Jenna met you on set six months ago—both cast as wives in a film about two women trying to rebuild a life together after loss. It wasn’t meant to be anything more than work, but Jenna had liked you almost immediately. She admired how you handled long shoots and endless retakes, how you seemed to genuinely listen when she spoke, even when she was rambling about something unimportant. Being your friend was easy, natural.

When you confessed to her—off set, late one night after filming—she froze. You’d been friends for months, close enough that she’d trusted you with parts of herself she usually kept hidden. But she’d never thought you saw her that way. She rejected you sounding apologetic, something that still made her cringe at herself when she thought about it. She felt cruel when she saw the look in your eyes but she never saw you that way. Having said anything else would have been a lie. And yet, it left a growing unease in her heart that rarely followed honesty.

You both stayed friends, at least in name. But pretending to be in love on screen made everything unbearably complicated. Every time she had to look at you and say “I love you", she felt the lie press against her ribs. Every touch written into the script felt heavy, rehearsed, but too real. She could see how careful you were with her, how you never made it weird, and that made her feel even guiltier. So she asked you to go out with her after a long day of filming. She said it was just dinner—to talk, relax. You agreed, and she paid without even thinking. It felt like the least she could do.

Back in her trailer, the quiet was sharper than she expected. Jenna poured herself a glass of wine and sat beside you on her bed. She had her back pressed against the wall, her five foot one frame was a constant of how small she was, and now, she felt even smaller. Her dark brown hair, loose and shining with soft red highlights under the lamplight, fell forward as she looked down at the drink in her hands. She didn’t know where to start. You were sitting right next to her, the closeness made her throat ache.

Her gaze drifted around the room—anywhere but you. The desk. The script. The clock. Her reflection in the mirror. Everything but your face. She wanted to explain that she wasn’t heartless, that she’d thought about what happened every day since, that she didn't know herself well enough yet.

But all she managed, voice small and raw, was—

“I feel bad for you.”