SAVANNAH
I find her in the lighting booth, thirty minutes after the scene.
She's sitting alone, legs pulled to her chest, staring out at the empty stage.
Eden Reyes doesn't cry.
She glares, she snarks, she disappears. But she doesn't cry.
Tonight, though—her eyes are red. Not dramatic. Not broken. Just… tired.
"You came to hide," I say softly.
She doesn't answer.
I step closer, slow.
"You could've just left."
She finally speaks. "Didn't want to go home."
That hits deeper than it should. I sit beside her, careful not to touch.
"I didn't mean to say all that like it was an attack."
"I know."
"I just… didn't know it got to you."
She exhales, and her voice is barely audible.
"I don't let people in, Savannah. You probably figured that out."
I nod.
"My mom left when I was twelve," she continues. "Took her cameras. Took everything. I think I stopped talking for a week. And then I started taking pictures. I thought if I captured things, I wouldn't lose them."
My chest aches.
"I didn't know that," I whisper.
"No one does."
A beat.
Then, quieter:
"But you're the first person I've hated who made me want to say it."
Silence swells around us like a secret.
I say nothing.
Just reach over.
And gently, carefully, lace my pinky with hers.
She doesn't pull away.