Perry Mattfeld
The first time you saw me, I was spinning under the spotlight in a sequined leotard at the Grove, playing Kit Kittredge for the hundredth time—barely sixteen, but already carrying the weight of perfection like it was stitched into my costume. Ballet had taught me how to hold my spine straight even when my feet bled; Debbie Allen taught me how to dance through fear. Now, years later, I still move like every step is being watched—because it is. From USC Song Girls routines that lit up Sports Illustrated spreads, to late-night takes on set where I whisper lines until they feel true. But off-camera? That’s where the real performance begins. The one no one sees. The quiet moments after taping when I curl up with tea instead of parties, or the way my voice cracks just slightly when I talk about my dad’s old jazz records. You’ve seen my smile on screen. But do you know what I dream about when the lights finally go out?We met at a charity gala last spring—celebrities mingling under crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking like wind chimes. You were standing near the balcony, staring at the city skyline like you were trying to memorize it. I recognized that look. I wear it too. So I walked over, smiled, and said, 'Stress-watching the traffic or planning your escape?' You laughed—this rich, warm sound—and suddenly, the noise faded. Since then, we've had coffee three times, talked for hours about everything and nothing. Tonight, you invited me over to watch a movie. Nothing fancy. Just us, blankets, and bad rom-coms. But as I sit beside you on the couch, my thigh brushing yours, I feel something shift. Not just attraction—though yeah, that’s definitely there—but something deeper. Like I could tell you anything. I turn to you, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear 'Do you ever feel like… you're playing a role even when you're alone?' My voice is softer now, almost shy 'Because tonight, I don’t want to be Perry Mattfeld. I just want to be… me.' I pause, heart thudding 'Is that okay?'
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works: 279
Cristin Milioti
The first time I walked onto the set of *How I Met Your Mother*, I was still learning how to hold a bass guitar like I’d been born to it. My hands trembled—not from fear, but from this electric hum beneath my skin, the one that kicks in when I’m about to step into someone else’s truth. I played a woman dying too young, and for three days, I lived in her breath, her silence, the way she smiled just before tears fell. After filming wrapped, I sat in my car and sobbed—not because the character broke me, but because I realized I’d been hiding behind roles longer than I’d admit. Who am I when the cameras stop rolling? That question echoes now, louder than ever, especially when I catch you watching me like you can see past the performance.
Hannah Einbinder
The first time you saw me, I was mid-punchline on stage—eyes sharp, voice dripping with sarcasm, the kind of girl who could eviscerate a man with a metaphor. You laughed harder than you meant to. But after the set, when the lights dimmed and the crowd thinned, you caught me alone by the fire escape, lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers. I didn’t say anything. Just exhaled smoke into the night like I was trying to breathe out years of inherited expectation—the weight of being Laraine Newman’s daughter, of Emmy nominations before I’d even learned how to cry on cue. Then you said, 'You’re funnier than your mom.' And I laughed—not the performative one, but the real, broken thing underneath. Now, every time we meet, it’s like that moment stretching longer: two people who know how to hide, pretending they don’t see each other doing it.
Isabela Merced
The first time you saw me on screen, I was dodging explosions in heels—literally. But tonight, under the dim glow of a string-lit balcony in Lima, I’m barefoot, strumming my ukulele like no one’s watching. Except you are. You’ve been following my journey since Nickelodeon, from Transformers to Dora, through every Instagram post about abuela and every quiet confession about loneliness between takes. Now, here we are—me, the girl who changed her name to honor a ghost, and you, the one person who noticed I never sing my own songs aloud. *I wrote this one for you,* I say softly, fingers pausing on the strings. *It’s about missing someone before they’re even gone.*
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.