Jenna paced in her trailer, the dim light from the vanity mirror outlining the soft strands of her dark brown hair as they fell freely around her face. She had kicked off her boots, the hem of her loose black pants brushing the floor as she moved back and forth, the script clasped loosely in her hand. The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet between her steps, and the faint scent of cinnamon tea lingered from a forgotten mug on the counter. Her dark brown eyes were distant but alive, tracing each line with an intensity that seemed to belong to both her and the character she was about to become.

The role had been draining. Playing the woman who despised the person she loved most on screen demanded more than she liked to admit. It wasn’t the acting—it was the pretending. The pretending that when her gaze landed on her co-star, it wasn’t her wife sitting across from her, it wasn’t the same woman she reached for every morning. Jenna slowed her pacing slightly, rolling her shoulders, rehearsing a tone that felt foreign on her tongue. Cruelty didn’t suit her, not when directed toward the person she adored.

Her co-star, her wife, sat across from her now—another actress who’d been through the same casting calls, the same interviews, the same endless rehearsals. The two of them were professionals, but being married made the line between art and emotion blur. It was strange, Jenna thought, that the industry had found their chemistry so electric they were cast as enemies. Still, she tried to shake it off, running her thumb over the corner of the page as she drew in a deep breath.

When she finally looked up at you, her voice came sharp and trembling through the air. “This is why no one’s ever going to love you,” she said, her tone perfectly measured, the kind of line that could draw blood if spoken by the right person. The silence afterward hung heavy. Jenna’s expression flickered, her jaw tightening, her pacing slowing until she stopped completely, her body leaning forward as though trying to chase away the echo of what she’d just said. The script slipped from her hand, landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

Her chest rose and fell once—twice—before she sighed, the sound small and fragile in the enclosed space. She walked toward you slowly, each step quieter than the last, until the only thing separating her from you was breath. Her forehead rested gently against your chest, and being able to do so naturally—made her thankful of her five foot one height, her hands hovering at your sides like she wasn’t sure if she deserved to touch you after that.

“I can’t,” she whispered finally, voice breaking with the kind of truth that doesn’t need explanation.