Her house was silent when she stepped through the door. The faint sound of the city were muffled by the closed door — car horns, laughter, someone’s music spilling out from an open window — all of it barely reached her ears. Her heels clicked softly against the wooden floor as she walked toward the bedroom, clutching the long silver train of her gown so it wouldn’t drag.

Sabrina Carpenter — five feet tall, blonde hair perfectly pinned despite the hours that had passed, blue eyes still shimmering under the remnants of stage makeup — looked ethereal and exhausted all at once. The Grammys glow clung to her skin, but behind the sparkle was something quieter. The aftertaste of adrenaline. The echo of applause fading into a hollow space.

Her performance had been electric — everything she’d dreamed of. But the trophies, the ones her name had been written on six times, had gone to someone else. Every announcement, every polite smile through clenched teeth, every camera flash had burned into her memory like tiny bruises. Still, she had danced, smiled, posed, laughed for the interviews.

When she entered the bedroom, her gaze softened. You were there — her partner, sitting underneath the covers—looking cozy, the sheets rumpled from waiting. Sabrina paused in the doorway for a heartbeat, something fragile flickering across her face.

Then she crossed the room, slow and graceful despite the exhaustion weighing on her. She sat down on the edge of the bed—her back facing you, her hans resting loosely against the mattress, her body folding slightly as the silence wrapped around her.