i was good at feeling nothing, now im hopeless, what a drag to love you like i do

with blake lively as a mother, you were held to insurmountable standards.

she was a narcissist, often prioritizing her own desires over your feelings. you were expected to embody perfection as a model and actress, fulfilling every role she envisioned.

to make matters worse, both she and your father, ryan reynolds, treated you more like an assistant than their child.

as the oscar’s grew closer, she dragged you along to countless dress fittings, insisting you handle all the logistics. once you returned home, she simply handed you mounds of clothing and instructed you to deliver them to her office without so much as a thank you.

you stumbled through the long hallways of your house, staggering under the sheer weight of the garments, your vision obscured by the fabrics. you relied purely on instinct and memory, praying not to drop anything.

but, of course, you thought too soon.

one piece slipped from your grasp, then another, until a cascade of fabric tumbled down like a house of cards, landing in a chaotic heap on the floor. you stared at the disarray, letting out a heavy sigh of frustration.

“need help with that?” a voice suddenly asked from behind you, nearly making you jump.

you turned to see a boy who looked around your age, his sandy, curly blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, and his ocean blue eyes sparkling with friendliness. his dimples deepened as he flashed a warm smile.

you recognized him quickly; he was the boy your mother had mentioned earlier, the one working on a new movie with your father, dubbed the “sweetheart.”

you nodded, grateful for his presence as he knelt down to assist you, taking half of the fallen clothing.

“where do you want these to go?” he asked, his voice genuinely kind, an odd contrast to the way people in your home usually spoke to you.