I keep watching as on-screen me saunters off the blocked-off sidewalk, snatching a water bottle from one of the assistants and chugging it back. My gaze then pans across the set, absorbing the organized chaos. The smiles, tears, comradery. I knew we had made something special. Something I thought was going to touch millions.
And I felt so damn empty.
There was a hollow ache in my chest where happiness should have been.
I had no idea the cameras captured the following moments—that heartbreaking beat when I’d stared out at the gray horizon, silver clouds and sad, distant rain creeping closer.
My chest squeezes at the image. At the dead, forsaken look on my face.
How had no one noticed?
I still remember exactly how I felt. My dark thoughts, my regret, my throbbing uncertainty.
I wondered if Stevie would watch the show—if she’d hate it, think I wrote that script solely to profit off her while spitting all over our story for a giant payday. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was that I wrote itforher. I wanted her to watch it. I wanted her to pick apart every scene until she found the truth and could finally understand all the things I’d never had the courage to say out loud.
I wondered where she was.
What she was doing right then.
Mostly, I wondered if I’d ever see her again.
“Lex?”
I jolt upright on the couch and click Pause, my attention shifting to the shadowy figure at the bottom of the staircase. Stevie stands there, wearing a baby-blue pajama set, rubbing sleep from her eyes. It’s well past midnight. “Hey.”
“What are you still doing up?” She steps forward, glancing at the television.The frame is frozen on an image of me, staring out at the bleak sky, while everyone around me smiles. “Is that footage from the set?”
I swallow. “Yeah. The source footage—uncut. Forgot I saved it.”
She crosses the room, her steps light against the floor, and settles beside me on the couch. Her warmth seeps into my side as she leans closer, studying the picture on the screen. “You looked…lost,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but knowing.
“I was.” The admission tastes bittersweet. “I remember feeling like I had everything—success, respect, a team that believed in me—but none of it mattered.” My throat tightens. “Not without you.”
Her hand slides over mine, her touch grounding me. “I wasn’t much better off.”
My chest constricts, and I turn to face her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know how to reach you without making a bigger mess of things.”
A small smile breaks through our mutual regrets. “Well, we’re not in the business of mess-free love, are we?”
I laugh, and it feels like a victory against the ache of the past.
The TV draws our eyes back to the paused frame. That version of me, the one staring at the horizon, empty and alone, a slowly fading memory.
“You know,” Stevie says, curling into my side, “if that guy could see you now, I think he’d be pretty jealous.”
I grin, pulling her closer, my lips brushing against her temple. “If he’d known you were waiting for him all along, maybe he wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”
She glances at me. “Doing what?”
“Writing fiction. When the real story was right here all along.”
Her smile is soft but radiant, the kind that warms me from the inside out.
“Well,” she whispers back, resting her head against my shoulder. “At least this story has a happy ending.”
***
“Good evening, everyone! It’s such an honor to be here tonight, celebrating the incredible talent that fills our screens and captures our hearts. As someone who knows a thing or two about the magic of storytelling, I can tell you that it takes a special caliber to bring a character to life, to make us laugh, cry, and sometimes even question our own choices.”
