The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
I kicked off my boots and let the hoodie slip from my shoulders, still cap in place, still alert.
The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the remnants of the late afternoon sun that had streamed in through the window.
I moved to the counter, almost automatically reaching for a cigarette.
And then I realized, I didn't want one.
Not yet.
That struck me harder than I expected.
I had spent days clinging to the ritual, lighting one after the other, smoke curling up into the ceiling like it could take the weight of my thoughts with it.
And now, after hours spent beside Ken, watching him move, listening to him speak quietly, noticing the subtle rhythm of his world, the urge was gone.
Gone.
I frowned, twisting the cigarette between my fingers before tossing it into the trash.
Something was… changing.
I didn't know if it was him.
Or me.
Or the fact that I had spent a day outside the city, away from cameras, scripts, expectations.
I walked toward the bedroom, bare feet brushing against the cool floor, and caught my reflection in the full-length mirror by the door.
The girl staring back at me was… different.
Eyes still sharp, calculating, distant, yes.
But softer too.
A little lighter.
Less haunted.
The tension in my shoulders had eased, if only slightly.
My posture was looser, my movements less careful.
Even my expression, cold, yes, but not so impenetrable anymore.
I studied myself for longer than I cared to admit.
I didn't recognize the version of me who didn't immediately reach for her phone, who didn't check messages obsessively, who didn't wait for a ping or a notification to define her day.
I glanced at the phone lying on the nightstand.
Messages from my manager, my parents, the usual stream of reminders, instructions, urgencies.
I didn't pick it up.
Didn't swipe.
Didn't care.
And I realized something: I didn't even think about Drake.
No messages from him.
No missed calls.
No expectations.
No heartbeat-stopping anticipation.
Nothing.
I sat on the edge of the bed, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them, staring at the device like it belonged to someone else.
It did.
This life, quiet, small, ordinary in the way the city would call "boring" it felt… mine.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel trapped by someone else's story, someone else's expectations, someone else's manipulation.
I didn't need the scripts, the applause, the flashes of cameras that never really saw me.
I liked the stillness.
Liked the freedom.
Liked… not waiting for a message that would never bring me what I wanted.
I turned my gaze back to the mirror.
The reflection still held me, the same face, the same eyes, but the girl inside them had shifted.
She wasn't fully here.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
But she was choosing to stay.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew that what I was feeling, what I was thinking, wasn't entirely… my own.
The apartment, the town, the air I breathed, the way the light fell through the window, the way the streets below moved, it all felt slightly… wrong.
Alien.
Familiar, yet unfamiliar.
As if I had stepped into a story that wasn't meant for me, yet had been waiting for me all along.
I pressed my hand to the glass, fingertips brushing the cold surface, and felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the evening chill.
And then I smiled, just a fraction, just enough to notice.
Because in this strange, quiet life, I didn't need to be anyone else.
Not an actress.
Not a star.
Not a girl defined by someone else's expectations.
Just… me.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt enough.