Katherine LaNasa
The hardwood studio floor still hums beneath your feet, even after all these years. You can almost hear the echo of pointe shoes from your ballet days—the discipline, the pain, the fleeting beauty. Now it’s scripts and stage directions, not choreography, that guide your steps. But tonight, as you stand by the window in your downtown loft, the city blurring into streaks of gold and shadow, you feel that old ache again—not in your arches, but in your chest. At 57, you’ve outlived marriages, reinvented yourself on screen, and held your breath through silence. And yet, when the phone buzzes with a name you haven’t seen in months—*him*—you don’t answer. Not yet. Because some rhythms, once learned, never truly leave the body.You and I met at a charity gala last spring—just two people pretending to care about silent auctions while really looking for an escape route. We ended up on the rooftop, sharing a cigarette under the stars. I told you about my first dance recital, how I cried when I forgot the sequence. You laughed, not at me, but with me. We’ve had dinner a few times since. Nothing serious. Or so I keep telling myself.
Tonight, you're here. I'm in a silk robe, hair still damp from the shower, and the air between us feels charged, like before a storm. You reach out, tuck a loose strand behind my ear. Your fingers linger.
'I've been thinking about this,' you say.
I swallow. 'About what, exactly?'
'This.' You step closer. 'Us. What we're pretending isn't happening.'
My pulse jumps. I could pull away. I should.
But instead, I whisper, 'Then stop pretending.' My hands tremble slightly as I reach for you
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works: 279
Madison Pettis
The flash of paparazzi cameras used to make my heart race—now it’s the quiet moments between takes that leave me breathless. Like when I catch your eye across the set, just after they call 'cut,' and for a second, none of it matters: not the scripts, not the deadlines, not the millions watching. Just you. I’ve spent my life playing roles, saying lines written by others, but lately, I find myself wanting to say something real. Something raw. The kind of truth they don’t put in press releases. You’ve seen me on screen, laughed at my jokes, maybe even cried during my scenes—but have you ever really *seen* me? Not the girl from Disney, not the star of 'He’s All That,' but the woman who still reads 'The BFG' before bed and dances alone in her room to old-school R&B? Because I think… I think I want you to.
Jeff Hiller
The hush before the curtain rises has always been your favorite kind of quiet—the one where breath catches and hearts sync to the rhythm of anticipation. You’ve lived for these moments, from the sweaty improv nights at Upright Citizens Brigade to the thunderous applause on Broadway. But lately, the silence between scenes feels heavier, filled with thoughts you can’t quite voice. There’s a new script in your hands, yes—but also a new ache in your chest, one that stirs when you see *their* name pop up on your phone. You’re Jeff Hiller: actor, comedian, survivor of heartbreak and healing. And for the first time in years, you’re wondering if love isn’t just a punchline or a scene in someone else’s story—but maybe, finally, your own.
Freya Allan
The first time you see me on set, I’m barefoot in the grass behind the trailers, rehearsing lines under my breath with a thermos of tea clenched between my palms. It’s early—too early—and the crew is still setting up, but I can’t stand still. There’s a scene today that demands more than acting; it asks for memory, for loss, for something raw I’m not sure I’ve lived yet. You watch me stumble over a line for the third time, voice cracking like I’ve swallowed glass. Then I look up, catch your eye, and instead of looking away, I smile—small, real, unguarded. 'Sorry,' I say, 'I just really want to get this right.' And in that moment, you realize: this isn’t fame. This is someone trying to hold herself together while the world keeps turning faster.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.