Off-Script

Celia’s POV

I think I really did love Eleanor. Maybe not as a true romantic partner but, at the very least, as the girl who helped usher me into the wider world of womanhood. Or, to be more specific, queer womanhood. 

She was one of the few people, seemingly in the entire world, who I could truly relate to. She, too, was a Disney starlet with her own teeny-bop show—a saccharine sitcom called Sunny Side Up. Eleanor played a perky, overachieving teenager named Callie Bright who somehow juggled running a beachside smoothie stand with solving minor neighborhood mysteries. The show was packed with punchy catchphrases (“Smooth move, Callie!”) and oversaturated shots of kids skateboarding down the boardwalk or dramatically slurping neon-colored slushies. It was pure, bubbly fluff, the kind of thing twelve-year-olds binged while their parents cooked dinner.

On-screen, Eleanor wore rainbow sneakers and laughed with all her teeth showing. But off-screen, she carried herself with the bored elegance of someone who already knew what fame tasted like—sweet and metallic, like biting into foil-wrapped chocolate.

She was a year older than me, and I fell into her orbit like a star pulled too close to a bigger sun. We became best friends overnight after meeting at some silly kiddy award show. The press adored us, snapping pictures of us arm in arm at charity galas and pressed together in the booths of too-expensive restaurants we weren’t old enough to be in. The world ate it up, no matter how many times we served them the same shiny, airbrushed, fake-as-hell smiles.

But our friendship was something quieter behind closed doors. It was Diet Cokes at midnight and glitter nail polish streaked across our hands because neither of us could sit still long enough to let it dry. It was Eleanor swiping her mom’s vodka and mixing it with Capri Suns, declaring it “a taste of freedom” as we giggled on her balcony. It was her dragging me to underground music shows and telling me to stand straighter, chin up, because people were watching even when it felt like they weren’t.

And then, one night, it was more than friendship.

We were in her trailer, a cramped little space with fairy lights strung up along the ceiling and an unmade couch bed she pretended wasn’t permanent. The smell of her vanilla body spray lingered in the air, and I remember thinking how it clung to her skin like it belonged there, a sheet of sweet cellophane encapsulating her. She was leaning against the counter, a lollipop stick hanging from her lips, her bare legs crossed at the ankle.

“You ever kissed a girl?” she asked, not looking up from her phone. She was trying to sound casual. And failing, somewhat.

“No,” I said. My voice cracked, and that made her smile, slow and cat-like. I hated the way my body betrayed me—first the crack, then the heat creeping up my neck like a rash I couldn’t cover. I silently cursed my own inexperience. Not only had I never kissed a girl, I’d never kissed a boy either. Though if we were being honest, boys had never made my chest tighten or my palms sweat the way girls did.

And I did have interest. A lot of interest. Eleanor was magnetic in a way that didn’t feel fair to the rest of us. Her dirty-blonde hair always looked like it had been tousled by some intentional breeze, and her eyes, that flat, stormy gray, were impossible to pin down. They made you feel like she was watching you from a step or two above, like she knew something about the world you hadn’t caught onto yet.

It wasn’t just how she looked, though. It was the way she took up space without ever seeming to try. Her legs stretched out like they owned every couch she sat on. She laughed like she didn’t care who was listening. She’d leave her lip gloss, her lollipop sticks, her sneakers wherever she wanted, like the world was her bedroom and she didn’t need to clean up for anyone.

I’d studied her for months without meaning to. The way she smudged eyeliner into her waterline with the pad of her finger. The way she bit into a Granny Smith apple, crisp and deliberate, like she had a grudge against it. The way she pushed her hair behind her ears when she was talking about something she actually cared about. And now she was standing close enough that I could see a faint freckle just above her lip – one I’d never noticed before.

She put her phone down. The lollipop was still dangling from her lips. “Wanna try?” she asked, and I couldn’t tell if she was serious or just teasing, the way she always was.

But she wasn’t joking. She kissed me and there weren’t any fireworks. There weren’t even sparks. It was something warmer, softer—a kind of quiet unfolding. Her lips tasted of cherry ChapStick, and her hands were surer than I expected, sliding over my back like she already knew the map of me. Later, I would understand how much she taught me in those moments—the way she moved with intent, like she’d been here before and wasn’t afraid to lead. She knew exactly where to press, where to linger.

Afterward, she pulled away and grinned at me, her eyes bright and mischievous. “Not bad, St. James,” she said, already reaching for her phone again. “I’d give you a solid seven out of ten.”

I laughed because that seemed like the right thing to do. Inside, though, I felt unsteady, like someone had lifted me out of my own body and set me down somewhere new. Somewhere I didn’t quite recognize yet but wanted to explore. Eleanor had no idea what that kiss meant to me—how it shifted something inside me, quiet but undeniable. It was the first crack in a frozen lake.

•••

After the kiss, I wanted more. I was only fifteen. Eleanor was sixteen. Being famous meant growing up fast, and we both knew it. We weren’t shy about our sexuality. For two years, we remained part-friends, part-lovers. In front of the cameras, we were inseparable “gal-pals.” Behind closed doors—or in trailers, dressing rooms, and sometimes even bathrooms—we were two girls who couldn’t get enough of one another.

That era of my life with Eleanor was strange, as I think most adolescents are. It was heady and addictive, like biting into a peach so ripe the juice drips down your chin. Eleanor was everything I wanted and everything I couldn’t keep. She had this way of making me feel like I was the center of the universe one minute and a forgotten satellite the next. I was never sure where I stood with her, and maybe that was part of the thrill.

Sometimes, we’d spend entire nights holed up in her trailer, a sanctuary of mismatched cushions and half-empty soda cans, because neither of us had parents who cared enough to ask where we were. My mom was preoccupied with her latest status symbol—that month, a glossy Hermès Birkin she toted around like a crown jewel—while Eleanor’s mom buried herself in court briefs and conference calls, too consumed by her life as a high-powered attorney to notice her daughter’s.

Eleanor would curl up next to me, her head resting on my lap, and tell me stories about her childhood in Maine with her dad, about climbing rocky cliffs barefoot and jumping into water so cold it made her chest ache. She always spoke like she was describing a movie, as if her life had been scripted, the perfect shots lined up in a neat reel. I hung on every word, even when I knew she was embellishing.

Other nights, she’d get restless. She’d drag me out to parties filled with older actors, producers, and wannabes in outfits that cost more than my first paycheck. She’d drink champagne from the bottle and whisper sharp, clever things in my ear that made me laugh and blush all at once.

But those moments didn’t last. Eleanor was always shifting, slipping out of reach just when I thought I had her figured out. One minute, she’d pull me into a bathroom at a party, her lips insistent, her hands impatient, like the rest of the world could wait. The next, she’d disappear for hours, leaving me to field questions from paparazzi or fend off the advances of some drunk D-list actor.

“Don’t get too attached, St. James,” she’d say with a crooked smile, her voice half-warning, half-dare. And I’d laugh, pretending I wasn’t already in deeper than I’d ever intended to go.

People noticed, as they always do. It wasn’t the tabloids that speculated our romance – it was our fans. Twitter threads buzzed with conspiracies. #EllieCelia trended at least twice a month, fueled by fan edits of us at premieres or candid shots of Eleanor brushing a strand of hair from my face. “They’re so close!” they’d gush. “Just look at the way Celia looks at her.” And I’d watch those edits late at night, heart pounding because they were right. God, they were so right.

Eleanor loved the attention. She’d send me screenshots of the tweets with laughing emojis, calling us the “gay Olsen twins” or some other ridiculous nickname. “Can you believe they think we’re together?” she’d say, leaning in so close I could feel her breath on my neck. And I’d laugh along, pretending I didn’t want them to be right.

The truth was, I didn’t know how to define us. Was she my girlfriend? My first love? Or just another girl I’d stumble over on my way to figuring myself out? I never asked her what we were because I was terrified of the answer. Eleanor didn’t like labels. She didn’t like being tied down. She liked to keep her options open, she said. But I knew, deep down, I was never one of those options. Not really.

By the time I turned seventeen, I started to feel the cracks in whatever it was we’d built together. Eleanor was leaning harder into her bad-girl image, pushing boundaries that made even me nervous. Disney terminated her contract, and she started picking up smaller gigs to pay the rent. She lost her clean image as the late nights got later, the crowds got wilder, and the drinks got stronger. I loved her recklessness until it started to scare me.

One night, after a particularly chaotic party in West Hollywood, I found her sitting on the edge of a pool, her makeup smeared, her eyes glassy. The water rippled around her feet, and for the first time, she looked small. Vulnerable.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I said, sitting down beside her.

She didn’t look at me, just stared out at the water. “Doing what?”

“This,” I said, gesturing at the empty beer bottles and the scattered heels around the pool deck. “Us. Whatever this is.”

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. When she finally turned to me, her eyes were hard, like she’d already decided how this conversation would go. “You were always too serious,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s not that deep.”

I wanted to scream at her. To tell her that it was deep—for me, at least. Or at least I thought it was. I’d told her I loved her before, in that careless, throwaway way people do when they’re young and tangled up in each other. But I’d meant it. In my own way.

If I’d been older, I think I would’ve said something to her. But I was seventeen. So, I stood up, gave her a tight, sad smile, and left.

That was the last night we were anything more than friends, though even that word felt flimsy in the years that followed. She moved on to other people, other parties, and other headlines. She became exactly what the tabloids wanted her to be—a child star reduced to an addicted, depressed adult. To this day, I still feel guilt over not being there for her more. But Eleanor wasn’t the kind of girl to want help—let alone ask for it.

And maybe I wasn’t ready to give it. Loving her had been exhausting in a way I didn’t have the language for back then. She demanded so much—attention, admiration, devotion—but she gave little in return, only flashes of affection. After her, I told myself I’d never let anyone take that much from me again. I’d guard myself better, be smarter about who I let in.

But those were just words. The truth was, Eleanor left a gap in me I didn’t know how to fill. She was the first person to make me feel like I wasn’t alone in my queerness, the first girl who made me think, Maybe this is okay. Maybe I’m okay.

After her, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t keep lying to myself about why I’d never been drawn to boys the way I was to girls, why I spent more time dissecting their smiles, their hands, the way they walked into a room. But knowing the truth about yourself and telling it to the world are two entirely different things. And for a long time, I wasn’t sure I had the guts for the latter.

I was young. I didn’t want to be different. I thought if I could just play the part—smile wide, stay polite, wear whatever pastel-colored dress the studio sent over—then no one would ask questions. I’d blend in. I’d pass. It wasn’t until I ended my contract with Disney, stepping out of the bubblegum sheen of that world and into the bigger, bolder chaos of movies, that I realized being gay wasn’t some big revelation. It was everywhere.

Being queer was celebrated in a way I hadn’t been expecting. Everyone seemed to be a little queer, or at least willing to explore the idea of it. It was thrilling, those first few months after I moved out of the house my mother bought in Beverly Hills and got my own apartment in West Hollywood. For the first time, I wasn’t tethered to someone else’s expectations of who I should be. No Eleanor, no mother. Just Celia St. James trying to make it big – or, bigger, I suppose.

I split my time between work and play. During the day, I threw myself into auditions. I met with producers and directors who smiled politely but couldn’t hide the fact they’d already decided I was just a child actress—despite my very adult eighteen years. The word child clung to me like gum on the bottom of a shoe, and no matter how hard I tried to scrape it off, it wouldn’t budge.

At night, I’d slip into bars or rooftop parties where the music was loud enough to drown out my doubts, leaning against counters or lounging in dim-lit corners with a drink in hand. The women were beautiful, in that effortless way you only find in LA, all long legs and bold lips. We’d talk, laugh, sometimes flirt, though I rarely let it go much further than that. I liked the possibility of it more than the follow-through.

And then I met Irene.

It was at a party in the Hollywood Hills – one of those where everyone is too cool to admit they don’t know anyone else there. I was there because one of my old cast mates was dating the owner – an overgrown frat boy obsessed with bitcoin and anything related to Elon Musk. As annoying as he was, his house was a sleek glass box perched on a cliff with a killer view of the valley. I was standing by the long infinity pool, wearing a blue off-the shoulder top, sipping something bright and citrusy from a glass tumbler, when she appeared beside me.

She wasn’t like the other women at the party. Ninety-nine percent of those girls were dressed to impress in heels and short skirts. Irene wore an oversized linen blazer that looked borrowed from a man’s closet, her sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists and a small silver watch. She had dark curls that seemed to catch every last bit of light and a face so striking it was almost unnerving, her cheekbones high enough to cast shadows. She looked like she belonged in a different century – or maybe a different planet. 

“You look like you’d rather be somewhere else,” she said. Her accent was soft but unmistakably French.

Foreign and gorgeous? God, please make her gay, please make her gay.

I turned to her, caught off guard but trying not to show it. “Is it that obvious?”

She shrugged and it was a small, elegant movement. “Only to someone who also does not want to be here.”

Her eyes lingered on mine, and there was something in her gaze that made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to. Not just looked at but truly seen. It was unnerving and thrilling all at once.

She lit a cigarette and we started talking. She was twenty-two, a model, though she didn’t offer much more than that. I told her about my auditions and how I was trying to shed the Disney image, and she tilted her head like she was studying me.

“It’s strange, no?” she said. “That people want you to stay one thing forever, like a character in a book.”

I nodded, surprised by how easily she’d pinpointed what I couldn’t quite put into words.

“They don’t realize that even famous people must…evolve,” she said.

“They want you to be what they remember,” I said, surprised by how quickly the words tumbled out. “Not who you’re becoming. It’s easier for them that way.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “But it is not easier for you.”

I didn’t respond right away. The world wanted me to be a polished, palatable version of myself, something shiny and unthreatening. Eighteen was supposed to be grown-up, but Hollywood still wanted to shove me back into the box marked Disney starlet.

Irene reached for her glass. “You are more interesting than that,” she said simply, like it was an undeniable fact, not a compliment. “You should not let them decide how big you are allowed to be.”

The conversation flowed. She told me about modeling in Paris, about the early mornings and the constant pressure to be flawless, like her body wasn’t hers but something on loan from the industry. She spoke plainly, without bitterness, but I could hear the weariness in her voice.

“I suppose we are not so different,” she said after a pause. “You are trying to prove you are not a child, and I am trying to prove I am more than a body.”

It struck me then, how strange it was to feel so connected to someone I’d only just met. Irene had a way of making her truths feel universal, like they could belong to anyone. She didn’t need to explain herself twice; I understood her the first time.

The party thinned out as the night wore on. Irene stayed beside me. When she stood to leave, I found myself blurting, “Can I see you again?”

She smiled, a small, knowing smile. “You can try,” she said, slipping a piece of paper with her number into my hand before disappearing.

•••

Irene was everything Eleanor wasn’t. She didn’t crave chaos, didn’t thrive on the volatility of late nights and loud parties. She was steady, self-assured. She was the kind of person who could make you believe she’d seen the world twice and taken notes the first time. Dating her felt like stepping into a warm room after being out in the cold too long. I didn’t realize how much I’d needed that until she was there.

For six months, we lived in a sort of pocket universe, a place just big enough for the two of us but always threatened by the world pressing in. During the day, I kept grinding—auditions, networking lunches, meetings with producers. Los Angeles wasn’t a city that welcomed reinvention; it made you earn it, over and over again. By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, I was usually worn thin.

But Irene had a way of softening the sharp parts of the day. She’d invite me to her place in Silver Lake, a tiny but modern house perched on a hill with a view of the reservoir. The first time I visited, she apologized for how small the house was and opened a bottle of wine and handed me a glass. “The view helps,” she said, her voice lilting with that effortless French charm. And it did. The lights of the city glittered below us, a sprawl of possibility stretching farther than the eye could see.

We kept things private, though not deliberately. It wasn’t like we had some grand pact to hide our relationship. It was just easier to let it exist in the spaces between public and personal. The few times we went out together—grabbing coffee at some tucked-away café or wandering through the farmers' market—someone inevitably snapped a photo. They’d post it online with captions like “Celia St. James spotted with mystery woman—just friends, or something more?”

Fans speculated, of course. They always do. Edits of the two of us started popping up on Twitter, Irene’s cool elegance paired with whatever candid shot of me someone had managed to dig up. #CeliaAndMysteryWoman trended for a day, which Irene found hilarious.

“So, I am now a ‘mystery woman’?” she teased, holding up her phone with a mock-serious expression.

“You’re mysterious to them,” I said, shrugging, though I couldn’t help smiling.

Her laugh was genuine. It always made me feel like I’d earned it. “Good. Let them wonder.”

She handled herself with a cool detachment I envied. Where I agonized over how people perceived me, she seemed untouchable, content to let the world form whatever story they wanted about her. I tried to emulate it, but it wasn’t easy. Hollywood hadn’t let me grow up in peace, and I’d spent too long trying to manage other people’s expectations of who I was supposed to be.

Still, there was something safe about being with her. She was a refuge in the chaos of LA. We spent lazy mornings in her airy kitchen, sunlight streaming through the glass walls, making pancakes while she hummed along to Edith Piaf on the speakers. She was old-school – smoking cigarettes instead of vapes, enjoying brandy instead of vodka or beer. At night, we’d walk through the city together, stopping to take photos of palm trees painted against the pink-tinted dusk. For six months, I let myself believe that she was exactly what I needed, that we were exactly what I’d been searching for. 

I even began thinking about marriage and next steps. That’s how much I loved her. Naturally, I didn’t see the cracks until they split open all at once.

It started with small things—texts she didn’t respond to, plans she canceled with vague excuses about work. I told myself not to read too much into it. She was busy; so was I. But the distance between us grew, inch by inch, until it felt like I was reaching for someone who was no longer there.

The truth hit me in the most cliché way possible: at a party in the Hollywood Hills, not far from where we had met. I wasn’t even planning to go, but a friend dragged me along, insisting I needed a break. And then, there she was—standing on the balcony with another woman, her fingers brushing the curve of the woman’s jaw in a way that was painfully familiar.

I didn’t confront her then. I couldn’t. I pressed a hand to my chest and slipped out the back gate. Later, when I texted her, she didn’t deny it. She didn’t even try to lie.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said when we finally talked. She was so goddamn calm. It sounded like she was explaining away a parking ticket. “You know how it is.”

But I didn’t know. I didn’t understand how someone could look at me like I was their whole world one moment and then treat me like an afterthought the next. I told her we were done. She didn’t argue, just sighed and said, “I’ll miss you, Celia.”

Miss me. Like I was a fucking postcard. Best Wishes. What a bitch.

For weeks afterward, the city didn’t feel like the L.A. I’d grown to love. Los Angeles had always been a paradox—so sprawling it could swallow you whole, yet so intimate in its pockets of familiarity. But after Irene, it felt colder, emptier. The streets I used to find charming now felt tired, the glitter rubbed off. West Hollywood lost its shine and I refused to touch Silver Lake with a ten foot pole. Even the Santa Monica sunsets looked gray and shy compared to their usual brilliance.

I threw myself into work because that’s what I knew. My ambition felt like a lifeline, something to cling to so I wouldn’t sink under the weight of missing her.

But Irene was everywhere. She clung to the edges of my life. I missed her so much it made me sick. And yet, at the same time, I hated her with a depth I didn’t know I was capable of. I hated her for what she’d done, for the casual cruelty of it all. She’d taken what we had—those stolen glances, those moments when the world fell away—and turned it into a lie. I hated how small and disposable it made me feel, like I’d been a temporary stop on her way to something more exciting.

It wasn’t the first time someone I cared about had hurt me. Eleanor had been careless with my feelings but at least she hadn’t cheated on me. Irene’s betrayal felt deliberate, a sharp-edged thing that left me questioning every promise she’d ever made. She broke me in two.

It was childish, I know, but after that breakup, I held a grudge against models of any kind. They were everywhere in LA—on billboards, in coffee shops, their sunkissed-perfect faces staring back at me from glowing phone screens. I couldn’t look at them without feeling a pang of resentment, a bitter reminder of Irene and what she’d taken from me. It didn’t matter if they were runway stars, influencers, or the local girl handing out flyers on Melrose. To me, they all carried a piece of her, and I hated them for it.

That was where Evelyn Hugo came into the picture.

A few weeks after my breakup with Irene, I got roped into a photoshoot for Solace Skin. It was one of those things I agreed to in a haze of cheap wine and self-pity after a friend insisted it would be “a great opportunity.” I’d mumbled something about being too busy, but they’d pressed, and I’d caved, swearing I’d regret it the moment I sobered up.

Skincare ads weren’t really my thing. But I had to admit the campaign was a step in the right direction—modern, elegant, aimed at women who had credit cards and wrinkles to hide instead of teenagers spending their allowances at the drugstore. If nothing else, it was a chance to remind people I existed. And in this city, that counted for a lot.

When I arrived at the studio, it was the kind of setup I’d seen a hundred times before: massive white backdrops, racks of clothes that all looked expensive in a neutral, boring way, assistants buzzing around with trays of coffee and clipboards. I was ushered into hair and makeup, then handed a pale pink wrap dress.

I was halfway through mentally composing a text to my agent about starring in a new Netflix show when I saw her.

She was standing under the lights, wearing a sleek black slip dress that looked like it had been poured onto her body. It clung to her in all the right ways, making her look like she’d just walked off a Cannes red carpet and decided to grace us mortals with her presence. She was tall—much taller than me—and her figure was impossible to ignore, all curves and confidence. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, and her skin glowed, a kind of golden hue that made her look like her whole body had been dipped in honey. And her tits—Jesus Christ—her tits completely ignored the laws of physics.

She was stunning, in that way that wasn’t just about looks but the sheer presence of her. She had the kind of beauty that made you feel small just by existing in the same room. Like you’d been downgraded to black and white while she strode through life in high-definition technicolor.

I hated her the very instant I saw her.

I didn’t know her, not really, though I thought maybe I’d seen her once or twice—at a party, or plastered across some glossy billboard advertising perfume or lingerie. She had that face, the kind that belonged on products people couldn’t afford but bought anyway, convinced they could capture a fraction of her allure.

Someone on set called her name: “Evelyn!” It rang out above the chatter, and she turned, glancing over her shoulder with the kind of casual grace that looked practiced but not forced. I caught a glimpse of her face—sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a soft rose, dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She didn’t need to smile to hold the room’s attention. She just was.

I turned back to my makeup artist, who was fussing with the last strands of my hair, but I couldn’t shake the sight of her. It wasn’t just her beauty—it was the way she stood, like the room bent around her. Like she knew exactly how stunning she was and didn’t care if you hated her for it.

Just like fucking Irene.

The shoot director clapped his hands and started giving instructions, pairing us into groups for the campaign’s “modern beauty” vision. I zoned out for most of it, nodding when someone gestured at me, smiling when prompted, and trying to ignore the fact that this Evelyn Hugo woman was now standing a few feet away, scanning the room like she was sizing everyone up.

When the director announced the final setup—“Evelyn and Celia, you’ll close us out with the intimacy shots”—my stomach dropped. Of course, they paired me with her. It wasn’t enough to have her standing nearby; now I had to stand next to her, the human equivalent of a diamond chandelier, while I played her unassuming sidekick.

I stepped onto the set as an assistant adjusted the hem of my pale pink wrap dress. It was cute, pretty even, but not exactly confidence-boosting compared to Evelyn’s black slip that looked like sin itself. She was already in place, her body angled toward the camera, her lips tilted into the faintest suggestion of a smile.

I could feel her watching me as I positioned myself. “Closer,” the stylist said, motioning with her hands. “Evelyn, can you turn toward her? Perfect. Now, Celia, a little softer with the smile—think wistful, not toothpaste commercial.”

Toothpaste commercial? Really?

I did as instructed, leaning closer. Her perfume—warm and spicy—drifted toward me. I turned to look at her, at those dark brown, almost black eyes. I bet she thinks she’s the hottest woman in the world. What a bitch. 

“Yes, yes, that’s it!” the photographer said, snapping picture after picture. “You two look incredible together.”

Her head tilted toward me, her lips parting slightly as if she were about to whisper something scandalous. The pose felt too close, too staged, too much. Her body radiated heat, and I hated that I noticed it. Hated that I was suddenly acutely aware of the way her skin gleamed under the lights, the effortless curve of her neck, the sheer audacity of her confidence.

Goddamn models.

“Perfection,” the photographer said, stepping back to review the shots. “That’s a wrap for this setup.”

I exhaled, stepping off the set and smoothing down the hem of my dress. The assistant who had been fussing over me all day rushed forward to check the fabric again, as if there was still some invisible imperfection that needed fixing. I grabbed a water bottle from the nearby table and took a slow sip, hoping the cool water would steady my nerves. Evelyn Hugo. The name clanged around in my head like an offbeat drum.

I didn’t want to care about her—about her perfectly arched brows, those big tits, and those insane cheekbones. But she was too much, and too much was hard to ignore.

She was heading for the door when I decided to call out to her. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was impulse, or maybe it was the need to cut her down a notch, just to see if she’d flinch.

Because God, do I want to see her flinch.

“Evelyn, right?” My voice came out cool, deliberate, stripped of the sweetness my accent usually lent it. I watched her pause, her shoulders stiffening just slightly before she turned to face me, her lips curving into a polite, practiced smile.

“That’s me.”

She didn’t walk toward me, so I closed the space myself. Up close, she was as striking as she’d been under the lights. Her face was stunning—if a little too perfect. Those dark eyes of hers felt like they saw too much, and I hated that too.

“You’re good at this,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the set. “The modeling thing. Very… controlled.”

Her smile tightened. “Thanks,” she said, her voice flat.

I tilted my head, studying her. “I’ve seen some of your other shoots.”

“Yeah?”

“It must be nice,” I said, letting the words hang just long enough to sting. “Not having to do much beyond standing still and looking pretty.”

Her smile wavered, and for a brief, satisfying moment, I saw the cracks. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” I continued, keeping my tone casual but loaded. “No script. No lines to memorize. Just angles and light.”

She set her bag down, her polite façade dropping entirely. “It’s a little more complicated than that. But I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

That flicker of irritation in her voice—there it was. It almost made me smile, but I kept my face neutral. “Oh, I get it,” I said. “It’s pretending. Same as acting. Only with less substance.”

She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Pretending? You think that’s all this is? At least I’m not out here memorizing someone else’s words and calling it art.”

Her words struck, but I refused to let her see it. Instead, I let a slow smile spread across my face. “At least my pretending tells a story,” I said, purposefully keeping my voice light. “You’re decoration.”

The words landed the way I wanted them to—her body stiffened, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag. She stepped closer, towering over me in her heels. “Maybe. But at least I’m not out here acting like Mickey Mouse didn’t hand me my spotlight.”

The dig was sharp, and it hit its mark. My mouth twitched, almost involuntarily, but I refused to let the smile form. Instead, I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes. “Is that what you think? That this was handed to me?”

“Wasn’t it?” she asked, her tone dripping with disdain. “Disney gave you a career. All you had to do was sing some songs and smile for the kids.”

I laughed then, a polished, hollow sound. “If you think that’s all it takes, you’re even more naïve than you look.”

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought she might say something that would cross a line we couldn’t uncross. But before she could, an assistant swooped in.

“Celia,” she said, barely glancing at Evelyn. “They need you at the makeup station. Something about continuity for the close-ups.”

I turned to the assistant. “Of course,” I said sweetly. 

I started to walk away, but before I left, I glanced over my shoulder at her. Her face was still hard, her eyes dark and hard to read. My voice dropped just enough for her to hear. “It was nice to meet you, Evelyn Hugo.”

The whole thing was awful. I was awful, and I knew that then, just as I know it now. But you have to understand how raw I was at the time. Heartbreak does something to you—makes you smaller, meaner, cuts you down until all you have left is the sharpness of your edges. That was me after Irene. Evelyn Hugo wasn’t a person to me; she was a symbol. A walking, talking manifestation of everything I hated.

Hot, womanly models. The kind of women who were adored by men and, seemingly, by the universe itself. Evelyn fit the mold perfectly. She had that lush, impossible beauty—the curves, the sultry smile, the eyebrows. She was everything I wasn’t. Not petite and angular, not "girl-next-door" cute, not trying to prove something to a world that still saw me as a teenager in a shitty Disney Channel show.

I looked at her and made a million assumptions. I thought I had her figured out the moment I saw her under those lights. The idea of her being queer didn’t even cross my mind. Queerness felt like something you had to earn, something you had to fight for. Evelyn didn’t look like she’d ever fought for anything in her life.

So I looked at her and decided she was my enemy before she even said a word. It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t fair, but heartbreak isn’t about fairness. I couldn’t lash out at Irene; she was gone. But Evelyn was right there, larger than life, offering herself up as a target.

When she spoke to me after the shoot, my heart was still pounding from the tension of standing so close to her. She had this way of making everything feel charged. And when she smiled, I wanted to knock that confidence out of her, to see if there was anything underneath it but vanity.

I wasn’t kind to her. I prodded, belittled her work, twisting the knife just enough to see if she’d bleed. And she did. But Evelyn didn’t take it lying down. She pushed back. She met me blow for blow, and it threw me. I wasn’t used to women like her—women who refused to politeness.

Looking back, I know it wasn’t just jealousy or heartbreak that made me act the way I did. It was fear. Evelyn Hugo scared me in ways I couldn’t name. She was everything I thought I hated, but also everything I didn’t yet understand.

I mistakenly assumed I’d never see her again. In all actuality, Evelyn Hugo would change my life in a million ways.

It wasn’t immediate. I left the shoot that day thinking she was just another passing annoyance, another reminder of how far I still had to go to shed the insecurities Irene had left me with. But life in Los Angeles has a way of weaving people together, no matter how much you think you can avoid them. It’s a web of a city, and Evelyn and I were caught in the same threads.