I keep going.
“Loud. Opinionated. Always right. It’s jarring. You talk big, but there’s nothing backing it. Mad to me people still try with you.”
She scoffs.
“You’re just pressed, they do. No matter how little I give, yeah? They still show up, begging for more. You included. One night and you’re this heated? You wish you had that pull. But nah, people stop trying with you the second the performance runs out,” she fires back. “It must be exhausting. Every day, waking up every morning, needing applause just to feel like a person. But the act’s running thin, innit? This whole ‘big-man’ persona. Beneath it, you’re just some boy who needs everyone to rate him, or he cracks.”
We stare at each other.
I shake my head, half a laugh in my chest.
“You know what? I actually feel sorry for you.”
Her brows lift. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” I tilt my head. “How long do people put up with you? ’Til the attention dries up? ’Til they clock you can’t give nothing back? They disappear and you’re left with the same thing you started with.”
“What’s that then?”
“Self-loathing,” I say, simply. “And Zaza. Always Zaza. Your whole life hangs off her like she’s your emotional support. It’s really pathetic.”
That hits.
Her mouth tightens.
“You don’t have any other friends,” I go on. “Or any other meaningful relationships, even. You’ve got people you keep at arm’s length ’cause letting anyone closer would mean they see the mess. You’re slumpy, moody, always indoors, and always hiding behind work. Then you wonder why you feel empty all the time.”
Her lip quivers, but I keep pressing because I’m pissed, and that softer part of me she got last night has officially checked out.
“You call me exhausting? You’re the one that drains rooms. You walk in, and everything gets heavy. Always something wrong. Always some crisis. Always ‘woe is me’. So yeah. I pity you. ‘Cause all I see is someone who could be brilliant but would rather be miserable.”
Her eyes flash with hurt first, then anger, swallowing it whole.
Her hand moves fast into a sharp crack that I still feel through the knit of my mask. My cheek stings, and for a second, the whole world goes quiet. Her chest rises and falls as we stare at each other.
“Enough!”
Zaza’s voice slices right through us.
She appears between us, shopping bags swinging, eyes blazing.
“What is wrong with you two?” she hisses. “This is a store, not a telenovela.”
Frankie looks away, jaw tight. My hands flex at my sides.
Za plants herself dead center.
“Separate,” she orders. “Now.”
Neither of us argues.
We take a step back.
The spell breaks.
People around us pretend not to stare.
Za exhales.
