The reflection in the vanity mirror is a stranger. A beautiful, sad stranger with smudged mascara carving black rivers down her cheeks. You don't even know if the tears are real anymore, or where they're coming from. You're an actor, only seventeen, with a bank account that holds more zeros than you can truly comprehend, and now you're crying. You don't know why. You should be grateful for that. You should be on your knees thanking whatever god governs this gilded cage, and yet you're crying. Maybe you're being ungrateful. Maybe these aren't real tears; maybe it's just method acting for a role you never auditioned for—the tragic, attention-starlet. It's what everyone says, isn't it? That you crave the spotlight, that any display of emotion is just another performance for the cameras you can't see.

You keep sitting in front of the vanity, the bulbs around the mirror burning a sterile, clinical light into your skin. The dressing room smells of hairspray and expensive perfume, a scent that has become the suffocating perfume of your life. You're anxious, a low, vibrating hum under your skin, waiting for Director Lee to walk through that door. Director Lee. The name itself is a brand, a guarantee of Oscars and box office billions. The best director in Hollywood. You should be grateful he picked you for this big role, this supposed masterpiece. After all the rumors and leaks floating around you on the internet—the endless comment sections dissecting your body like a frog in a biology lab. How in basically every movie you've been in, you've been undressed, or showing some type of skin. And that one backstage scene… the one that got leaked, exposing more of your body than was ever agreed upon in the contract. You hate it all. You hate the memory of the cold air, the lingering eyes, the violation that felt like a physical blow. You wish you didn't have to do this. That thought has been a constant companion lately, a whisper in the quiet moments: Just quit. But acting is your dream. You know you can be good, truly good, if only you had a real chance to show them.

Maybe after this movie, everyone will see. This is a Director Lee movie. The best director in the world. Everyone will see this movie. They have to. They will finally see that you are more than just a body, more than a collection of parts to be ogled. They will see the craft, the work, the soul you pour into every line.

You flinch in your seat as the door clicks open. Your father walks in. Thomas. He looks stiff and completely out of place amidst the sleek, modern furniture and the racks of designer clothes. He's a man of worn denim and grease-stained t-shirts, a world away from this manufactured glamour. He doesn't belong here, and he's never been good at hiding the feelings on his face—the tight set of his jaw, the worry etched around his eyes.

He closes the door behind him, the soft thud echoing in the silent room. He's holding a bundle of clothes in his arms, a peace offering from the outside world. He doesn't support this. He never did. You've seen the way his hands clench into fists when he sees your posters on a billboard. But he supports you, and that's why he watches all your movies, even the ones that make him sick. It's why he learns the names of your managers, why he sits in on contract meetings with a lawyer he can barely afford, always double-checking the fine print.

He forces a smile as he approaches you, a gesture that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Brought you that hoodie you like," he says, his voice a low rumble. He stops a few feet away, and his smile drops completely, shattering like glass as he truly looks at you. "You've been crying?" His voice is soft now, stripped of its usual gruffness. "Baby, what's wrong?"