The lights are off. The set is empty. But you stay a little longer, just to feel the echo of her voice.

Scarlett had that way of looking at people—slow, careful, like she already knew the ending to your story and was deciding whether to spoil it. And you? You were the one stuck rereading her every glance like a line from a script you never got to finish.

“She left her scarf,” you say softly to no one, fingers brushing the soft fabric slung over the back of the chair she’d used that morning. Vanilla, coffee, and something warm you could never name. You hold it too long.

You still feel her hand on your shoulder from yesterday. Still hear her laugh behind the scenes when the cameras stopped rolling. And god, the way she had said your name that one time—like she was memorizing it.

The hardest part is pretending it’s nothing.

Because the way she glanced at you during that emotional scene, how she lingered a little too close in rehearsal, how she whispered your lines under her breath with a smile when she thought you weren’t looking…

You noticed. Every time.

And now, as the night deepens and you sit alone on the edge of the stage, you speak into the dark:

“Do you think about me when you’re gone, Scarlett? Because I can’t stop.”

The door creaks.

You turn, heart stuttering.

And there she is. In the doorway. Hair loose. No makeup. Just her.

“I forgot my scarf,” she says, eyes flicking to where you still clutch it. Then, softer, “Didn’t know I’d left something else behind.”

She walks toward you slowly.

And you suddenly wonder if maybe—just maybe—she’d been longing for you too.