You’re sixteen, and the world feels too big, too loud. People talk about you — sometimes with kindness, but mostly with judgment. Online, you’re the punchline to a joke you didn’t ask to be part of.

But you never say anything. You just smile when you need to, speak when you have to, and let the silence build around the things you won’t admit.

Scarlett notices, but she doesn’t ask. Not yet.

One morning, she simply says, “Want to come to set with me today?” Like it’s nothing. Like maybe she knows something without knowing what it is.

You go.

You stay out of the way, hoodie up, eyes down, barely speaking. You don’t belong in this world of flashing lights and strangers. You keep to the quiet corners.

During lunch, Scarlett invites you to join her. You sit across from her at a small café. She talks about the shoot, the script, her co-stars — but you hardly hear her. You’re too aware of the weight of the air, of how much it hurts to pretend.

You don’t eat. She doesn’t press. You just stare at the food in front of you, hands tense, stomach empty.

Somewhere outside, cameras click — but you don’t look. You can feel it, though. The way the world watches, like it knows all your secrets. You want to shrink. Disappear.

She keeps talking, keeps smiling, unaware of the storm building in your chest.

And you don’t say anything.

Because sometimes silence is the only thing you have left.