more out of gravity than choice. Her arm drapes across your shoulders, heavy and grounding, her fingers idly toying with the seam of your sleeve. The TV hums in front of you, the carousel spinning endlessly—title after title sliding past and not catching your attention.

The cursor lands on La La Land. The neon poster floods the room in a blue-pink glow.

“Wanna watch this one?” Abby asks, tipping the remote toward you.

Your chest tightens instantly, sharp as a pin. You clear your throat, force your face to still. “Nah. Don’t like that one.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. She notices the crack in your voice, but doesn’t push. She just clicks on, letting the film dissolve into the tide of forgettable options.

Then your phone buzzes on the coffee table, rattling hard against the wood. Rachel’s name flashes bright across the screen.'

You peel yourself out from under Abby’s warmth, padding into the kitchen with the phone pressed to your ear. “Hey Rach!”

“GIRL,” Rachel shrieks, voice shot through with caffeine and hysteria, “YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS!”

You wince, holding the phone away. “Jesus Christ, what?”

“This director—this insane, award-winning, globally-fucking-renowned director—wants you for his next project. A romance. Not some formula Netflix garbage you've been doing. Real, capital-R romance. The kind critics call art, the kind that ruins marriages because everyone in the theater falls in love with you.”

Your knuckles dig into the counter edge, blood rushing to your ears. “Wait—what? You’re serious?”

Rachel barrels on, manic, high on her own news. “And not just romance, it's a musical remake. With grit, with darkness, with DRAMA. And do you wanna know what he told me? Do you?!”

Your knees wobble as you grip the countertop tighter. “What?!”

“He said—and I quote—if you don’t do it, the project doesn’t exist. Period. That you’re the only person who can play this part and this whole movie is hanging on you.”

Your forehead drops into your free hand. “No. No fucking way. That’s insane. You’re lying!”

Rachel nearly bursts through the line. “DO I SOUND LIKE I’M LYING?! He said you, bitch. YOU. Nobody else.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, the words breaking apart on your tongue. “Oh my fucking god. Really? Really?”

From the couch, Abby calls carefully, “Everything okay?”

But you don’t hear her. You sprint back into the living room, fumble your laptop open, and the screen floods your face with light. Your inbox glows—an unread email sitting bold at the top. Subject line: Your Name. Attachment: Script.

“Rachel,” you breathe, not even aware of Abby staring at you now, her brows knitting. “It’s here. It’s actually here!”

“Open it, I’m staying on the line,” Rachel orders, breathless with triumph.

Your fingers shake as you click. The title page blooms onto the screen, stark black on white, your name stamped across the header.

For a second, your vision swims. The tears come hot, unbidden. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle the laugh that bursts out, jagged and wet.

“Rachel,” you choke, tears spilling, “I’m actually fucking crying right now.”

Rachel’s grin practically crackles through the receiver. “Good. Cry, sob, break down. You deserve this. This is it, babe. This is the one.”

You stare at the glowing page until the letters blur, the sound of your own heart drowning out everything else.

Hope floods through you, dizzy and bright, tearing into all the wreckage you’ve been carrying. For the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

𝐑ain still threads faint against the loft windows, a quiet percussion that seeps into the bones of the night. The room holds its own hush: books stacked half-fallen on the nightstand, the lavender scent of Dina’s lotion lingering, the sheets tangled around their legs from hours of not moving very far.

Dina leans back against the headboard with a book open across her lap, the spine cracked and the pages splayed. Ellie lies stretched out beside her, one hand laced over her stomach, the other wandering lazy circles along the hem of her shirt. For the first time in weeks, her muscles aren’t strung tight as wire. Her eyes track the ceiling like she’s searching constellations that aren’t there.

“You’re distracting me,” Dina murmurs without looking up. There’s no heat in it; the corner of her mouth is already curving.

Ellie grins, fingers drawing another slow pattern across Dina’s ribs. “Good.”

Dina huffs a laugh, nudging her with her elbow. “You’re unbearable.”

Before Ellie can shoot something back, her phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound tears straight through the cocoon of quiet. The screen lights up: Erin.

Ellie groans, face dropping into the pillow as if she might prefer suffocating instead. “Nope. Not happening. Not tonight.”

Dina glances at the screen, then at Ellie, brow creasing. “It might be important.”

“It’s always ‘important,’” Ellie mutters into the pillow. “Never like, how’s your day, El? Want to talk about your feelings, El? Always calls and panic and damage control.”

“Answer,” Dina says, firm now. She closes her book, slides it onto the nightstand. “Humor her. Then you can hate it after.”

Ellie sighs, drags her hand down her face, and grabs the phone. She swipes to answer, voice sharper than she means it to be. “What?”

Erin’s voice filters through, clipped. “Ellie. A director just called me. He said he sent you a script.”

Ellie frowns, rolling onto her side, suddenly alert. “What? Who?”

“Some director,” Erin says, deliberately flat, like she’s trying to undersell it. “Apparently he’s… well, big. Whatever. It’s a romance script, I don’t know if that’s the right move right now. Also it's like... a musical remake? You do dramas. This isn't your brand."

Ellie pushes herself upright, sheets pooling at her waist. Her pulse spikes. “Wait. What do you mean ‘romance’? Who is it?”

Erin exhales, her voice thinning into static. “He told me he only wants you. That if you don’t do it, he’s not making the movie. But Ellie—romance is delicate. With your situation, the tape, the press—it could backfire. People will twist it. They always do.”

Ellie is already off the bed, feet hitting the floor. She crosses to the desk, grabs her laptop like she’s been waiting for this exact call all her life. “Hold on, hold on—you’re telling me a big director sent me a romance script and you think it’s not the right move? Erin, do you even realize what you just said?”

“And you finally gave me my laptop back,” she adds under her breath, flipping it open with shaking hands, but Erin doesn’t respond.

Her inbox springs alive, the glow bathing her face. And then she sees it. An email. Subject line bold with her name, attachment waiting like a blessing.

Her breath catches. “Holy shit.” She laughs once, disbelieving, her voice breaking. “Holy shit! Do you even know who this is? He’s not just famous. He’s a goddamn legend. The goat. What are you even saying right now?”

“I know who he is,” Erin replies, annoyed. “But listen to me—you can’t afford another storm. This could be a trap dressed as opportunity.”

Ellie stares at the screen, her whole body thrumming. Her thumb hovers over the email. Her jaw hardens.

“Erin. Listen to me for once.”

Silence.

“You manage my public life,” she says, voice low, each word carved sharp. “I manage my projects. That’s the deal, that’s how it’s always been, and that's how it's gonna be now. I’ll read this script, then I’ll tell you what’s happening. Not the other way 'round.”

“Ellie—” Erin starts, voice rising.

But Ellie is already hitting end. The screen goes black. She tosses the phone aside like it’s a mosquito and settles back onto the bed, laptop heavy on her knees. The unopened script glows against her face like a doorway.

Dina shifts closer, propping herself on an elbow, studying her with a gaze that’s equal parts pride and amusement. “You sounded hot just now.”

Ellie lets out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus, babe. If this script is half as good as I think… it could change everything.”

“Then read it,” Dina says, patting the sheets beside her. “And bring it here, so I can watch you freak out in real time.”

Ellie grins, sliding back under the covers, the laptop warm against her thighs.

Her pulse is racing, her chest too tight, but for once the weight doesn’t crush—it lifts. For the first time in years, hope feels like something she can touch.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ love you all endlessly—thank you so, so much for reading 💌

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓— @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @isabelckl @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @thinkingabtellie @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @sewithinsouls @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @satellitespinner @yunaversalluv @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @marscardigan @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @les4elliewilliams @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @doodl3b3ans @savagestarlight28 ࿐

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delivzz · 20 days ago

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GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET.

— chapter twelve;; and to all, a good night

previous | next — series masterlist

hockey player!ellie williams x reader smau

summary;; merry christmas! jesse's family holds their annual christmas party and you and ellie come to an agreement

a/n; christmas in *checks calendar* august?!? n e ways ... we have one chap left!!! this is the technical end to the series but i do have an epilogue planned as well. thank you all for reading!!! <3

taglist: @oneinameliann , @abbyandersonswifey , @fatbootymuncher , @yuyuyuuuuchlo , @lesfortlouandarcane , @mikellie , @morphids , @theangelwaltz , @babymikolover , @mars4hellokitty , @liztreez , @wiildandfluorescent , @imurpass3nger , @mxquelo , @ggutpunch , @guillot1ne , @jazzyxox , @bluminescent-moon , @pinkhoney5 , @abbyandersonsbxtch , @arabellawilliams , @rbnvrnxoxo , @love4madii , @claralikesellie , @wooziil , @screechinghideouttheorist202 , @snuffphiliaa , @kawliflo , @ellensmithxo , @shiftvamp , @vi-sinner , @crucifiedfem , @modernvenuss , @celiacallsitcausal , @delivzz , @shadowybasementmiracle , @eilishfike

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delivzz · 22 days ago

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lizzie mcalpine.. iktr. ur smau is so tea

🤏🤏🤏YES. no one’s safe once when lizzy starts playing. no but the song orange show speedway means so much to me i just had to turn it into a smau, like what??? THANKK YOU FOR READING OSS ☺️☺️ im so excited to post chapter 3 yall aren’t ready

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delivzz · 24 days ago

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࿐𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃-𝐜𝐡.𝐭𝐰𝐨

⚢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆— Actress!Ellie x Actress!Reader

⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — A cracked-mirror apartment, two kids with a dream, and a desperate choice that buys a month of rent and a lifetime of consequences. Years later, one buzzing phone turns memory into combustion—careers teeter, lovers and lies scramble, and a room full of handlers can’t keep the past from walking in. On a wind-stung terrace where smoke curls and old gravity hums, tenderness and fury circle like magnets, and the difference between survival and surrender narrows to a breath.

⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 13,2k

⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒— LORE PACKED, smut (Ellie x reader), angst, panic/anxiety, internalized homophobia, time jumps/flashbacks, jealousy, alcohol + cigarette use, explicit language, emotional infidelity, tense relationship dynamics (ellie x dina / reader x abby), malicious outing & revenge porn (non-consensual leak), on-camera sex references, PR/media scrutiny, physical altercation, career/brand fallout, multiple POVs, AFAB!reader, modern AU, multi-part series. minors and men DNI.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⭒࿐

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

“𝐄𝐫𝐨𝐬 & 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬.”

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 →

“𝑬𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒔 (𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏) 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒊𝒏” — 𝑺𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒉𝒐, 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 130

𝐖hen school ended, you and Ellie packed everything you owned into the backseat of Joel’s truck and moved into your first apartment.

Well, apartment is a generous word. It was a crooked box with windows. A third-floor walk-up in a building that looked like it was holding itself together out of spite.

The rent was cheap because the place smelled faintly of mold—as if someone had tried to drown it years ago and it never fully dried. The bathroom mirror had a crack running through it that split your reflection in two, so every morning you had to choose which half of yourself to look at. The tap in the kitchen sink dripped constantly, and there was a stain on the carpet shaped like Argentina that no amount of scrubbing would erase.

But, you didn’t care. You were eighteen and had a single dream split between two hearts: become actors or die trying.

And if that meant learning lines on the floor, or eating dollar ramen while Ellie patched a hole in her Converse with duct tape, so be it. If it meant holding auditions in damp rehearsal rooms that smelled like dust, or memorizing monologues on the subway, so be it.

Both your parents and Joel slipped you money every so often—just enough to keep the lights on, never enough to feel safe. It felt like an unspoken bet they’d all placed on when you’d finally quit. Joel handed Ellie a folded hundred like it was nothing, muttering don’t spend it all on coffee, but there was a flicker in his eyes that said he didn’t believe she’d make it past Christmas.

Your mom mailed you envelopes with fifty-dollar bills tucked between “just checking in” notes, the paper smelling faintly of her sickeningly sweet perfume, but the calls that followed always circled back to when are you coming home? She’d never say it outright, but you could hear it—the weary sigh, the pause before she hung up—like you were the family’s one-way ticket to disappointment.

Joel was dismissive, your mom acted like you were the black sheep, and neither of them had much faith in that dream you and Ellie clung to like it was oxygen.

The biggest problem was, you couldn’t prove them wrong. One entire year trying, and nobody actually called you back. Ellie auditioned for an indie film, got the part, and then found out they could only pay her in “exposure”. The talent scout you’d met had laughed, actually laughed, when you said you wouldn’t do nudity. You landed a part in a commercial for laundry detergent—only to be cut before filming because the director decided you didn’t “look believable as someone who does laundry.”

Some days you ate cereal for dinner because it was all you had. Some nights you lay awake counting how many days you had before your phone bill was due and how long you could go without paying it before they cut you off.

But there was a lot of love.

Love in the way you held onto each other when everything else in the world felt like it was trying to shake you loose.

Love in the way Ellie would scribble dumb little cartoons and bad puns on the margins of your audition sides just to make you laugh when you felt like crying. Love in the way you’d walk her home after late rehearsals, splitting a single umbrella while rain slid down your sleeves, your shoulders pressed together so tight your arms ached.

Love in the way you’d sit on the fire escape every midnight, a blanket draped over both your knees, sharing a single cigarette between you and watching the windows across the street flicker on and off like little stages opening and closing.

Ellie pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from her hoodie pocket, shaking one loose with that same lazy precision she always had. She handed it to you first, like she always did.

“Ugh,” you muttered, examining it between your fingers. “You bought reds? They taste like ass.”

“They were the only ones they had,” she replied, lifting the lighter to your mouth and flicking the wheel.

“Liar. You bought them because they’re the ones you like.” You scoffed, putting it in between your lips.

“...Yeah. Sorry love,” Her lips quivered as she leaned way closer than necessary, holding eye contact while lighting it for you. “I’ll buy golds next time.”

You rolled your eyes, drawing in a slow lungful despite your complaint. You then exhaled into the cold night, a slow stream of smoke disappearing into the dark before you passed the cigarette to her.

“Think I’d kill it in a comedy,” Ellie said then, the corner of her mouth lifting into that cocky smirk you knew too well as she took a drag—like she could already see her name splashed across a movie poster. “Or, like… some cheesy rom-com where I’m the hot love interest that shows up halfway through and then falls into a pool or whatever.”

You roll your eyes but giggle. “You wanna be Hugh Grant?”

“Exactly,” she grinned, tapping ash. “But gayer.”

“I’d like to play someone dark,” you said, leaning back against the brick wall, “Really dramatic and kind of twisted. Like... Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Or—oh, oh—Charlize in Monster.”

“You’d look really hot killing people.”

You nudged her knee with yours. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean it. You’d be like—” her voice dropped into a faux-trailer rasp, “—‘She’s broken, she’s brilliant, she’s beautiful. This summer... love bleeds.’”

You dissolved into laughter, accepting the cigarette back. “Okay, but I’d also do a romance. Like, a real one. Something soft and tragic like Portrait of a Lady on Fire.”

Ellie just nodded, agreeing.

You were quiet for a second, flicking the filter before taking another drag. Then, “You could be in that one with me.”

She looked over at you. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “We’d be good at yearning.”

Her smile softened in that way it always did when she didn’t want you to notice, before bumping her shoulder against yours, a little too shy to look at you for a second.

“Yeah,” she murmured, “Guess we’d be good at that.”

Months passed and rent was late, the panic eating both of you alive. Ellie came home with a crumpled paycheck from a three-day role in a student film — twenty-five bucks, barely enough for takeout, let alone bills — and you’d just been fired from your waitressing job for telling the manager to go to hell when he suggested “showing you how to make a martini” in the walk-in freezer while his hand found your ass.

That night, the idea didn’t come like some grand, premeditated scheme. It came the way most things did with you and Ellie — tangled up in each other on the couch, bodies loose and warm from cheap white wine, the last of the microwave ramen sitting half-forgotten on the coffee table. You were in her lap, your knees bracketing her hips, your hair falling into her face as she kissed you with the lazy hunger of someone who knew they’d have you as long as they wanted. The TV was still playing some grainy 50’s black-and-white you’d put on for “background noise,”.

Sex was… constant. And not just constant — it was the one thing neither of you had ever managed to mess up. Through every late bill, every petty fight, every panic spiral over rent or rejection letters or your mom calling too much, you’d always been able to find each other that way. It wasn’t just the fire —though God, there was fire— it was the way it made the rest of the world fall away for a while. The way her mouth on yours could pull you out of your own head, the way her hands could wordlessly tell you she loved you more than anything.

She kissed you slow and sloppy, her hands wandering under the hem of your shirt like she didn’t have the energy to keep them still. You could feel the easy heat building between you—that magnetic, familiar pull that had been there for five years and somehow hadn’t dulled a bit.

She broke the kiss suddenly, breathless and grinning in that lopsided reckless way, and mumbled against your mouth,

“Babe…I have an idea.”

You huffed a laugh, brushing your nose against hers as you adjusted in her lap, your hands finding the back of her neck. “That’s dangerous.”

“No, seriously,” she said, voice dropping into that low, conspiratorial tone. Her eyes were half-lidded, her cheeks flushed from the wine, her hands gripping your hips.

“Hear me out. We make an account and a few… tapes—” she stole another kiss, this one deep enough to leave you dizzy— “Nobody will know it’s us. And, like… we have great sex, someone would definitely pay to see it.”

“You wanna make… porn?” You froze for a second, pulling back just enough to search her face. “Ellie, are you serious?”

She only grinned wider, that shit-eating smile spreading. “Not like porn porn. We just make a few videos, rake in some cash, and then delete everything. What could go wrong?”

“What could go wrong?” you echoed, “Famous last words. Also, that was literally the definition of porn."

“Okay, but just think about it. Rent, groceries, no more begging Joel or your mom for cash every week.” She leaned in until her forehead pressed against yours, her voice softening. “You hate that part. I hate that part. This way, it’s ours.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what about the part where strangers see my ass?”

She smirked, her palms gliding higher under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow against your skin. “They won’t know it’s your ass. We use fake names. Easy.” A beat. “Jason told me he and his girlfriend made, like… twenty grand doing it.”

“Who the hell is Jason?”

“That guy I shooted the short film with? the one with…doesn’t matter.”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to search her face for any sign she was joking. But she was dead serious—well, serious in that mischievous, Ellie way, the kind where you couldn’t tell if she was plotting a prank or she actually thought this was the most brilliant thing she’d ever come up with.

You sighed, your palms settling against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your hands. “I don’t know…”

Her thumbs stroked gently at your ribs. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to. Ever. But… c’mon. All we have to do is fuck. And, babe—” she grinned, leaning closer, “we’re already really good at that. We just gotta record it. It’s genius.”

Your lips trembled despite yourself, a reluctant laugh escaping from them… and okay, maybe she had a point. But mostly, it was that saying no to Ellie had always been impossible. You were both so young and so in love that if she told you to jump off a building, you’d do it without hesitation—and then she’d leap right after you, just to land in the same place.

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it before giving in.

“Mmm… fine,” you conceded “I'm in. You’re a genius, baby.”

“Mm. Say it again,” she teased against your mouth.

“You’re a terrifying genius,” you corrected.

“Close enough.”

And just like that, she was pulling you back down onto the couch cushions, sealing the deal in the way the two of you always had — with a kiss that felt like home, and the kind of love that made everything else seem almost survivable.

You were nineteen. The walls were thin. The future loomed like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

And the first tape came easy.

No lights. No script. No plan. Just the two of you sinking into that sunken thrift-store couch—the one with the busted spring that jabbed your thigh if you sat wrong. Ellie sprawled between your legs, looking up at you with that slow hunger she always got right before she turned a bad idea into the only thing that made sense.

Another video was nothing but the two of you scissoring on the bedroom floor, the camera propped haphazardly on a stack of books. It caught every soft gasp and shaky moan, your knees knocking together, Ellie’s hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. You were both laughing breathlessly between kisses, your hips moving in slow rolls like you wanted to drag the moment out forever, the sound of skin on skin echoing faintly in the small room.

Another was you between her thighs—her hands tangled in your hair, holding you there. The camera caught the way her knuckles flexed, the subtle tremor in her grip, the way her hips shifted as if chasing something she couldn’t stop herself from wanting. Your hair spilled through her fingers in messy strands, her thighs tightening around you like she was afraid you’d pull away, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

The videos were always the same kind of messy, home made magic. Filmed with a $200 camera she bought secondhand off Craigslist, the lens a little smudged, the sound tinny and intimate. The account’s name was Erosandatthis—a reference that meant nothing, unless you knew the two of you.

There was too much emotion in them to be sold to strangers. Neither of you once looked at the lens. Sometimes you caught glimpses of your faces in the playback—your parted lips, her flushed cheeks, the shadow of a grin when she realized you were close. You edited and cut around them, but sometimes you let them slip, too in love or too reckless to notice.

And people loved them. Comments started trickling in after the first post. Then more. Little typed confessions from strangers who said it felt real, like they were watching something they shouldn’t, something too tender to be shared.

And Ellie somehow bought a strap. “Priorities,” she’d said, tossing it onto your shared mattress like it was a solution to every problem in your lives. You’d been broke enough to split a single croissant the day before, but in some such way, Ellie had money for a harness and a strap in her preferred shade of dark purple. You never asked how, but you sure as hell didn’t argue after the first time she used it on you. Fuck rent.

The first tape that made big numbers was the one of you riding her, your knees digging into the cushions, her hands gripping your ass tight, pushing and pulling you exactly where she wanted you. She never took her eyes off you, not even when you gasped and grabbed her shoulders for balance.

Ellie had always been good at talking during sex, but on camera she was even worse— whispering “God, I love you” in that raspy, characteristic voice of hers so quietly you didn’t hear it until you played the video back.

By the time you had six tapes, the money was real. More than either of you had ever made waiting tables, handing out flyers, or playing extras on shitty films. Enough to cover rent, groceries, and still have a little left over for a bottle of wine or a night out—not that you were going out much anymore. You’d built a world you didn’t want to leave.

Another video—shorter—was in the pale early morning light. The kind that slipped through the crooked blinds and painted lines across bare skin. You were on your back, tangled in the sheets, Ellie above you in that lazy, unhurried way she had when the day hadn’t quite begun yet.

The strap was already inside you, her hips rolling with that half-asleep rhythm that felt more like being loved than fucked. You whimpered into the pillow, your hands coming up to cup her jaw, pulling her down until your noses brushed.

She kissed you between thrusts, open-mouthed and warm, her breath tasting faintly like coffee. Her fingers laced with yours beside your head, her forehead pressed to yours like she couldn’t stand the space between you.

“You’re the love of my life” she murmured against your lips, voice thick and raspy from the night, forgetting the camera and the concept of porn completely.“Fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”

You said it back without hesitation, the words catching on a gasp as her hips sank deeper.

It was barely more than two minutes of footage— cutting off on the kind of passionate kiss that could’ve ended a movie, not a porn video. The last sound the camera caught was your high, breathless whine of “Ah! F-fuck, I’m gonna—!” before the screen went dark.

Somehow, that one was the favorite. It racked up almost one hundred comments, one that stuck in your head for days: i would die to be loved like that.

When the balance hit ten thousand dollars, five months passed, and there were twelve tapes sitting in that private account, you sat side by side on the couch, old laptop balanced between you. The glow of the screen lit Ellie’s face in soft blue, her fingers brushing yours as the cursor hovered over delete account.

“You’re sure this will delete everything? Like… forever?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Ellie glanced at you, her mouth curling into that certain smile she always wore when she wanted you to trust her.

“I’m sure, love.”

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒆, 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, — 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒆! — 𝑨𝒉, 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐! 𝑨𝒔 𝑨𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆'𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 — 𝑨𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑨 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘! 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒚 —

— 𝑺𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒉𝒐, 𝑻𝒐 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕

𝐘ou’re still wrapped in that fragile haze between dreams and daylight when the vibration on your nightstand starts buzzing against the wood, steady and insistent. The sound weaves itself into whatever dream you were having until it’s all you hear, rattling the half-empty glass of water you’d left there last night.

The night before had ended quietly after Abby dropped you off at your apartment, leaning over the console to kiss you goodbye. She’d murmured that she couldn’t stay over—early training in the morning—and you’d pretended not to feel the small pinch of disappointment as you stepped out into the hallway. The ride up in the elevator had been slow, the kind of late hour where the city’s noise felt far away.

The last thing you’d done before bed was check your phone. The internet was buzzing about you and Chris at the premiere—side-by-side on the carpet, smiling like you’d been born for it. Your feed was flooded with clips from interviews, people dissecting your dress, your makeup, your laugh. You’d scrolled until your eyes blurred, watching the same ten-second clips on loop. You looked good—better than good—and you let yourself bask in it for once. By the time you put the phone down, a little smile lingered in your lips.

Now, hours later, the vibration pulls you toward consciousness in uneven tugs. Your eyes stay closed, head still heavy against the pillow, as your hand reaches blindly towards the sound. Your fingers brush the smooth edge of your phone before curling around it.

You don’t even bother to check the screen—your thumb slides to answer purely on instinct, voice thick and hoarse with sleep.

“Hello?”

At first, there’s nothing—just a faint, uneven sound of breathing.

“Hey,” Rachel then says, but it’s not her normal voice. It’s soft, hushed, like she’s speaking to someone who’s just been in an accident and she’s afraid they might break if she’s too loud. “Okay, listen to me. Focus on me. Don’t hang up, alright?”

You blink into the light filtering through the curtains, a pale, harmless wash of morning that doesn’t match her tone at all. Your eyebrows furrow. “Rach? What—”

“Don’t—” she cuts in fast, sharp. Too sharp. “Don’t open Twitter. Don’t check any notifications. Don’t look at anything right now. Just… stay with me.”

The bottom drops out of your stomach before you even have time to think. That kind of don’t from Rachel never comes without reason.

Never — not once in all the years you’ve known her, not when she’s pulled you out of red carpet disasters, smoothed over PR nightmares, or whispered damage control into your ear — have you heard her like this.

Her voice isn’t just tight; it’s trembling in places, like every word is balanced on the edge of breaking. The sharp, clipped demands don’t sound like her either. Rachel’s usually the calm in the storm, the only person capable of keeping a smile plastered on her face while the world is burning behind her. But this? This is a crack you’ve never heard before.

You sit up fast, the sheets catching and tangling around your legs, the sleepy high from minutes ago evaporating as steam. Your pulse kicks hard, a steady thump beginning its punishing climb towards panic.

“Why? What’s going on?!”

“Please,” she says again, “Just—don’t look. Promise me.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, like the air’s been sucked out.

“Rachel.” You say, firm. “Tell me what’s happening right now.”

There’s a long beat. Too long. Then, in this strange, halting rhythm, she says:

“You… you told me you knew Ellie Williams.”

The name lands low in your chest, already aching. Her, again.

You can’t immediately piece together why Rachel would be calling you about Ellie. Your mind scrambles for possibilities, and it goes to the worst place first—something horrible happened to her. An accident. The kind of bad news you only ever get over the phone.

Your pulse spikes and your stomach feels like it’s sinking straight through the mattress. You reach for levity, but it comes out brittle.

“Uh… y-yeah? Why? Did something happen to her?”

Another pause.

“Not... exactly,” she says, and you can hear it now—the sound of her swallowing hard. “You forgot to tell me a lot of things.”

Your heart twists in on itself. “Like what?”

“Like…” She exhales, and it’s shaky, not even trying to hide the tremor.

“Like whether you two... have ever… made… a sex tape.”

For a second, the words don’t compute. They just hover there in the air, hollow and unreal, and your brain tries to quickly protect itself and imagines you misheard. But then, like a delayed punch, they drop into place and every part of you goes cold. Your fingers stiffen around the phone until the plastic creaks.

The room feels too bright now, the sunlight pouring through your curtains suddenly invasive, spotlighting you, tracing every inch of bare skin. Once, that light had been warm. Now it suddenly sharpened, splintered into fine points, each ray like a needle pressing in, pricking at you until you can’t tell if it’s heat or pain.

And your traitorous mind immediately yanks you backward.

Back to the third-floor walk-up with uneven floors and a bathroom mirror that had a crack running through it. The smell of the sheets when she’d pull you down onto the mattress. The way she’d grin into the camera, her deceiving gaze that made you forget there was a lens at all. How your voice sounded and your body looked in those clips. How her hands always knew exactly where to hold you so you stayed in frame.

You don’t need Rachel to finish. You don’t need to see anything.

The realization crashes over you like a wave of icy water.

“What?”

The word comes out too sharp, too loud, scraping your throat on its way out.

“Have you?” she asks, quick now, as if she spits it out fast enough it won’t hurt. “I’m not—look, I’m not judging you, I just need to know how—”

“Yes!” you blurt, already throwing the blankets off, your bare feet hitting the floor. You start pacing, fast, like movement might somehow untangle the knot in your chest. “Yes, okay? Why? Why are you asking me that? Rachel, please—please don’t tell me—”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice splintering completely.

“Yes.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

“No. No, no, no, no—no.”

“Don’t check, please, Y/N—”

But you’re already taking the phone away from your ear and opening the apps, almost dropping it because your palms are slick. Your own breathing is suddenly loud in your ears, ragged and uneven. The edges of the world narrow—just you, the phone, and the horrible anticipation crawling up your throat.

Rachel is still talking, saying your name over and over, but her words are static. You can’t hear her.

Your X icon is right there, and your thumb moves before you can stop it.

You don’t even need to search. Your name is at the top of the trending list, paired with hers.

Y/N and Ellie Williams leaked.

The letters blur and sharpen again.

The first post has a video attached. The thumbnail is small, fuzzy—but your brain fills in the gaps before your eyes can. That’s your room. That’s your skin. That’s her. That’s you.

A scream rips out of you before you even know you’re making it—raw and jagged, tearing up your throat, something between a sob and an animal howl.

Your vision explodes white at the edges, the room tilting and spinning as your body forgets how to stay upright. You stagger backward until your hip slams into the dresser, the impact rattling the lamp and sending the glass of water on top trembling dangerously close to the edge.

Something in your chest clenches so hard it’s almost pain, a fist curling around your heart and squeezing until it’s nothing but pulp. For a split second, everything inside you goes still. And then your heart kicks back to life in a frenzy—too fast, too hard, rattling your ribs like it’s desperate to escape.

"Y/N—breathe for me. In—breathe in—" Rachel’s voice is frantic, but it’s muffled, warped, as if she’s shouting through ten feet of water.

Your chest is pumping too fast, lungs dragging in air only for it to slide right back out in shallow, broken gasps. Every inhale tastes wrong—metallic, sour. Your hands feel numb. Your knees are weak enough to fold, so you drop onto the edge of the bed, legs trembling, the mattress dipping under your weight like it’s trying to swallow you whole.

The phone slips from your grip and hits the hardwood with a muted thunk. You press the heel of your palm into your eyes until sparks burst across the dark, as if pressure alone could blot it out, could push the world back into some version where this wasn’t happening.

But no amount of force can stop the truth from searing itself into you.

It’s out there.

𝐃ina’s warmth is the first thing Ellie registers when she surfaces from sleep.

Ellie is curled around her, her front pressed to Dina’s back, arm hooked tight around her waist. Her palm rests low, fingers curled just under the hem of her t-shirt, skin against skin. She can feel the slow, even rise and fall of her breathing, the faint tickle of curls brushing her chin.

They’d come in late last night, slamming the door behind them with the argument still hot in their throats. Neither had been willing to let it go until the fight burned itself out the way it always did—with them backed into the nearest flat surface, still angry but already kissing hard enough to bruise. It was messy, rushed, a clumsy tangle toward the bedroom that ended the same way most of their fights did: bodies pressed together, trying to outdo the other’s stubbornness with touch.

Now, hours later, the only trace of it is the faint ache in Ellie’s muscles, the lazy hum in her limbs, and the way Dina’s body fits against hers as if they’d never been at odds.

The alarm cuts through the stillness—sharp, mechanical, a jarring intrusion. Dina stirs against her, groaning softly. “Ughh—turn it offff.”

Ellie’s hand gropes blindly across the nightstand until her fingers close around her phone. She silences it with a sleepy swipe, her thumb clumsy from half-consciousness. The thought of going right back under, sinking into that same warmth, is tempting enough to make her eyelids droop again.

But she glances at the screen out of habit—and freezes.

Her notifications are a wall, a solid, endless flood of messages stacked so high she can’t see where they start.

For a second, she blinks at it, her mind sluggishly offering the most logical explanation: The Emmys. It has to be about the Emmys. Her win. Maybe the speech, maybe some photo that went viral.

But something’s wrong, something in her chest doesn’t match that explanation. It’s a pressure she can’t name, but it’s already making her pulse start to tick faster.

She scrolls without meaning to, and the first thing she sees is her publicist’s texts in all caps. Then another. Then another. Everyone from her team. Lawyer. PR manager. Even her stylist. The kind of people who do not text in caps unless the world is on fire.

The warmth drains from her limbs.

Ellie sits up so fast the mattress dips sharply, jostling Dina. Her girlfriend groans again, squinting into the half-dark.

"Ellie, what happened?" her voice is thick with sleep, the words stretching into a yawn as she props herself on one elbow.

Ellie doesn’t answer. She’s already swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet pressing into the cool floorboards. Her phone is in her hand, her thumb hovering over X like she’s bracing for impact. She’s not breathing right—her inhales are short, clipped, barely making it past her chest.

She opens the app.

And the first trending topic, burning up the feed in bold black letters:

Y/N and Ellie Leaked.

The words glare at her from the screen like they’ve been carved there, too sharp to look at, too loud to unsee. And then her eyes drop lower—down to the thumbnail sitting beneath the headline.

The gasp that leaves her is small but sharp, punched straight out of her lungs. It comes with this awful choking hitch, like she’s swallowed glass. She slaps a hand over her mouth, as if that could pull the sound back in, as if she could hide the way her body just betrayed her.

It’s a screenshot, frozen mid-motion. Her face is right there, turned toward the camera, hair sticking damp to her temple, mouth parted like she’s caught between a breath and a sound. And you, unmistakable even in the grain of the image. Skin. Movement. The telltale mess of sheets she knows by muscle memory.

One of the videos. The exact one she’d watched alone two weeks ago, in the quiet dark of her apartment, when it was still hers and no one else’s.

Her mind starts clawing at itself for an explanation and finds nothing but static. Did someone hack her? Did something glitch? Did she slip, leave something in the wrong folder? Did you—? The thoughts sear through her so fast it leaves nothing but white noise in its wake.

Her head fills with questions she can’t pin down long enough to answer, her vision blurring around the edges. It’s like the oxygen has been yanked out of the room. Her throat closes around the air she’s trying to drag in, each inhale catching on itself until she feels like she’s choking.

Her vision blurs before she even realizes she’s crying. The tears spill fast, unannounced, cutting hot tracks down her cheeks. Her chest is tight, rigid, and the world around her feels suddenly too detailed—every shadow, every crease in the sheets, every speck of dust in the air standing out in painful clarity.

"Ellie?" Dina’s voice is sharper now, edging towards alarm. She sits up fully, the sheets falling from her chest. "What happened? What is it?"

Ellie shakes her head once, hard, her hair falling into her face. Her legs move before her brain catches up and then she’s crossing the room in quick, uneven steps, pacing without purpose except to keep from collapsing.

Dina’s still talking, asking, but it’s just sound in the background. White noise against the rush in her ears.

Ellie doesn’t want her to see. Doesn’t want her to ask. Doesn’t want anyone in the room with her. Doesn't want any eyes on her, maybe ever again. The air feels too thin for two people.

She yanks the bedroom door open.

"Stay here," she gets out, voice almost breaking.

She doesn’t wait to see if Dina listens. She’s already gone, feet hitting the hall in a staccato rhythm, the phone burning in her palm.

Ellie doesn’t even remember pressing the call button. Her thumb just moves, finding Erin’s name. The dial tone feels like it stretches forever, each second tightening the knot in her chest.

“Ellie,” Erin answers on the third ring. “I was going to call you.”

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED!?” Ellie’s voice comes out too sharp, too loud. She’s pacing the living room now, feet dragging over the rug, phone pressed hard to her ear.

“I’ve been handling it,” Erin says, a little too smooth, a little too calm. “I didn’t want to tell you yet until I had it under control—”

“Well it’s not under control!” Ellie snaps, the words punching out before she can stop them. “Have you seen fucking twitter? Have you seen the vi—” Her throat catches around the word, as if even saying it would make it more real.

“Of course I’ve seen it,” Erin says, the sigh in her voice almost patronizing. “You think I’m just sitting here with my thumbs up my ass? I’ve been on calls since five a.m. trying to contain it.”

Ellie stops pacing, presses her fingers hard against her temple. “How the actual fuck did someone get that video from?!”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for it to feel deliberate.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Erin says finally. “Because it didn’t exactly come from thin air.”

Ellie swallows hard.

“We—” She glances toward the bedroom door, where Dina is still in, and lowers her voice. “We dated. Me and her. I had that video on my iCloud.”

“Mhm.” Erin’s tone doesn’t change, but the hum sits heavy, as if she’s already filing this away. “So maybe someone hacked your iCloud.”

"Wait,” Ellie says instantly, words cutting sharp through her teeth. The call with Erin stays on the line as she swipes through settings with quick, jerky movements.

She dives into her account security, heart pounding in the hollow of her throat. The familiar menus flash by—password, devices, login history—and she’s holding her breath like she’s bracing for impact.

Nothing. No alerts, no suspicious sign-ins, no password change notifications. The last “new device” login is from her own phone, weeks ago. Every line looks clean, ordinary, infuriatingly untouched, as if the universe is mocking her.

“There’s nothing,” she says, thumbing back and forth through the log just to be sure. “No password changes, no sign-ins from new devices. I’m checking right now—nothing.”

Erin lets out a short, humorless laugh, the kind that feels more like a slap than amusement. “Ellie, you sound awfully sure for someone whose private porn just went public.”

Ellie’s chest tightens, a retort already building “Erin what the fuck—?!”

But Erin is quicker, always quicker. Her voice cuts in before thoughts can even finish forming, ponty and unyielding.

“No,” she says, fast, almost overlapping Ellie’s words, swatting them out of the air. “I’m asking you: are you telling me the whole truth?”

It’s so abrupt that Ellie’s mind stutters, caught mid-step, the question landing before she can prepare for it. Erin never leaves space for her to think, never lets silence bloom long enough for Ellie to find her footing.

The pause feels like it lasts too long, stretching into incrimination.

“…No,” Ellie says finally, forcing the word out like a confession. “We uploaded them, back then. To this… account. But we deleted it after some months. All of it.”

“Ellie,” Erin says slowly, with that infuriatingly calm cadence of hers, not entirely mean but far away from gentle. “The internet is forever. You don’t just delete something and poof—it’s gone. Someone saves it, screenshots it, archives it. This isn’t magic, this is reality.”

Ellie can't really believe what she's listening, “You’re acting like I should’ve fucking known this would happen!”

“You should have,” Erin says flatly. “And now we have to clean up after it.”

Ellie’s head is pounding. She wants to argue, to tell Erin that no, she couldn’t have predicted someone digging this up years later, but the words feel useless. Erin’s voice just keeps rolling over her, a tidal wave she can’t stop.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Erin continues, tone brisk, managerial. “We’re arranging a meeting between your team and hers. Today. I've already booked the flights. We need alignment, a joint statement, and a strategy for minimizing fallout. I’ll text you the details.”

“I—” Ellie starts, but Erin is already talking again.

“Shower, breathe, and for the love of God, don’t post anything. I’ll handle the rest.”

The line goes dead before Ellie can say another word.

Ellie just stood there in the hallway for a moment, phone hanging loose at her side, pulse still thundering in her ears from Erin’s voice cutting out. The silence felt too loud, pressing in on her temples, so she pushed herself forward—back toward the bedroom.

The door was cracked open. She could see Dina sitting up against the headboard, blanket pooled around her waist, hair mussed from sleep. But it wasn’t the sleepy softness Ellie had left her in. Dina’s shoulders were tense, her jaw tight, her phone clutched in both hands.

When Ellie stepped in, Dina didn’t look at her right away. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, wide and glassy, and it made something in Ellie’s gut sink fast.

“Dina,” Ellie said, voice low, pleading. “Please. Don’t.”

Dina finally looked up, and her face made Ellie want to turn and walk straight out of the apartment. And never come back. It wasn’t just shock—it was betrayal, confusion, hurt sitting right there under the surface. Without a word, she turned the phone in her hands and held it out, the screen catching the dull morning light.

Ellie’s stomach dropped. Her face. Yours. Bodies moving in sync, hands tracing skin like a language only the two of you had spoken. The grainy, dim-lit warmth of a video she knew too well to be proud of.

But the meaning of it is now irreversibly changed, shifting from something cherished to something dreadful. Her pulse spiked, nausea clawing its way up her throat until she thought she might actually be sick.

“What the fuck is this, Ellie?!” Dina’s voice cracked halfway through the question, her eyes already wet.

Ellie’s chest constricted. She shook her head too fast, words tumbling out without air. “Dina, don't watch it—are you fucking kidding me? Don’t—!”

“You never told me anything about this!” Dina shot back, her tone rising to match the sharp edges in the room.

Ellie took a step closer, her hands half-raised like she could calm this down by sheer proximity. “Because it’s not—it’s not something I thought would ever—”

“Oh, really?!” Dina’s laugh was short and hollow. “Because it looks pretty fucking current to me. Like, I don’t know, two people who clearly—clearly—” She stopped herself, lips pressing tight, eyes flicking away like she didn’t even want to finish.

Ellie’s throat was dry.

“We dated,” she said finally, the words heavy as lead.

Dina’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

Ellie’s breathing was uneven now, hands curling into fists at her sides, not in anger but in the way you do when you’re barely holding yourself together. “It was before you, way before. I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter anymore—”

“It didn’t matter?! You’re literally calling her the love of your life!’” Dina’s voice cracked loud enough to bounce off the walls. “And now I’m finding out because her face and your face are all over the internet in some fucking sex tape!”

Ellie winced at the words, as if they were made of glass and she’d just stepped on them barefoot. “Dina, I didn’t—fuck—I didn’t think this would ever see the light of day. We deleted it. We deleted the whole account. It was gone—”

“Clearly not gone enough,” Dina bit out, tone sharp with disbelief. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears kept building.

Ellie started pacing, fast, the way she always did when her brain was firing too fast for her mouth. “I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t—Erin’s saying someone downloaded it, but nothing adds up, and now you’re here looking at me like—” She broke off, shaking her head, voice straining. “Like I planned this or something!”

Dina’s voice dropped, quieter but not softer. “You didn’t plan it, but you sure as hell didn’t tell me the truth either.”

Ellie stopped moving, her breathing ragged, eyes darting anywhere but Dina’s. Her fingers dragged through her hair, tugging hard.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you over something that happened years ago, okay? Because I didn’t want to have this fight, and now it’s happening anyway and—” She cut herself off with a choked sound, her shoulders curling inward.

Dina stared at her for a long moment, eyes searching, but the space between them felt like it was getting wider with every second.

“You should have told me,” she said finally, voice low and uneven. “Before the whole fucking world did.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her voice from breaking.

“I know.” she said, barely more than a whisper.

𝐓he locker room was humid with the after-sweat of practice, the low hiss of the showers somewhere in the back. Abby was at her locker, peeling off her shirt and grabbing a towel, when she noticed the two forwards from her team huddled together a few feet down, their heads bent over one phone like they were plotting a heist.

They weren’t even pretending to change—just standing there in their sports bras, eyes glued to whatever was playing. Every few seconds one of them would gasp, or let out a muffled laugh, then lean in as if the phone was telling them a secret.

“Oh my god,” Andy breathed, her hand clapping over her mouth. “Rewind it, rewind it—”

“I’m not rewinding it, it’s already on a loop,” Nora muttered, grinning. “Holy fuck. Look at the way she—”

“God, I’d kill to be them right now,” Andy cut in, half-laughing, half-serious. “They’re so into it.”

Abby smirked and wandered over, rolling her shoulders loose.

“What’s got you two so glued to the phone?” Her voice was light, teasing—locker room banter without thinking—but her eyes flicked between them, curious.

Andy glanced up, cheeks flushed like she’d been caught. “Oh, you’d never believe this.”

Nora bit her lip, eyes still darting down to the screen. “No, seriously, this is—like—huge. Insane.”

Abby cocked her head, leaning on the locker next to them. “Now I’m curious. Spill.”

Andy grinned. “Okay, so—you know that actress? The hot one—”

“That narrows it down to, like, fifty.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “The hot one. The one from When We Fell. The one people are obsessed with. Y/N.”

Your name hit Abby like a slap she didn’t see coming. Her shoulders tensed before she could stop it, something coiling low in her gut. Her grip on the towel tightened just slightly, but she forced a scoff, making her voice lazy.

“…Sure. What about her?” she finally said, making her tone casual even though the entire situation sent shivers skittering up her spine. Still, she played it cool, smirking faintly.

Andy bit back a smirk of her own. “She has a sex tape.”

Abby’s brows shot up, the laugh that came out more like disbelief than humor. “Nah. You’re lying.” She was already bracing herself for the punchline, waiting for them to admit they were messing with her.

“With Ellie. fucking. Williams,” Nora cut in, voice pitching up like she could barely believe it herself.

Abby’s brain tripped over the name. For a beat, she felt like she’d misheard it — like there was no way that’s what she’d just said. “The one from Backstage? Short hair, tattoos, never smiles?” Her laugh came sharper this time, riding the fantasy of incredulity. “Nah, no way. You’re fucking kidding.”

But Andy was shaking her head, looking giddy to be the one delivering the news. “Nope. And it’s everywhere. Blowing up.” She grinned wider. “Ten seconds in and they already look like they’re about to eat each other alive. Full-on eye contact. You can feel it.”

Something icy was starting to spread through Abby’s chest, wrapping around her lungs. She kept her arms folded, kept her face flat, but every nerve in her body was on high alert.

Nora smirked, eyes still locked at the phone, as if it was just impossible to stop watching it. “And they both have huge relationships, like, serious ones. Isn’t Y/N super straight and dating Chris Parker? This is… honestly? Historic.”

The name hit Abby again, this time harder. The casual way Nora said Chris Parker made her stomach twist — the public version of you, the one everyone thought they knew. Not her version.

Andy laughed under her breath. “Historic’s one word for it. Fucking insane is another. I mean—Williams’s got her hands everywhere. And Y/N? She’s…” She trailed off with a low whistle. “Let’s just say she’s not shy. You can see everything.”

The words felt like grit under Abby’s teeth. Her jaw locked so tight it ached. She didn’t want to picture it — you, like that, with someone else’s hands on you — but the images were already there, uninvited and ugly.

Nora leaned in closer to the screen, biting back a grin. “She’s gorgeous, though. Like—even better than I thought she’d look naked. And the noises—holy shit.”

That was it. The heat under Abby’s skin turned darker, meaner. She couldn’t stand the way they were looking at the screen like you were just another piece of gossip to pass around. Her heartbeat was hammering in her ears, but her voice stayed level.

“Alright,” she said, stepping forward, “let me see the fucking tape.”

Andy blinked. “Uh—”

Before she could finish, Abby’s hand shot out and snatched the phone clean from her grip. Andy’s startled hey! barely registered as Abby tilted the screen toward herself.

It hit her instantly—you.

So familiar it made her stomach drop; so utterly, irrevocably you that it was impossible to imagine it could be anyone else. But your body younger, your face and skin unstripped, unarmored. A version of you she had never met.

Then came the sound—Ellie's, low and intimate, threading through the static: “Fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”

And then your voice. Soft, but sure in a way she never heard before, saying it back.

Something in her chest cinched tight, a wire pulled until it snapped. Every muscle locked, breath wouldn’t come. The white-hot rage was instant, irrational, and blinding—a betrayal she had no claim to, but surged up and flooded her all the same.

Before her brain could catch up, before thought could intervene, her hand moved on instinct.

The phone flew, hitting the cinderblock wall with a sharp crack. The spiderweb of shattered glass froze over the image of you and Ellie, the sound cutting dead.

Silence. Nora and Andy stared like she’d just swung at them instead of the phone.

Abby’s breath stayed even, but it was an effort. Her jaw was clenched so hard it hurt, and she could feel the pulse in her temples.

Without a word, she turned, towel slung over her shoulder, and walked straight out — not trusting herself to speak, because if she did, the whole locker room would hear exactly what she wasn’t supposed to say.

𝐓he conference room smells like too-strong coffee and fresh paper, the kind of sterile, overlit space where nothing good has ever happened. The table is long enough that the person at the other end could vanish if you wanted them to — which you surely do.

Rachel is beside you, her palm covering yours under the table. Her grip is firm, steady, as if she knows you’re one breath away from falling apart.

You’ve been here for twenty minutes already. Your team is scattered along your side, murmuring into phones, shuffling papers, pretending not to glance at you like you’re a bomb they’re trying to keep from going off. You haven’t moved. The dark clothes you're wearing swallow the light, not a single inch of skin exposed. You sunglasses help—they’re the only thing hiding how your eyes are irreparably swollen, raw from hours of crying you couldn’t control.

To make it worse, Abby isn't responding to any of your texts. Not the first, not the eight that followed, not the two missed calls or the voice message where your voice cracked so badly you had to hang up. You tried to explain, tried to get something — anything — back from her side, but there’s been nothing. Just silence. And that’s how you know she saw it.

The door opens.

The air in the room shatters, goes solid and dense all at once. Erin walks in first, her black stilettos biting into the carpet, her ginger hair perfectly styled, her blue eyes sharp and hostile. Behind her follows the rest of Ellie’s team.

But it’s all a blur in your periphery because then you look up, and time doesn’t just slow, it disintegrates.

Ellie.

She stops in the doorway like she’s been hit. Black on black, the fabric swallowing her whole, sleeves down to her wrists, even her collarbones hidden from view. Auburn hair pulled back in a bun though a few strands have rebelled, curling against her temple. Sunglasses that hide half her face, but not the exhaustion dragging at her posture.

The room falls away. The murmured phone calls, the shuffle of papers, the tension coiling between your team and hers, none of it exists.

It’s just her and you now, trapped in this horrible, suspended moment where nothing moves except the pounding in your chests.

Neither of you lower your glasses. They’re the only shield you have left, the only thing between you and the ruin of letting her see what’s underneath.

She’s always known the weight of your silences, and you’ve always known the way hers press into the air. Right now, those silences are screaming. She knows how you feel, even now, even after everything. You know how she feels, even with every wall she’s tried to keep.

You can’t hide from each other. You never could.

Your eyes burn under the tinted lenses, tears pressing hot against the edges. You remember her laugh without meaning to— the way it used to split open a room, how it used to hit you like the sun catching on glass. Tons of memories appear and disappear so suddenly that your throat closes around them.

Ellie’s mind is already trying to walk somewhere else as she forces herself to take the next step inside. But the numbness she’s been clinging to all day falters the second she’s close enough to see the shape of you in the chair.

You both want to do everything at once—vomit, scream, run, jump from the window, kiss, hug, fight, bolt to an island where no one knows your names, where nothing like this could have ever happened. Where nothing at all had ever happened. Where the concept time ceased to exist. Where she’s still yours and you’re still hers, and the rest of the world rots, far, far away.

But you don't do anything.

She sits across from you, slow and deliberate, as if she’s afraid of waking something volatile. Between you, unspoken and blinding, is the same truth that’s always been there: no matter how much you try to hide, there’s something in each other you can’t unsee.

It’s ridiculous. The two of you dressed like matching shadows, both concealing yourselves behind darkened glass from strangers at a table that know too much and eyes around the globe that you can't see, yet still can’t hide from each other.

Your nails find your covered thigh under the table. You pinch hard. Then harder. A small, sharp pain over and over, trying to prove you can wake up if you try hard enough.

You keep doing it, waiting for the snap, the jolt that’ll pull you out of this. But the bruise is already there, deepening under your skin, and the fluorescent lights are still buzzing, and Ellie is still sitting across from you.

Not a dream. A nightmare made reality.

“Fine,” Mary—your publicist—is the first one to talk, her voice like ice cutting through the room. “Before we even talk about how to clean this up—” she glances from you to Ellie like she can’t decide which of you to strangle first—

“explain why there’s a sex tape of you both.”

The silence after that is suffocating.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough that you almost miss the scrape of Mary’s chair as she leans back. Your sunglasses feel suddenly too heavy, pressing into the bridge of your nose. You feel Rachel’s thumb move in a slow, grounding stroke, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from bolting out the door.

You clear your throat, but the words still come out in a shaky whisper. “We… we dated. When we were teenagers.”

Across from you, Ellie’s head snaps up. Even with the sunglasses hiding her eyes, you can feel the way they lock onto you, how her skin prickles when she hears your voice.

“Yeah,” Mary says, her voice low but not gentle in the slightest. “That part’s pretty obvious. But why the fuck does a sex tape exist?”

The directness of it makes your chest burn. You look down at your lap like a guilty kid, at your thighs covered by black pants.

Across from you, Ellie exhales, forcing herself not to snap. “Because we were nineteen and broke,” she says. Her voice doesn’t shake. “We didn’t have any money. We were… stupid. Desperate. And in love.”

The sound of her voice jolts through you. You look up without meaning to, and there’s something in the way she says it — as if handing you back a piece of your shared history you’ve been pretending wasn’t still yours. Your eyes sting, and you have to look away again before the tears push through.

“So you… what?” Mary asks slowly from Ellie’s side. “You filmed yourselves?”

“We made an account,” Ellie says before you can. “Back when no one knew who we were.”

“And we made sure to keep it private,” you add quietly, your voice breaking on the edges. “We deleted the videos and the account together.”

Mary’s brows lift, her voice rising with it. “Videos? Plural? So there's more? Are you two fucking kidding me?!”

You flinch. Rachel’s grip on your hand tightens. Ellie’s jaw clenches, the muscle twitching like she’s physically holding herself back from saying something worse.

“I don’t know how it resurfaced,” you say quickly, trying to inject some kind of calm into your voice, some kind of damage control. “Maybe—maybe someone hacked the site, or—”

“Or maybe someone downloaded it back then and waited for the perfect time to leak it,” Ellie says, cutting in.

Mary lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Perfect time? There’s no perfect time for this.” She slams her palms down on the table, startling half the room. “Do you even understand what this is? This isn’t bad press — this is a PR nuclear bomb. I’ve been on the phone with every studio exec from LA to London, trying to keep them from pulling contracts.”

Your stomach drops.

Rachel’s voice cuts through, sharp as glass. “Mary.”

But Mary’s already wheeling toward her. “No, Rachel, don’t even start. I’ve spent the last twelve hours trying to figure out if this is a deepfake or a fucking career death sentence, and now I find out it’s real?”

“I said don’t start,” Rachel snaps. “They were kids. They didn’t leak it for a publicity stunt, they made a few private videos and took them down years ago. You want to crucify them for that?”

Mary scrubs a hand over her face, pacing a tight circle, then looking at you. “I don’t care what or who they were then, I care about what and who they are now. Your brands are in flames. You want to know what the top comment was on Variety’s post? ‘Imagine being the director trying to make her cry on cue when the internet’s already seen her come on camera.’”

The words slam into you like a punch. Your throat tightens; your nails bite into your thigh under the table.

Ellie’s voice spikes, sharp with heat. “You don’t need to throw that shit in her face.”

The room stills.

Mary turns to her, eyes narrowing. “Then help me understand. Help me fix this. Because right now, both your names are being dragged through the dirt, and people are already speculating that you leaked it yourselves. If there’s anything else you’re not telling me—”

“There isn’t!” And then you snap, your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “You fucking think I wanted the entire world to see me naked?!”

Ellie’s head tilts at your tone, hearing the edge in it, the exhaustion beneath the anger. Her hands are clasped together so tightly in her lap you can see the tendons straining.

The silence fractures when Erin leans forward, palms flat on the table, her voice brisk, professional, and merciless.

“Alright, stop. Here’s what we’re going to do.” She looks to Mary. “We coordinate public statements, both of them separate but aligned, and we do it today. Within an hour.”

Her gaze cuts to one of the assistants at her side. “Start drafting. I want language ready in the next thirty minutes.”

Mary doesn’t even look at you when she adds, “We also have to initiate takedowns immediately. Scrape every copy, every repost, every screencap we can from the internet. DMCA, cease-and-desist, whatever we need. I don’t care if we have to call in favors from every fucking tech lawyer in the state, I want that video gone yesterday.”

The room comes alive all at once — chairs scraping, phones being pulled from pockets, assistants murmuring into headsets, the low drone of legal jargon bouncing between corners. Erin is already on a call before she’s even done speaking, pacing tight circles like a predator that smells blood.

They’re talking about you. About Ellie. About the thing that has both of your lives in flames. And they’re talking like you aren’t here at all.

Mary slides a yellow legal pad in front of her, clicking her pen. “The statement from your side—” she looks at you for only a second before flicking her eyes back down — “will say you and Ellie dated briefly, years ago. That the video was private and you were hacked. No mention of any account, no mention of how many videos there were. We control the narrative, we don’t owe the public a play-by-play.”

You open your mouth to speak, but she barrels on. “And—” her tone sharpens — “because of Chris, your statement will include that you are in a happy, stable relationship, and that this leak is a gross violation of your privacy.”

One lie, one truth, you think.

Across the table, Erin is nodding. “Same with you, Ellie. Your statement will say this was a long time ago, something private you never thought would resurface. Keep it short, keep it cold, no details for the vultures to chew on.”

Ellie hasn’t moved. Her sunglasses are still on, her jaw tight, and you can’t tell if she’s agreeing or if she’s imagining throwing a chair across the room.

Mary looks at Rachel, tone clipped. “The agency’s already on the edge because of Chris. We can’t have him blindsided in the press. And if he walks out from the relationship, you know exactly what happens to half the contracts in your queue.”

Rachel’s lips part like she’s going to fight, but she closes them again, leaning back with her arms crossed. Her eyes cut to you — not pitying, but calculating, already searching for a way to keep you from breaking in the middle of the conference table.

On Erin’s end, one of her assistants murmurs something about “media cycle” and “timing drops,” and Ellie’s head turns slightly, as if she’s hearing her own life reduced to bullet points.

Then twenty minutes pass, or maybe it’s been two hours. It’s impossible to tell when time has stopped meaning anything except the space between your heartbeat and hers. The room still hums with the drone of voices — Erin, Mary, Rachel, and a half-dozen others trading strategies, deadlines, soundbites. They’ve forgotten you’re there, or maybe they’ve decided you’re furniture now.

Your chest feels too tight to sit still.

You murmur something about needing air —not loud enough to really ask for permission, not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else— and stand. You just leave, the scrape of your chair swallowed by the low static of the meeting.

Ellie sits there, eyes tracking you in the dark tint of her lenses. She watches the way you push the door open, the flash of daylight across your hair, the quick set of your shoulders. She swallows, turns her head toward Erin’s voice, then back to the door.

Five minutes later, she rises slow, careful, as if standing too fast might make the whole table look at her. She leaves her sunglasses on the table before stepping out into the corridor, letting the heavy conference room door click shut behind her.

You’re on the terrace.

A sweep of glass and steel stretches into the skyline, the air still warm from the sun that’s already dipping toward the horizon. The city sprawls below, impatient and loud. You’re leaning back against the low wall, head tilted, looking at nothing in particular. Maybe the sky, maybe the reflection of the clouds in the hotel windows across the street. Your sunglasses are in your hand now, the skin around your eyes raw from salt and hours of rubbing.

From the doorway, Ellie stops.

She sees you in a way she hasn’t in six years—no screens, no photographs, no subway ads. You. Here. Now. In front of her.

Her chest constricts, a painful, beautiful squeeze that feels like it could split her apart. She pinches the inside of her arm once, hard, just to make sure this isn’t another dream she’ll wake from with wet eyes and clenched teeth. It hurts, and you’re still there.

And then you see her.

It’s not dramatic, no startle, no gasp. Just a slow turn of your head, as if you knew she’d come eventually. Her sunglasses hide nothing now, her gaze bare in the open air and the open wounds.

And in that unflinching moment, you both feel it—almost sick at how beautiful yet different the other looks. Your gazes are tired, worn at the edges, your features sharper, carved by the years apart. And still, somewhere in the lines and shadows, you each catch a glimpse of the younger selves you once knew, flickering through like ghosts. Your stomachs twist in unison.

Ellie walks towards you, each step like the space between you is a little alive thing she’s trying not to scare off. She stops beside you, close enough that the air shifts with her warmth, her cologne threaded with faint cigarette smoke.

Neither of you speak until she pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds from her jacket, tapping the bottom so two filter tips peek out.

“You still smoke?”

You didn’t even mean to talk, but your mouth acts faster than you, as if speaking into a memory.

“Yeah,” she replies, eyes still on you, offering one between two fingers. “Do you?”

You shake your head. “No.” Then, after a breath that tastes like the past, “But sure as hell I need one right now.”

When you take it from her, your fingers brush. It’s barely a touch, skin on skin for less than a heartbeat, but it’s enough to feel the shock of recognition under your ribs, a spark that lights every part of you that’s been dormant since the last time you touched each other.

Ellie then quickly lights hers, the flare of the match catching the hollow of her cheek, her auburn hair, those locks you used to thread your fingers trough. She turns toward you automatically, lifting the lighter—the same motion she made a hundred times before, on sidewalks and fire escapes and the edges of your shared bed. Muscle memory, betraying her.

You take the lighter from her hand before she can close the distance, knowing by heart what she was about to do. Your palm slides against hers for an extra second you can’t help but steal. You hold her gaze as you flick the wheel yourself, the tiny flame catching the cigarette between your lips.

“You still hate the taste?” she mutters, her eyes locked on yours, entranced.

“Of these?” you ask, holding yours up slightly. “Yeah.”

You take another drag anyway.

Smoke curls up into the dusk between you, and for a moment, it’s almost like the years never happened.

Almost.

Her mouth curves, not quite a smile, more like recognition. “Some things don’t change.”

“Some do.” Your voice is softer now, and she catches it.

“Yeah,” She hums under her breath, “Some do.”

Your eyes then fix somewhere over her shoulder, the edge of the sky where it blurs into the city, so you don’t have to watch her face twist when your murmur,

“I can’t believe this is how we see each other again.”

Ellie exhales smoke in a practiced stream, the red tip flaring once before dimming.

“Yeah,” she says, voice quieter than you expected. “Real full-circle shit.”

Her jaw works, the muscles there tight, and she flicks ash to the pavement with a sharp little snap, as if the gesture could keep her hands from shaking. She leans her hip against the low wall beside you, close enough that you can feel the ghost of her movement but not so close that it would look like leaning.

“Could’ve been worse,” she adds after a beat, tilting her cigarette between her fingers as if weighing its truth. “Could’ve been a commercial.”

That earns her the smallest huff from you, not quite a laugh, not even close to humor—just a sound with edges.

“Could’ve been not at all.”

You risk a glance at her then, brief. She’s watching you already, one hand in her pocket, the other curling loosely around the cigarette. She looks like she’s carrying something too heavy to set down, and the sight of it makes your chest ache so sharply you have to look away again.

The lighter is still in your hand — you realize you’ve been gripping it since you took it, thumb pressed hard enough into the metal to leave a faint dent in your skin.

“I don’t know if that would’ve been better or worse,” she says, finally.

You glance at her, “Not at all?”

Ellie’s mouth twists, as if chewing something bitter.

“Not seeing you for six years was bad enough. This? Feels like it’s trying to kill me.”

You look back at the skyline because it’s easier than looking at her.

“It is,” you admit quietly. "It's trying to kill us both."

Ellie tilts her cigarette between her fingers, watching the ember flare when she drags from it. Silence creeps back in, but it’s not the same as before. It’s heavier, loaded with the words you’re both dodging.

“It’s horrible,” she says finally. And there’s no bite to it, no sarcasm, just the naked truth laid between you. “All of this is horrible.”

“I know.” Your voice breaks on the last syllable, the sound so quiet it almost dissolves into the noise of traffic below. “I wish—”

You stop yourself before you can finish, clenching the lighter in your palm until it digs into your skin.

She runs her tongue along the inside of her cheek, inhales slow, eyes locked on you like she’s trying to memorize you and forget you at the same time. Her knuckles flex around the cigarette before she drops it, grinding the ember out under her boot with the edge of her sole.

You drag in smoke and let it out in one slow, trembling exhale, then drop it to the ground too. You try not to think about how easy it would be to close the distance, to put your head on her shoulder the way you always did on nights when the world was too loud, when nothing existed except the warmth of her skin and the sound of her heartbeat in your ear.

Ellie’s fingers tap against her thigh, restless, like she's having the same thoughts as you. Her gaze flicks from your profile to your hand clutching the lighter, back to your red, watery eyes.

Neither of you move. Neither of you say what you actually mean. But the silence between you is so heavy you can feel it pressing into your skin.

The street noise is sharper, impatient. And beside you, Ellie feels less like someone you’d conjured from memory and more like someone dragged out of a dream you aren’t nearly ready to have again.

“You’re quiet,” she says at last, almost conversational.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to make this pleasant.” you reply, meaner than you intend, the mess of contradicting feelings creeping up in your head and tone.

“Wasn’t asking for pleasant,” she says, voice lower. “I just—look. You don’t have to worry. This… won’t tank your career.”

“Maybe not yours. But mine? It already is." The words slid under your skin and a bitter laugh slips out before you can stop it, resentment winning over love. "You already have prestige. This isn’t gonna ruin you the way it will ruin me.”

Her jaw tightens, a flicker of something crossing her face—impatience, maybe, or the crack of a dam she’d been holding for too long. All the feelings she's been bottling up for years.

When she spoke again, it was too fast, the kind of blow you throw before you can think about how deep it’ll land. There was no calculation, no measured cruelty, no clever timing. Just the snap of the first nerve.

“Worried they finally figured out who you really are?”

Your head snaps towards her.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t think I haven’t seen the interviews.” Her shrug was a little too casual, the kind that masks anger. “You talk like it never happened. Like we never happened.”

Your pulse kicks. “Still obsessed? Thought your little model girlfriend would keep you busy.”

“That’s not your business,” she adds, edged like a warning.

“Oh, but mine is yours?” Your voice rises, the control you’d promised yourself you’d keep slipping. “Guess what, Ellie—my life, my career, the person I am now? None of it belongs to you anymore.”

She doesn’t wonder. “No. But I know what was real. And no red carpet, no magazine spread, and no little boyfriend will ever touch that.”

“You have no fucking idea of what your talking about. Don’t act like I’m the one who forgot.”

Ellie’s gaze snaps up to yours, as if she’d been waiting for the opening.

“I didn’t forget.” You almost tell her to stop, you almost turn around. But then her voice softens — just enough to make it worse. “It meant everything to me.”

Your throat aches, but you don’t answer.

“The only one who acts like it didn’t,” she added, voice breaking on the edges, her face coming closer to yours, “is you.”

“Fuck you,” you say, because anything else would have been too dangerous.

“Already did. Three million views, apparently.”

You blink once, hard, your eyes stinging at her careless words. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah?” she shots back. “So have you.”

The words didn’t sound like hers—not the hers you remembered, not the one who used to look at you like you were the only thing worth being gentle for. No, these belonged to the Ellie who had been festering in the dark for years, feeding herself on resentment and restless nights, on half-truths and grainy interviews she’d watched through gritted teeth.

You step toward the door quickly, the cool metal handle biting your palm. “Congrats on the Emmy.”

“Thanks,” she said, the syllable too light, too casual for the weight between you. And then—like she’d been holding it in her cheek, letting it dissolve until it was sharp enough to cut—

“Congrats on your boyfriend. He’s now got a full-length tutorial on how to make you come.”

You froze. Your hand locked on the door handle, the metal digging into your palm, grounding you just enough for the rage to hit like an undertow. There was no time to think, no tidy arrangement of words to choose from—just the white-hot instinct to hurt back.

The slap landed before you even knew you’d moved. Skin against skin, the sound loud enough to startle you, the recoil of her cheek beneath your palm jarring through your arm.

Your own breath betrayed you, hitching hard. Heat flooded your face, anger burning so fast it left you dizzy. The tears were instant, cutting down your cheeks in thin, scalding lines.

“You don’t even realize how fucking horrible this is! You have your Emmy, your status, your own name, everything i don't!” Your voice cracked and rang in the air like a dropped glass. "My career, my life—everything I’ve worked for can be gone tomorrow, the entire world is watching us at our most vulnerable, and you’re here being petty? You’re still so fucking childish!”

She didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just stared, wide-eyed, as if she was watching you from miles away—as if she’d been waiting years for you to finally hate her out loud. And then, slowly, as if it took her by surprise, her own eyes began to gloss over.

“You don't know me anymore,” you threw at her, voice unsteady under the weight of your own heartbeat. "And I sure as hell don't know you anymore!"

Something in her face broke at that. A faint wince. And then she moved—hesitant steps, like she expected you to vanish if she got too close. You barely registered her closing the gap before her arms were around you.

“Don’t—!” you shoved at her shoulders, the coarse cotton of her shirt rough under your palms. “What are you—let go—!”

“No.” Her voice was a raw, splintered thing. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair like she was holding the only lifeline she’d been given. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder, and then she buckled—silent at first, her body trembling against yours, her breath wet and uneven as her tears bled into your shirt.

You stood rigid, every instinct screaming to keep the walls up. But then came the sound—her breath catching, low and guttural, pulled from a place you remembered too well—and your resolve faltered. Her thumb was tracing slow, desperate circles at the base of your skull, grounding you in a way that made your anger harder to keep hold of.

“I’m sorry—” her voice cracked so hard the word almost broke in two. “I didn’t mean it. I swear to God, I didn’t. I just—fuck—I can’t stand that I haven’t seen you in so long, and now you’re right here, and everything’s so different. I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the years. At all the shit we didn’t get to say.”

You hated that you could feel it in your own chest—the truth in her voice, the wreckage she was trying to hand you like an offering. You hated that the scent of her—smoke and shampoo and the faint trace of the old cologne you’d once chosen for her—was enough to make your body lean in even as your mind screamed to pull away.

Her chest pressed to yours, her fingers tangled in your hair, her heartbeat thudding erratically against your ribs as if it trying to remember a rhythm you’d both forgotten. And somewhere between the silence and the breath, the fight stopped being about careers or status or your relationships or the mess you're both in. It stopped being about winning at all.

And you finally broke. The dam inside you cracked with an audible ache, and you were moving before you even realized—arms circling her, pulling her in, burying your face in the slope of her shoulder like it might be the only safe place left in the world. She stiffened for half a second, as if she couldn’t believe you’d surrendered, and then she was holding you back tighter, almost bruising, her body starving for the weight of you.

It hit you all at once: that feeling you hadn’t let yourself touch since the last time you saw her. You inhaled deep, greedy—her perfume, the faint salt of her skin, the heat radiating through her shirt—and it was surreal, almost frightening in how instantly it pulled you back to when she was yours. You weren’t sure if your body knew it was the present, or if it thought you’d slipped through some impossible tear in time. It felt surreal.

I missed you so much, you mumble into her shoulder, so quiet you aren’t sure if the words were even sound or just breath.

She doesn’t hear it, or maybe just convinced herself she imagined it.

You pull back only slightly after what feels like hours, just enough to breathe, but not enough to break the pull between you. The air feels thick here, in this fraction of space, a small, suspended world where nothing exists beyond the two of you. Your eyes lock, and for a moment it’s like staring into a mirror warped by time—everything familiar, but older, heavier, steeped in years of absence and things unsaid.

Then her gaze moves, subtle but devastating, slipping down for the briefest, dangerous second to your lips. The motion is so small you almost doubt it happened at all but the shift in the air is undeniable, charged.

You're close enough that she can count the lashes on your cheek when you blink. Her pupils are blown wide, and when her eyes flick back up to yours, it’s with the barely restrained force of someone standing on the edge of something they’re not sure they’re allowed to want.

And then the door flew open.

“Babe, are you okay? You gotta help us with—”

Rachel’s voice cut through the moment like glass shattering, sharp and jarring, slicing the air between you before either of you could make sense of what might have happened next.

You both flinched—an instinctive, almost physical recoil. The spell broke so violently it left you unsteady, the ground beneath you suddenly too real, too solid after the strange, suspended weightlessness of being close.

You stepped back first, a motion that felt like ripping velcro, every inch of separation tugging against the stubborn need for her touch. Your fingers rose automatically to your cheeks, brushing away the tear tracks with the kind of speed that comes from practice. You could feel her eyes on you, heavy and unblinking, the way they used to follow you through a room.

Not even five seconds later, you turn to Rachel, your sunglasses already halfway up your face. The hinge clicked softly as you slid them into place, and with them, the rest of you followed—a practiced composure snapping into place over exposed edges.

“Yeah,” you said, voice stripped of warmth, its cool steadiness a weapon and a shield in one. “Let’s go.”

You don’t look back at Ellie.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OH MY GOD. WHAT A CHAPTER HUH. 15k words and these two little lesbians didn’t even speak to each other 😭 lord have mercy we are in for some serious yearning. sorry i’m a certified yapper and had to explain their entire tragic little backstories LMAOOOO but don’t worry… the drama is coming next chapter. and i mean DRAMA. love you all endlessly—thank you so, so much for reading 💌

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delivzz · 24 days ago

Text

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 9

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

“Do you wanna throw away your future?”

You stayed slouched in the chair, elbows resting on the armrests, eyes fixed on a thin scratch on the desk between you. It ran in a short, uneven line, probably made by a pen or a key. You wondered how long it had been there.

“Do you understand how serious this is?” she asked again.

Her voice had that careful, measured tone adults used when they wanted you to feel guilty. You didn’t.

You shifted your weight, just enough to get more comfortable. The chair squeaked.

“Your grades have been slipping too,” she went on. “Last semester, you were barely passing. This semester isn’t looking much better. You keep this up, you’ll have nothing to show for it at the end of the year. No college will want you. You’re not in a position to throw anything away.”

You nodded once, slow and noncommittal.

Her brows drew together. “Is something going on? At home, maybe? Or here in school?”

Your eyes slid to the wall behind her head, where a crooked motivational poster read ‘Your Future Starts Today!’ in big block letters. You stared at the bright blue background until the words stopped meaning anything.

“Nothing?” she pressed.

You shrugged, not looking at her.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, arms crossing loosely. “You can’t keep shutting people out. You think it doesn’t matter, but one day you’re going to look back and realize you wasted years of your life doing… this.”

You glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed since you’d been called in but it felt longer.

She leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “You are smart. I know you are. You wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this… this attitude you have, it’s not going to get you anywhere.”

Her words washed over you, heavy and slow. You kept your face blank, because what else was there to do? You had heard this before. Teachers, staff, your own parents. Always the same lecture, just different mouths saying it.

She studied you for a moment, searching for something in your face. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. Her shoulders dropped slightly.

The counselor ruffled through a stack of papers on her desk, her sigh sharp and tired. “I don’t know what to do with you,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve got the potential, but you’re throwing it away…” Her voice faded as she flipped another sheet over, eyes scanning as if the solution might be scribbled somewhere in the margins.

The door clicked open.

You turned your head lazily, more out of habit than interest. Ellie stepped in, a stack of neatly stapled papers pressed to her chest. Her hair was slightly messy, like she’d been in a hurry.

“Ellie,” the counselor said, her voice brightening in a way it hadn’t for you. “You’re here to drop off the reports?”

Ellie nodded, walking forward with quiet steps. “Uh—yes.” She set the stack down gently, fingers lingering for a second before pulling away. Her eyes flicked toward you for the briefest moment before she looked back at the counselor.

You didn’t look away, even when she did.

The counselor pushed the papers aside, still in that lighter tone she reserved for good students. “Ellie’s a perfect example of what I’ve been talking about. Smart, responsible, hardworking.”

You sank deeper into the chair, rolling your eyes just enough for her to notice.

“She doesn’t get into trouble, she’s always prepared, and her grades are excellent. This is the kind of person colleges fight over. This is what you could be doing, if you actually applied yourself.”

Ellie shifted slightly, the faintest crease forming between her brows. She stayed quiet, gaze fixed on the floor.

The counselor didn’t say anything for a while, letting the words hang in the air. She reached for the report Ellie had just delivered and began flipping through it slowly, the room settling into an awkward quiet.

You stayed staring at Ellie the whole time. She didn’t meet your eyes, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. She looked like she wanted to leave.

The counselor finally set the report down and tapped her pen against the desk. “You could learn a lot from her,” she said at last. “In fact…”

You raised your eyebrows. You already knew what was coming, and you hated it.

“I think it might be a good idea for Ellie to help you with your studies. At least until your grades improve.”

You scoffed under your breath, not bothering to hide it.

“Can you do that, Ellie?”

Ellie’s head lifted, her lips parting slightly. She hesitated, her gaze flicking to you before settling back on the counselor. “…If that’s what you think will help,” she said carefully.

The counselor smiled, clearly taking that as a yes. “Good. It’s settled, then.”

You straightened a little in your chair, your voice finally cutting through. “No fucking way. I didn’t even agree to that.”

The counselor didn’t flinch. “You’re in no position to refuse,” she said, her tone flat, leaving no room for argument.

You clenched your jaw, glaring at a spot on the wall instead of her, irritated.

The bell rang, sharp and final, signaling the start of your last class of the day. You pushed yourself up from the chair, the legs scraping against the floor, and slung your bag over your shoulder without another word.

The hallway was buzzing with noise—students spilling out of classrooms, laughing, calling to each other. You ignored all of it, focusing on the path ahead.

“Hey—wait!”

You stopped just enough to glance over your shoulder. Ellie was weaving her way through the crowd toward you, her pace quick but careful, like she wasn’t sure if she should be chasing you at all.

Ellie’s voice called out again, a little louder this time, but you kept moving. The crowd thinned as you turned down the next hallway.

A light touch caught your arm.

You stopped just enough to turn your head, your gaze hard. “What?” The word came out flat and sharp, more bite than question.

Ellie blinked, her hand retreating quickly. “I just… wanted to—”

You were already shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, looking past her like you had somewhere better to be. She let out a heavy sigh, eyes tracing your face with worry in them. And something between concern and frustration.

Ellie shifted her weight, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I just… wanted to check if you were okay with what she said in there.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m not. And I don’t need your help. Or anyone’s help.”

“It’s not—” she started, but you cut her off.

“I can handle my own shit. I don’t need some perfect student babysitting me because she thinks she’s better.” Your voice was low but sharp, the words coming out more bitter than you expected.

Ellie blinked, taken aback. “That’s not what I—”

“Save it.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and turned away, already walking down the hall.

You didn’t look back to see if she followed. The hallway buzzed with voices and footsteps, lockers slamming shut one after another.

The classroom was halfway down, the door propped open. Inside, a few were already in their usual seats, laughing, talking too loud. You headed straight for the middle row, dropping into an empty desk without a word.

Behind you, someone snickered—one of your friends, probably catching sight of your expression. You ignored it, slumping lower in your seat and resting your arms on the desk.

The door shut with a soft click, and Ms. Alvarez strode in, a stack of papers balanced in one arm. She set them on her desk with a dull thud, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Alright, everyone. Phones away. We’re starting now,” she said, voice brisk but calm.

The low hum of chatter faded. You didn’t move to grab your notebook or a pen. Just sat there, staring at the grain of the desk’s surface while Ms. Alvarez started the discussion.

You hated sitting in any of these classes. Every second felt longer than it should, stretching until the air felt heavy in your lungs. Lately, it didn’t matter what subject it was—it all blurred together into the same dull, endless noise you were supposed to care about.

You're sitting in the middle of the classroom, surrounded by voices, yet it felt like you were the only one in the room. Like there was a glass wall between you and everyone else, their voices and chatter muffled, unreachable.

You had never felt so alone like this.

You hated that hollow feeling you always feel. You hated that in a way that it waits, lingers, and seeps. It stays in the corners where you can’t see it, quiet enough to make you almost believe it’s gone, but it’s only waiting for the moment you slow down enough to let it crawl back in.

Some days, it was just this—quiet, suffocating loneliness, wrapping itself around your ribs and making every breath feel shallow. Other days, it was pure unfiltered madness. A twisting, hot frustration that made your hands itch, that made you want to throw something, break something, scream until your voice gave out.

And sometimes, all of it tangled together at night, until you could barely tell one feeling from the other.

You just… wanted to tell someone.

To spill it all out in one frantic, breathless rush—the fear, the anger, the aching emptiness. To run to them, to feel arms wrap around you and not let go. To tell them how small you felt, how the world pressed in on you until it was hard to breathe. To tell them how much it hurts, and have them take it away, even just for a little while.

But no one was there.

Your gaze dropped, the familiar ache pressing against your chest.

Your eyes lifted again just enough to catch Ms. Alvarez talking about the book project. Your classmates shuffled toward their partners, chattering and laughing.

When you looked around, you saw Ellie sitting up front at her desk. You made your way over and dropped down beside her, letting your bag slump onto the floor.

“Why am I always the one who has to come here?” you muttered, tilting your head back slightly, not meeting her eyes.

Ellie blinked, looking up at you. “What…”

“Nothing,” you said, shrugging, letting your gaze drift to the desk in front of you.

Ellie set her things aside, pulling out her laptop and opening it with careful precision. She started tapping at the keys, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You leaned back on your seat, barely glancing at her screen. “We could just… end it at the fight scene,” you said, voice flat. “After Jace leaves. No one’s gonna care about the rest.”

Ellie glanced at you, a frown tugging at her lips. “That’s just it?”

You shrugged, not bothering to look at her. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Or whatever. I don’t really care what happens to them,” you added, voice flat.

Ellie blinked at you, frowning. “You know… this is our project. We’re supposed to figure it out together.”

You shrugged again, lazily. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Ellie let out a quiet sigh, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. “I just… I want it to make sense. Not like we’re just throwing it away.”

“Does it matter? It’s just a stupid book project. No one’s gonna remember it.”

Her frown deepened, and she leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes flicking to you again. “I don’t know… I guess I just think about how it could be better. Even if no one else notices, I want it to feel right.”

You made a face, looking away. “It feels fine. Why overthink it?”

Ellie’s fingers hovered over the keys, tapping lightly but not typing. “Because… it’s not just about finishing it. It’s about doing it well.”

You let out a quiet laugh, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah… well, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Ellie shook her head, fingers finally finding the keys. The soft clack filled the quiet space between you, a fragile bridge over the distance you’d built. She didn’t push back and didn’t argue, and you weren’t sure if she actually cared about what you said—or if she could just do whatever she wanted regardless. You stared into nothing, the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you.

The days after that had all blurred together. You showed up when it was time, slid into the seat beside her, and did nothing. Not a word, not a note, not a single thought contributed to the project. As soon as Ms. Alvarez left the class to work, you were gone—bag slung over your shoulder, already moving to leave.

Earlier in the week, she’d asked if you could meet her in the library after school, said she just needed your opinion on the resolution. You’d said yes without thinking — and never showed. Ellie could take the whole thing in whatever direction she wanted without you dropping in with… ideas she probably wouldn’t even use. In a way, she should be thankful.

Whether you skipped out entirely or sat beside her doing nothing at all, Ellie never called you out on it. She didn’t comment, didn’t ask, didn’t push. She stayed behind at her desk, tapping at her laptop, organizing papers, typing up ideas, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

But sometimes, when you rested your arms on the desk and lifted your head for a fraction of a second, you caught her staring. Her eyes flicked away the moment they met yours, like she didn’t want you to see that she was watching at all.

Other times, she’d glance up while adjusting her notebook or flipping through pages, her gaze lingering just long enough for you to feel it before she returned to her work, pretending nothing had happened.

One afternoon, you arrived late and slid into your chair, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed her head tilt slightly as she followed your movements, her fingers pausing mid-type. When you finally looked up, she was quickly back to her screen, but the faint crease of her brow betrayed her attention.

Even in group work sessions, when others whispered and laughed around you, Ellie’s focus never wavered. Yet, from time to time, you’d catch her eyes flicking toward you, subtle and fleeting, a quiet witness to your detachment.

Another day, you found yourself at your locker, shoving in things you didn’t need. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Ellie standing at her own locker, angled slightly in your direction. Her gaze lingered toward you, and for a moment, you frowned at her because she hadn’t realized you were looking at her—or maybe she didn’t care.

You slammed your locker shut, the sharp sound breaking through whatever trance she was in. Her head snapped up, and she blinked a couple of times, suddenly aware of your presence. You walked past her, casting a pointed glare meant to tell her to quit staring. She didn’t say anything, she just gave the faintest tilt of her head before moving on, as if caught between noticing you and pretending she hadn’t been.

By the end of each class, as you slung your bag over your shoulder and moved toward the door, you caught her glance one last time. You weren’t sure what it meant. Whether she cared, whether she was frustrated, or whether she could just do whatever she wanted—it left a quiet weight behind you, a tether you didn’t quite know how to reach for.

And yet, she never stopped. Her eyes would find you in those in-between moments — not long enough to start a conversation, just long enough to make you notice. It was the kind of looking that felt less like curiosity and more like she was searching for something she’d already lost.

You kept your eyes on the hardcover spines lining the tall shelves, letting the blur of titles keep your gaze steady. The wall was cold against your back, your weight sinking into it like you’d been sitting there on the floor longer than you meant to.

You bit your lip, holding back the shaky breath threatening to slip out.

You missed her… so much.

For almost three months, you’ve tried to distract yourself from the fact that she left you.

But no matter what’s happening around you, or where you are, you only ever think about her.

You think about her in everything you do — in your walking hours, in the middle of a conversation, even in the smallest, stupidest things. A faint whiff of the air freshener in the car can stop you cold, your chest tightening before you even understand why. And then it’s there — that same, familiar ache rising up from nowhere, sharp enough to steal your breath, because somehow even that smell remembers her.

Before you go to bed at night — she’s there in your thoughts, in the space beside you that’s always empty now. And somehow, it’s even worse when you wake up. For a split second, your mind forgets. For a split second, it’s as if she’s still here, like the past three months never happened.

And then it hits — sudden, sharp, and merciless. The kind of sinking that feels like the floor’s been pulled out from under you. Your chest hollows, your stomach twists, and you remember.

Oh.

She left.

You can’t be anywhere without thinking about her. You can’t even remember what your room was before her; it feels like every memory you have of it is tied to her.

That room had witnessed almost everything you shared with her — late-night conversations, her tired voice on the other line. How you’d fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear just to hear her breathing. How you’d trace circles on your sheets when she laughed, smiling into the dark like it was enough to keep you warm.

When it gets so cold at night, your heart would physically ache it makes you sick. You’d drag yourself to the shower, hoping the heat might wash it away. But it never really works. So you just go to bed after and cry yourself to sleep.

Now, the same walls feel colder. Even your bed feels like it’s waiting for something that won’t come back.

You hate her for what she did.

But at the end of the day, when you’re alone with your thoughts, sitting with the ache you can’t keep pretending isn’t there, when all of the resentment wears off, you know you miss her just as badly.

And sometimes, in the quiet after midnight, you let yourself wonder if she ever thinks about you too — if somewhere, in some small and fleeting way, her chest aches the way yours still does.

But you never let yourself stay with that thought for long. Because if she does, then she’s choosing not to come back. And if she doesn’t… then you were always easier to leave than you wanted to believe.

Either way, the hurt is the same — it still ends with her gone, and you here, trying to make sense of a choice that wasn’t yours to make.

Always, huh?

Your eyes stung, tears pooling at the corners. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, willing it away, because you knew if you let it start, you wouldn’t be able to stop. So before the ache could spill over, you pushed yourself up from the floor, your knees stiff from sitting too long.

You hadn’t meant to stay late at the library that day. It was already dark outside. Your little corner behind the aisle in the library had been quiet, a place you could disappear into until it was time to go.

You slipped your bag over your shoulder and began walking between the shelves, the muted sound of your footsteps swallowed by the carpet.

Then you saw her.

Ellie, sitting a few rows away, glasses perched on her nose, hair falling slightly in front of her face, typing away on her laptop. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught her here after hours. She somehow lingered here often, finishing work, organizing papers, quietly existing in her own world. Your steps slowed, blinking your tears away.

“What are you still doing here?” you asked, your voice low.

Ellie looked up, startled, eyes widening when she saw you. She hesitated, then adjusted her glasses she's wearing. “I… can’t concentrate at home,” she said after a beat, as if that explained everything. “It’s… quieter here.”

You stared at her, and she stared back for a moment, until you looked away, realizing she might have noticed your bloodshot eyes.

You didn’t say anything else and walked past her table, glancing once more at the girl who had been silently carving a place in your days, wondering why it surprised you so much to see her here. Something in her focus, her persistence, made you want to pause in your steps and look back to see how she stayed late, working, just… being.

You stepped outside to the side of the library, where the light was dim and shadows pooled in the corners. Leaning against the brick wall, you lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl up into the cool evening air. The quiet pressed in around you, broken only by the distant hum of streetlights and the faint rustle of leaves.

You tried not to let your mind wander, forcing yourself to focus on the smoke, the chill in the air, anything—just to keep the silence from pulling you too far into thought.

You sighed, the smoke curling in the air. Your eyes then dropped, following the faint trail of cigarette burns on your wrist, when you heard the library door open.

Ellie barged out of the library door, her bag slung over one shoulder. She glanced around quickly, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tightening around the strap as if deciding whether to take another step—or turn back. She stayed under the light. She exhaled softly after a long beat, gave a small shake of her head, and started down the empty sidewalk. The soft crunch of her shoes echoed in the night, leaving the space between you heavy and quiet.

You watched her go, a small, uneasy feeling twisting somewhere you couldn’t quite place. You’d been taking her presence for granted all this time—sitting beside her in class, doing nothing, leaving as soon as Ms. Alvarez stepped out—and she still stayed, worked and showed up.

The next Friday morning, that little knot of guilt lingered longer than usual. When Ms. Alvarez announced the project time, you surprised even yourself by suggesting, casually, almost too nonchalantly, “Why don’t we… just do the project at my place this weekend?”

Ellie looked up at you, eyes wide. She opened her mouth, then froze, a small stack of papers slipping from her hands and fluttering to the floor. “…Uh… sure,” she said, her voice trembling, careful, still weighing your words.

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