grrrdino

[grrrdino]

im ready.

࿐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, 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏.

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 ࿐

[grrrdino]

I WANNA WRITE BUT MY JOB IS CONSUMING ME FREE ME SOMEONE

[grrrdino]

[grrrdino]

i can't stop listening to jeff buckley someone sedate me lord

[grrrdino]

;( we all deserve some fluff on this fandom. this is so cute

Days later, they returned to that spot in the park, which was now better maintained, since Ellie had taken her time off to improve it. She put her initials along with yours. Everything was as it had been before, only with one more thing: she had turned it into a treehouse—not in the tree—with room for exactly two people inside, you and her; they didn't need anyone else.

The sky was clear, the air, the atmosphere felt new, as if it were truly starting over. They walked together to that place, which had been completely remodeled, thanks to Ellie's great ideas. That place where they spent happy afternoons, where they ate sweets until their stomachs hurt, that same place where they talked about the people they didn't like, or even the people who were mean to each other. That little spot in the park had so much to write if it had hands and a mind.

You walked in with Ellie, smiling. Everything looked so different, everything was different, everything... mature. You stepped out of the small treehouse for a moment to see the initials carved there. Ellie, who was standing outside but pretending not to look, smiled sideways, revealing her cheeks starting to turn pink.

You approached her, without fear, without hesitation. Your hands found her waist as you looked at her, your eyes shining. To you, Ellie was your favorite person in this twisted world.

Their lips met like something remembered in an ancient language, with certainty, with love...

It wasn't a rushed kiss, it wasn't a tempting kiss, it was a kiss that saved everything you'd felt, returning to the stern with more strength than ever. The butterflies didn't go away, they multiplied. Ellie took your face in her hands with such delicacy that you could cry. The kiss became even deeper, even desperate. Ellie broke the kiss. Her lips were slightly swollen, pink, her gaze shining.

— I'd be crazy to leave you again.

— Are you capable of doing that?

— Oh, shut up. You just gave me the best kiss I've ever had in my life.

— Have you kissed others, Williams?!

You playfully punched her arm while laughing with her. It's not like she's kissed anyone else, or maybe she has, but at this moment it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered but the two of you.

That afternoon, you talked, played on the swings at the park, ate ice cream, and stayed together until the afternoon turned into night. Her hands intertwined with yours. Your eyes looked down at hers. You smiled.

— Why are you looking at me like that?

— What?

— Like you're lost in me.

— I'm not.

— Stupid.

— Hey!

Ellie lightly punched your ribs while laughing. You punched her back with a punch on her shoulder. She tickled you. You screamed, laughed, prayed to heaven you wouldn't have an accident in your pants. Once again, they were close. Ellie leaned in, slowly kissing her lips. This time, she wasn't going to stop, not now. Your arms wrapped around her neck. You kissed her slowly, with love, tenderness, without fear, without doubt.

Because the town might be small, but her feelings were enormous.

THE END! OH MY LORD thank u so much for all the love, i love u guys sooo much! ❤️

tag list: @grrrdino @ilovelliewilliamss

[grrrdino]

Hi! I absolutely loved your Ellie x pregnant reader piece 💕 Can I ask how reader got pregnant? I’m sure you left it open to interpretation, but I am curious about your thoughts! Love your work!!!

me thinking how reader got pregnant:

no but this is a good question, anon, thank u!!!!! i'm glad you liked it. overall i think that reader got pregnant with methods like the ones we have now, because it is not a fic that is in the world of tlou so basically it would be the ropa method, after having tried again and again, maybe even being delayed in the process. finally both were able to get pregnant (very planned) although young —mid twenties— very happy. very scared. very silly.

[grrrdino]

I almost didn't recognize you. Your new theme looks great 😊

hii anon. thank you sm! i was finally able to organize my profile, life has meaning again 😝

[grrrdino]

HELLOOO js saying hi again!! :)) 🥹❤️‍🩹 hope your doing okay!!

hiii. im doing better!! hbu? 😽

[grrrdino]

The night smelled of wet earth. It was a little cooler than usual. The crickets were chirping nonstop. The room grew cozy as time passed. Ellie had her legs tucked up to her chest. You were standing next to her, close but slightly separated, just enough to make it hurt.

— You remember the river? — You said softly as you looked at her.

Ellie gently turned her face. — What part of the river?

— The one where you were telling me you were going to study in the city, on the rocks that stung your butt.

Ellie nodded slowly with a smile.

—That day when you said that no matter what I was going to say, you were going to go study in the city... that's when I told you I loved you. I went into the river again, but you just stared into space.

Ellie closed her eyes. It hurt to remember that moment, when her body froze, her heart pounded, and her mind went blank.

—I didn't know what to say to you, not because I didn't feel anything, but simply because I was about to leave and I was afraid it was true — murmured

Silence. A necessary space to think about the things she had to keep saying.

— I couldn't stop thinking about it — Ellie finally said. — Every time I felt alone there, I thought about that afternoon. And about you. About the way you looked at me.

I left because I had to. But I also walked away from you because I was afraid to feel something so real. —

— And now?

— Now im not afraid.

Ellie took a deep breath, quietly leaned towards you and placed her forehead on yours. Nothing was needed, not words or a kiss, just the need to be together, to be what they had waited for so long…

Ellie held her forehead against yours for a moment, her eyes closed, that contact erasing lost time, erasing the things left unsaid.

You didn't realize when you began to tremble, at first faint like a breath, but soon turning into a sob.

Ellie soon wrapped her arms around you, pulling you against her body, saying reassuring words in your ear. It wasn't long before heavy tears began to fall, breaking the silence, lifting the weight of years.

The hug wasn't perfect; it was awkward and tight, filled with emotions both of you needed to get out. Without words, you could confirm that what you felt could be reborn.

You tore your face away from her shirt, sniffed when you saw your face etched on her chest, sniffed, wiping your tears with your hand.

— I left my face on your shirt, oh my god, I'm sorry. — You let out a giggle as you looked at Ellie who already had a full smile on her face, you laughed as Ellie lay down but still had a weak grip on your waist, you leaned back on her chest, the night was going to be good, the morning better.

Almost there! I'm happy, thanks for all the support 🩷

tag list: @grrrdino @ilovelliewilliamsss

[grrrdino]

loveeeee the way you organized your profile, it’s giving 🫦

THANK YOU BABE. it's giving hippie aesthetic

[grrrdino]

mornings w ellie <\3

[wlw]

a/n: @wewerewildandfluorescent this one’s 4 uuuu mwah : this is also not proofread at all also kinda short? i might add another part another day

it’s been a week since you moved in with ellie— you both bought this shitty apartment, no a/c built just yet. just a broken fan in the bedroom you both had to get yourselves.

and unfortunately— it’s summer. you’re supposed to like summer; pools, the beach, vacations, hangouts, and yet? every night, you’ve got ellie clinging to you like she’ll die if she doesn’t. you’re not sure you’ve slept a wink with how hot she makes you at night. not even in the good way.

you’re almost about to tell her as she gets ready to curl up against you, already settling in bed next to you, but she looks so peaceful. like she’s home. so you don’t say anything tonight.

—

the mornings aren’t as cool as you’d think they’d be. even with the fan on and the bedroom door open (for more air, ellie says. you’re not sure that’s how it works), you’re sweating through your pajamas, and you’re barely even wearing anything.

ellie, though? it’s like this is her natural habitat. she snuggles against you more in her sleep as you stare at the ceiling, debating on whether you should push her off you and hope she doesn’t wake up or wake her up anyway.

you decide on the latter.

“els, wake up,” you whisper, poking her cheek. when she doesn’t even stir, you huff and tug lightly on her hair now. “ellie. up, please. i’m hot. c’mon.” she finally stirs, confused.

her eyes flutter open, glancing up at you and squinting, adjusting to the morning light. “first of all— ow?” she rasps, referring to the tug on her hair. “second of all— this better be important.”

“it is!” you groan, arm over your eyes like that’ll cool you down. “i need you to get off of me before i die in a pool of my own sweat. please. how the fuck are you so goddamn comfortable when it’s, like, eighty degrees?” you frown, shifting your arm to peek down at her with a single eye.

ellie’s silent for a moment, as if she’s thinking of something to say. “…so you hate me and you want me to die?” ellie deadpans, not moving an inch from her spot. “you could’ve just said that in the first place. but okay, i see how it is.”

you scoff in disbelief, pushing her off and propping yourself up on your elbows, narrowing your eyes at her. “i’m just trying to cool off, babe. it’s nothing personal. like, at all.”

ellie stares at you like you’ve just said the stupidest sentence in the universe and pinches your elbow, ignoring your yelp. “i was kidding.” you mutter something along the lines of, “i knew that..”

and so you both sat there in silence for while, sprawled out and sweaty. at least, until one of you turns around and whispers, “breakfast?” and you both spring up like you’ve never heard anything more appealing. not without a shower first which you both take quickly.

—

“..what the hell is wrong with you?” you utter, watching ellie put six spoonfuls of sugar and definitely not an even cream to coffee ratio in her coffee. she just shrugs, mixing it in her mug with a spoon, completely unbothered.

“it tastes good, i dunno what you mean,” she yawns, taking a sip and not even making a face. you watch in horror as you add two spoonfuls of sugar like a normal person and a decent amount of creamer.

at this point, you’ve almost completely lost your craving for coffee watching ellie drink that… concoction of type two diabetes in a cup right in front of you. but you drink your coffee anyway, because you’re too broke to waste coffee.

you simply give ellie a slightly worried look as she says, “what???”, almost spilling her coffee onto the floor with her movement.

and luckily you can still save breakfast. a normal, non-diabetes inducing breakfast (unlike what ellie would make if she was allowed in the kitchen).

as you spread avocado on four slices of toast, ellie gets up from the couch and leans over your shoulder, as subtle as a fucking dinosaur as she narrows her eyes at your idea of breakfast.

“yes, ellie?” you sigh, not even looking behind you.

“what? i’m not doing anything— just observing. analyzing, even.”

finally, you turn around, face straight and very tired. “i could feel you judging from a mile away. i’m not even halfway done with breakfast and you’re complaining.”

ellie raises her hands in surrender, backing up (and bumping into the island counter) like you have a gun to her forehead. “i’m just sayin’… i don’t see any meat, no sugar, no nothing. kinda lame.” she snickers, glancing from the toast to your very unamused face.

“there is going to be meat, you freak. go back to the couch and watch heartstopper or something.”

“i don’t like heartstopper!” she yells as she makes her way back to couch again.

“fuck you!” you call back, a smile coming up to grace your lips already.

—

finally, you set two plates down on the counter: both have two slices of avocado toast, four slices of bacon, and a large spoonful of scrambled eggs (alongside the optional selection of berries which ellie absolutely did not take).

ellie, heading the clattering of plates immediately scrambles back to the kitchen and sits herself down on a stool, but when she sees what you’ve cooked up, looks you up and down like she’s judging you yet again.

“what now, els?” you groan in resignation.

“where’s the meat you promised?”

“…the bacon is the meat.”

“bacon isn’t real meat and you know that.” ellie states, completely serious, but eats it all happily anyway because she’ll eat whatever you make.

—

it’s been another week, and finally, you’ve installed an a/c in the bedroom. it’s beautiful. glorious. the best thing you’ve seen in months.

“wow.” you whisper in awe, finally not sweating your ass off in months. “she’s. . . perfect. im going to name her something beautiful. something full of honor. she gave us light.”

ellie stares at it and responds with a hum, before adding, “how about something like. . . jasmine. like the princess. it’s suitable— the movie was based on somewhere hot anyway.”

and you know what? “that’s not a bad idea, actually.” you decide, nodding, still standing in front of the a/c. “jasmine it is.”

—

so now, with jasmine humming in the background, you can finally sleep next to ellie peacefully— at least not without wanting to kick her to the floor every second.

ellie’s snuggled comfortably with her head in your chest, fuzzy blanket you can finally use around both your shoulders, and all you can think about is how lucky you are.

[grrrdino]

Hiii queenie loving your new profile style, can I be '🩶' ?

YESSSSS!!!!! thank you sm, hoping to read you often then. 🩶

[grrrdino]

idk if u would but i can’t stop thinking about how i need like a college au of ellie x reader inspired by “sometimes” by renee rapp (with a happy ending ofc) so if u ever wanted to like make me the happiest person in the world 😇🤓🤓🤓

okay now i didn't know that song but IT'S AMAZING. noted anon, i'll be making a longer one shot for this one. thx 🤞

[grrrdino]

Acab and all that stuff but cop! Ellie, I have fantasies man

what does acab means girl... but yeah!!!! i will put this ofc on my list <3

[grrrdino]

Payback4?????????? My sanity

I KNOW I KNOW. it's been delayed like 3 days now but i'm on it! it's cooking...

[grrrdino]

hiiii!!! i'm now working on my first big AU with theme of "rockstar attempt, loser ellie and exotic dancer reader—ish" and i want to know how many of you would likely feel like reading it!!! your answers will be welcome. 🙂‍↕️

[grrrdino]

finally got my profile organized, i'm starting to write my first au and payback4 this wednesday!!!!! yeeeeeeeh.