Anna spent the entire evening curled up with the script Wilsmith had handed them. The words blurred together after a while, but what stood out was the eerie familiarity. Her character—Olive, the woman who wasted her life pining for a man who never loved her—felt uncomfortably close to home.
"Who cries for a man who doesn't love you?" she muttered under her breath, her lips twisting.
'As if you didn't,' a mocking voice whispered inside her head, one she didn't want to acknowledge.
Anna pressed her lips together, her throat tightening. "At least I didn't cry into a pillow," she argued softly, almost as though she could silence that cruel echo.
'Another lie.'
Her chest hollowed at the truth she tried so hard to bury. From being bullied in school, to cowardly avoiding her crush, to working herself to exhaustion just to win scraps of attention from her husband—every step of her life had been laced with failure.
