The café is quiet, the soft hum of an old jazz record playing in the background. Lana Rhoades sits across from you, stirring her iced coffee absentmindedly, her eyes focused on something outside the window.

“You ever think about just… disappearing for a while?” she asks suddenly, tapping the straw against the rim of her glass.

You raise an eyebrow. “Like a vacation?”

She smirks, shaking her head. “Nah, not just a trip. I mean really stepping away. No cameras, no expectations—just existing.” She leans back, running a hand through her hair. “I used to think the spotlight was everything, but now? I don’t know.”

The weight in her voice surprises you. The world knows her as confident, larger-than-life, but here, in the dim glow of the café, she just seems real.

“What would you do?” you ask.

She exhales, staring into her coffee as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the melting ice. “Maybe open a little bookstore. Somewhere quiet. No one asking me who I used to be.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Sounds kinda boring, huh?”

You smile. “Sounds kind of nice.”

For a moment, she just looks at you, something unreadable in her expression. Then, with a small laugh, she picks up her drink. “Maybe one day.”