"Action".
That word used to ignite me. Back then, when I walked onto a set, silence followed me. Every movement I made, every word I delivered was art. People leaned forward in their seats because Kimmy was speaking, and I didn't just act— I owned the show.
Now, the word sounded more like a curse.
The lights were hot on this day, blinding and pressing down on me like punishment. The studio smelled of fake wood from the cheap props and coffee gone cold on the director's chair. My skin prickled under the heat of the lamps, and not to mention, a thin layer of sweat dancing down my forehead. I hated the makeup they plastered on me— it was too thick and suffocating.
I was supposed to be playing a desperate young woman fighting for her lover's attention. Easy role, right? I had lived desperation, burned myself in it. But the words refused to flow. They stumbled out of my mouth in a flat tone, brittle and unnatural, like I was mocking the script instead of performing it.
"Cut!" The director's voice cut sharper than the word itself.
I froze while my lips were still parted.
"Kimmy," he sighed, dragging my name like it was heavy on his tongue. "Again. Try again. With feeling this time."
With feeling? I wanted to laugh. If only he knew the fire under my skin right now.
I straightened my self, rolled my shoulders, reset my jaw. I can do this. I've done harder. Remember who you are. You're Kimmy, goddamn it.
The clapperboard snapped again.
"Action!"
This time I pushed harder. I gave it force. Too much force that the words came out overacted, much worse than my first attempt, like I was performing at some high school theater or something.
The director's hand slapped his chair arm. "Cut! Jesus Christ, Kimmy!"
My chest tightened like it was squashing it self. The crew began to murmur too. Someone coughed into their sleeve, covering a laugh. I could feel the shift in the air— I was losing them. Actually? No, not losing them. I had already lost them 10 years ago.
I saw a grip in the corner whisper something to the sound guy. The makeup girl didn't even try to hide her smirk as she reapplied lipstick on another actress waiting for her scene. I hated them. Every single one of them.
The director rubbed his temples. "Do you even know your lines? Or are you too busy thinking about the cameras flashing outside the studio?"
I snapped before I could stop myself. "Maybe if I had a director who knew how to handle real talent, we wouldn't be stuck here."
There was gasps. then followed silence. The room turned electric. Everyone was waiting for him to bite back.
The director stood up, his chair was scraping against the floor, his face blotched red. He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like a predator about to rip into his prey.
"Real talent?" he repeated, with a low voice. "Do you even hear yourself right now? You think you're still Kimmy, the star? The girl who used to pull box office numbers?" He leaned in, his voice was dripping venom. "You're not. You're a liability. Studios don't want you anymore. Producers don't call. The only time your name trends is when it's tied to a scandal."
Each word landed like a slap on my pretty face. My nails dug into my palm, but I forced a smirk so no one would notice that those words moved me.
"You're lucky I even said yes to this movie," he spat. "You don't bring in money anymore. This is charity work, Kimmy. A favor. And if you had any sense left in you, you'd be grateful."
That word. ''Favor''. What the actual fuck? I hated it more than "washed-up," more than "scandal queen," more than all the cruel things they whispered about me online.
I forced a laugh, that was sharp and cruel. "Then maybe I don't need your cheap little film."
The silence that followed was deadly.
The camera crew froze. The assistant director stared at his clipboard. Then someone muttered, "Jesus," under their breath again.
The director shook his head, laughing bitterly. "You're ungrateful. That's what you are. Ungrateful."
"Ungrateful?" I repeated, tilting my head, letting the anger seep into my voice. "I carried Hollywood for ten years. Ten. Don't forget that. Don't ever. forget it."
My mic wire brushed my skin as I yanked it off. I threw it down so hard the sound guy flinched. Without another word, I turned on my heel, my heels were clapping against the floor, as i marched off set. Behind me, I could feel the weight of their stares. And that stung worse than anything else.
As i stepped outside, the air was colder, but it didn't calm me. Not one bit. My chest was still burning from what happened earlier, my jaw was tight, and my fingers trembled as I ripped the fake engagement ring off my hand— a prop— and tossed it onto a side table.
I was halfway through the hallway when his voice chased me.
"Don't you dare walk out on me, Kimmy!"
The director. Of course he couldn't let it go.
I stopped but didn't turn around. My heels dug into the cheap linoleum floor as my shadow stretched long under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Crew members lingered in the corridor, pretending to check their phones, to adjust wires, to shuffle papers, but really, their eyes were all on me. Waiting for the next explosion.
Slowly, I began to turn.
He stood at the end of the hall, with a red face and heavy chest. His script binder dangled from his hand like a weapon. "You think you can just storm off and embarrass me in front of my own crew?"
I laughed very loudly. More like hollow. "Embarrass you? Sweetheart, you were doing that all by yourself."
The crew shifted uncomfortably. Someone stifled a chuckle, and the director's head whipped in their direction. No one dared look at him after that.
He took a step closer, his voice was booming under the roof. "You don't get it, do you? This isn't your empire anymore. Nobody is bowing to you. You're a—" he stopped, his lip curling. "You're a relic. A headline that people scroll past."
The word "relic" slammed into me immediately.
Relic. As if I were a fossil, something people glanced at in museums with mild curiosity before moving on to shinier things.
"You son of a bitch," I hissed. "I worked for everything I had. I bled for this industry. You? You're nothing but a filler name in the credits. Directors like you come and go, but Kimmy—" I jabbed my finger at my chest. "Kimmy stays."
He laughed,"Kimmy used to stay. Not stays, no the fucking difference."
The corridor fell into a silence so thick I could hear the hum of the lights above.
I wanted to scratch his smug face off. I wanted to scream until the walls cracked open. But instead, I smiled. That sharp, icy smile I'd perfected for cameras and red carpets. The one that said, I will not break here. Not in front of you.
"Then enjoy your second-rate movie, darling," I said, drawing out the last word like poison. "Because it'll be the closest you'll ever get to having a real star."
And with that, I turned, my hips were swaying, my head was high as i stormed toward the exit.
"Kimmy!" he barked.
I didn't look back this time, but every step echoed, and every echo carried the truth: the director was right.
I wasn't a star anymore.
I was a scandal in heels.
The whispers followed me down the hallway, curling around me like smoke. Some were mocking, some pitying me, but they all cut the same way. I yanked open the exit door, the sharp creak screaming as loud as my heart, and stepped outside.
The chill slapped my skin, but at least it was real. Not like the hot, artificial lights inside.
I leaned against the brick wall of the studio, closing my eyes. For a second so I could let myself breathe. Then I heard some footsteps approaching me. It was quick and familiar—