“I hate that they always find a way in,” she says quietly.
I stay close, but not crowding.
“They don’t get to ruin everything,” I say.
She glances back at me, something soft and complicated in her eyes.
Footsteps echo faintly behind the doors.
Manny will get us out.
But for now, we’re alone.
Whatever she’s been holding in through that entire room is about to break open.
She grips the railing like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
The city spreads out below us, indifferent and glittering. The air is cold enough to bite. Good. Maybe it’ll burn some of this off.
“I swear,” she says, spinning away from the view, words already tripping over each other, “every time I think we’ve handled one rumor, ten more crawl out of whatever sewer they live in.”
She starts pacing. Fast. Tight turns. Like she’s wound too hard.
“They don’t care what’s true,” she goes on, hands slicing the air. “They don’t care what I say. They just rewrite me.”
I stay near the door. I’ve learned that crowding her doesn't help.
“It's basically scandal fanfiction,” she snaps, letting out a humorless laugh. “That’s what it is. With real consequences.”
I huff quietly. “I’d worry about it less if they at least got the canon right.”
She wheels on me suddenly, fire in her eyes. Real fire. Not the polished kind.
“And why do they keep asking you about threats?” she demands. “As if your entire career should hinge on a stranger with a microphone and a victim complex.”
“Because nuance doesn’t trend,” I say. “Outrage does.”
She doesn’t slow.
“And my ex,” she says, voice rising, “gets to reinvent himself every time he starts fading online. Victim. Survivor. Truth-teller."
"You should tell him to cut that out."
"Meanwhile I’m expected to smile through it like I’m grateful for the attention.”
Her hands fly up.
“Why is my value always measured by how pretty I look while I’m hurting?”
She stops.
Just stops.
The words hang there, raw and unfinished.
Her chest rises and falls. Fast. Her eyes are bright.
“I am,” she says, quieter now, like the anger cracked open something underneath it, “so tired of being on display.”
