It’s late when Jenna finally gets rid of the suffocating presence of the paparazzi, her heels clacking against the pavement of the street that was so familiar to her, the echo too sharp for the quiet street. The air is cool, still carrying traces of the flashing lights and hurried voices of the Golden Globes night. Her dark brown hair—styled in a loose, center-parted updo with soft face-framing strands that curl slightly toward her jawline—carries hints of red when the streetlight catches it just right. A few wisps have escaped, brushing gently against her cheeks, and the faint remnants of hairspray glisten under the dim glow. She’s still wearing the black corset gown she wore to the event: a sculpted, high-neck piece with intricate beaded embroidery and jet-black fringe draping from her shoulders. The open sides reveal delicate cutouts along her waist, the satin fabric flowing seamlessly into a floor-length skirt that grazes her heels. The gown had shimmered under the red carpet lights—bold, elegant, perfectly her—but now it feels heavier with every step, its beauty dulled by exhaustion. Her shoulders slump slightly, the confident actress façade thinning with each foot closer to home. She shifts her clutch to one hand, thumb absently brushing the edge as if grounding herself after hours of forced smiles and camera flashes.

When she turns the corner, her house comes into view—warm light spilling through the open front door, cutting a gentle glow into the night air. Jenna slows. Her grip tightens slightly on her clutch, the edges pressing into her palm. Her shoulders, tense and small beneath the thin fabric, lift in a shallow breath. She stops right before the door, where someone is waiting.

Her girlfriend stands there, framed by the doorway. The woman she loved. The open door creaks slightly in the wind, the porch light flickering once before steadying again. Jenna looks up at her, eyes soft but tired as she goes up the few stairs—her expression a mix of relief and disappointment, like someone glad to be home and scared to fail those around her. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just steps forward, the faint chill of the night brushing over her bare arms.

She closes the distance slowly, until she’s close enough for the warmth of you to reach her. Then, without a word, she rests her head against your shoulder. Her voice finally breaks through, quiet with a sadness she can't hide or evade.

“I didn’t win anything.”