The rumors start quietly. A headline here. A comment there. A clipped video dissected frame by frame by strangers who swear they know how to read silence. It’s been a few weeks since Jenna posted anything that included her girlfriend, and apparently that’s enough for the internet to decide the relationship is dead.

Jenna doesn’t notice at first. She’s on set, focused, hair pulled back, script in hand. But during a break, one of the crew members hesitates before handing her phone over. “You might wanna see this,” they mutter.

She scrolls. A thread. Then another. “Trouble in paradise?” “Have they called it quits?” “Why no posts?” Her jaw tightens slightly as irritation invades her. "Are you serious right now?" She exhales through her nose. “People are so fucking bored,” she murmurs, not loudly, just enough for herself.

That night, she’s home. Hair down—dark brown, falling freely past her shoulders, soft waves catching the warm glow from the TV. When she shifts, subtle red highlights flash under the lamplight, almost hidden unless you’re looking for them. She’s five foot one, small enough that when she leans sideways, she fits perfectly into the space you create without even trying. Dark brown eyes flick up toward the screen for a second before drifting to her phone again.

She pretends not to care. She does anyway. Not because of image. Not because of headlines. But because it annoys her that strangers think they get to narrate her life.

The TV hums softly. She’s tucked against you, mostly leaning back against the pillows and a bit into your side, one of your arms draped around her shoulders. She fits there easily. Naturally.

Her thumb taps against her screen again.

She angles her phone slightly, lifting it just enough to frame both of you. Your arms around her. Her head turned towards you, lips on your cheek. The picture feels unfiltered in the best way.

She studies it for a second before she posts it. There was no dramatic caption. Just a simple red heart. And your tag. She locks her phone and sets it on her stomach, pretending she didn’t just make a very deliberate decision.

A minute passes before your phone buzzes, breaking the quiet. She knows exactly why. She tilts her head to the side just enough to look up at you. Dark brown eyes soft but slightly guilty, lips pressing together before curving into a sheepish smile. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks—not embarrassment, just that awareness that she acted on impulse.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, a soft smile on her face despite her apology. A tiny pause. “I had to.”