Chapter 1
You hand your coat to the doorman as he extends his arm for it, shooting you a smile that you happily return, and pretend you don’t notice when he stares at you for a little longer than normally.
Your skin looks good. You know it because almost 5 people have told you so, and because unlike most companies, the recent one you’re repping genuinely have products that work.
As you step up to your area in the room, you notice a woman standing beside it. A little confused, you check to make sure this is in fact your booth.
The woman calls your name, stepping closer to you to hand you a drink.
You smell it on instinct before taking a sip, your taste buds practically exploding when the flavour hits your tongue. With a little urgency you check the side of the cup to get its name and make a mental note to order a new one later.
You hum, confirming, before busying yourself with your newfound favourite drink.
She chuckles before pulling out a card from her suit’s chest pocket and handing it to you. As you take it, you take her in as well. She’s as put together as she sounds, and looks like she probably has a million playlists and likes organization.
You’re not sure what to make of her.
“My name is Lyla, I’ve seen a lot of your work these past few years. I’ve never seen anybody make it so far in such little time! You must be proud.”
Her tone is happy, gleeful even, yet you can’t shake the feeling that it’s meant to be condescending.
You take pride in what you do. While it’s a lot in the posing, you’ve had to craft the perfect personality, a perfect you to make it this far.
And you’d do it again. In every lifetime, every situation, you’d kill to be here, independent and seen popular for looks in a positive light.
You offer a polite smile, and a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you Lyla. Who are some of your current clients? Maybe I know them.”
In truth, you didn’t care, but this woman seemed determined, and you might as well have something to talk about.
You take a cautious look at a clock somewhere behind her, discreet enough so she doesn’t think she’s wasting your time.
Five minutes. You can entertain an agent until then.
You listen to her speak until your drink is nothing but rattling ice and then take a pause from listening to throw it in the bin.
“And my client, Miguel-”
The name hits you like a truck and you’re suddenly drowning in déjà vu mixed with familiarity. She keeps speaking until you’ve had enough of searching from person through person you’ve ever met to figure it out.
“Miguel?” You ask, trying not to sound too interested, nor desperate.
She quirks up at that, slightly raising her eyebrow, something on the edge of hope forming in her twitching lips.
“Yes, Miguel O’hara. You know him?”
Know him? Not exactly. Knew of him? Of course. The man was practically a legend in the acting world. One that you aren’t a part of but you knew very well. He’s won a few awards and has won the title of “best-looking man” for almost three years in a row.
“Not really, I’ve heard of him.” You try not to show the obviousness of the opening you’re leaving here.
Collaborations have always been your thing. To remind other people that yes, you do have that many collections, and yes, other famous people like you enough to genuinely hang out with you, not only boosts them but you as well. It’s a win-win situation for both sides.
Lyla sighs, slumping down on your chair almost defeated.
“Listen,” her gaze meets yours, and it’s not until the smile forms on your face that you realize you’ve made your mind up about her. “Miguel has gained great success with his new movie, but he’s too private. Too…”
You raise and eyebrow, leaning on the wall next to her. “Hidden?”
She nods, “Yes, and I’ve seen your collabs. Everybody knows your name. I can’t help but ask you if there’s any way you could hook us up with some kind of shoot with Miguel? Take this how you want it; clout chasing, charity, I honestly don’t care. But if you can help-”
You don’t let her finish her sentence, handing out your card and pushing yourself up off the wall,
“Next week on friday, I have a photoshoot at 3pm sharp. If Miguel can make it, I can schedule him a joint interview with me right after and they can ask him a few questions on where he plans to go from there. You don’t need to reach out to tell me whether or not he’s coming. He either shows up or he doesn’t.”
You glance up to your director who nods at you, letting you know it’s time to start before motioning to the card given. “Give that to Miguel in case he has any questions.”
You walk away with your practiced walk, not bothering to look back at her in case there’s any sort of hesitation in her expression.
Whether she knew it or not, you needed that partnership with Miguel. Maybe to please yourself, maybe to please the world.
As you turn and take your position, you catch a slight glance at Lyla and you’re almost surprised to see you not paying attention to you at all. In fact, it looks like she’s moved on completely.
…
Later you're called by Lyla, inviting you to a dinner with Miguel and her, to discuss details for the joint photoshoot and newly scheduled interview.
Miguel is quiet, only speaking when spoken to. He holds himself upright, and orders the most expensive thing on the menu, completely ignoring the price.
Cliché.
You decide to ignore him, only turning to him to seem polite, and extending conversation when needed, but otherwise all conversation starters and small remarks are aimed at Lyla.
When the dinner ends, you head out first, you hug Lyla and give Miguel a reluctant nod, before heading out.
You’re about to climb into a nearby cab before a large hand grabs your forearm pulling you back.
You twist it automatically and pin the arm behind its back, before you’re met with Miguel, an uninterested expression sprawled on his face.
He releases himself from your grip like it’s nothing, and you can’t help but scoff as he raises an eyebrow at you.
“I can take you home.” He says it like a fact, like he’s not expecting you to say no. 2 + 2 = 4, and I can take you home.
You cross your arms over your chest, smirking. “Do you say everything in that voice on purpose, or is it just a default setting?”
He huffs, his hand massaging his temple before he looks down at you.
You could break him a little bit, you think. Before just handing him everything he wants. You’re sure he gets too much of that already.
“Ask me nicely and I might”. you lean on your hip before letting your hand rest there, looking down at your wrist as if to motion him , wasting your time.
His jaw clenches and unclenches slowly, and you can’t help but notice how attractive he is.
Of course you noticed before, but with him standing in front of you like this, you can confirm that he is really every woman’s wet dream.
“No?” you say, gripping your bag and calling for another cab. “Well then see you later, O’hara.”
He practically growls, pulling your hand down and looking back down at you. “Can I bring you home?” he tries again. You see him mentally noting that you weren’t this annoying during the dinner.
His eyes are magnetic, you think, before quickly looking away and composing yourself.
“Nice try, but no.” You wave him off, “Calm down, I’m a big girl I can get home myself.”
He scoffs and grabs you, dragging your laughing self to his car anyway.
“Just get in the car.”
…
The car ride to your place is awkward. The only conversations that manage to form are short and clipped from both ends.
You know nothing of this man, it hits you then, as you stare at him through annoyed and narrowed eyes.
As a child, you were raised to be something. You were put in intense curricular activities, with the duty of juggling those plus perfect grades and flowing opportunities, and pressure, so much pressure.
You were taught to be the perfect woman, once your father realized he couldn’t get his perfect son.
You were trained like a princess; how to please a man, how to dodge the ones who couldn’t bring you anything (the ones without money, the ones without reputation, the ones who weren’t like your father).
The point is, you couldn’t fail.
You don’t think the possibility could’ve even crossed Miguel’s mind. Failing.
He’s successful through and through. You see it in the way he carries himself. In this way women practically beg just for him to look their way. In the way people praise him, the way they seem to need him.
There is no failing because he’s already won.
“So,” you start, looking out the passenger’s side’s window, “you’re an actor.”
He raises an eyebrow, not sparing you another glance “yes.” he answers.
“You’re pretty popular.” You’re looking at him now, a challenge in your eyes. “I don’t know much about you but from what I’ve heard, your recent movie was nothing compared to what you’ve already achieved.”
He’s looking at you now, cautious.
“But what’s the goal?”
he turns his head completely at your question. You practically see it in his glare, that he knows you’re not interested in the answer.
You can guess this man’s upbringing and his downfall with just one look at him. His story will not be tragic or well earned, he’ll have gotten it all simply because he was born lucky. With new money and the sharpness of a knife, years in the making.
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, before relaxing in the car once again. It makes you uneasy.
“I do what I do to show other people different versions of me, or depending on the way they interpret it, different versions of themselves.” There’s a smile playing on his lips. You resist the urge to scoff. “And you?” he says, “What’s yours?”
You don’t answer at first. You let silence build, suffocating you both before all traces of the words spoken disappear completely.
It’s then that you settle back into your snake skin, confidence and ego coating your skin like protection.
(He knows this look,
he has it.)
“Does it matter?” you pull down the mirror to reapply your makeup. An off attempt at trying to play off the need to do something with your shaking hands. “I’ve done everything I’ve wanted to, and gotten to every place I’ve needed to be.”
He hums then, not quite believing you, and the car goes silent the rest of the way.
Once you see your house emerging into the view of the car, you point out the window signaling to Miguel that it’s your stop, wasting no time to grab your purse and making your way out the door.
You hesitate for a moment, and make eye contact with him for the first time, your hand ready to shut the car door.
“I want to succeed.” You say, a simple and vague goal.
You expect him to ask the same questions everybody else has. Starting with weary eyes and a chuckle before coming up with the inevitable, “succeed how?”, “In what?”, “There has to be more”, and so on.
He meets your eyes in a fierce stare, and you shiver with the added pressure of the wind against your skin. “How will you know?”
Your knuckles turn white with your grip on the handle, and you don’t even notice your answer before you hear your shaky voice, “I’ll feel it.” You’ve never tried explaining this, nobody’s ever been there to listen. Now that you try it sounds stupid, it makes no sense.
“In my bones.” You add, for good measure.
He doesn’t question you, and you don’t add to it. You stay there, your gaze on each other, unmasking each other.
(Two sides of a mirror, one shattered, one not.
Or maybe they both are,
maybe you are the same.)
You slam the car door as hard as possible, your lips tipping up at the way he flinches and you run to your front door before he has the chance to comment on it.
You don’t tell him goodnight, and he doesn’t stay to see if you got in safely.
…
Once you get home, you can’t help but think of Lyla, which leads to being curious about Miguel.
So like every person who attempts to make a good impression, you do your research.
Miguel O’hara, is like every good, shiny new actor that makes their first explosion of an impression with big movies before going downhill, consumed by popularity, fame and the need to have more, more, more.
Except he’s not new. He started over 5 years ago, with tiny jobs where all he needed were his looks, no matter how trash his acting was, but it never was bad. He’s played different movies, as detectives, bodyguards, and the bad guy. All movies that leave you on the edge of the seat, and then he appears on screen and practically demands your attention, before you realize you’ve already fallen off the edge with the character on screen.
Magnetic, inescapable. Unforgettable.
You dig deeper, finding out that a few years ago he’d lost his wife and kid in a car accident, and he quit for a while, completely falling off the radar.
You look at the picture a little longer this time, trying to see if you could understand him, if you could see something that others can’t, notice something that will make you feel a little worse for the position he’s in.
In the end, in his eyes and his shiny suits and his success, you see only your father.
You decide then and there that you will use Miguel, and you know he’ll use you back. In the grand scheme of things, you are the same. You’ve seen it in the way Lyla describes him, in his interviews and his impressions.
Magnetic.
(You think there’s something forming here,
inescapable.
At the edge of a cliff, the beginning of a line,
Unforgettable.
In the end, you know him.
Fake.
You wonder if he knows you.)
There’s nothing to understand in those eyes of his,
That's all there is.
…
You decide that it’s good that you’ve learnt about Miguel, about the ugly and the good. About the man in the suit and who acts on a stage, and the casual, who still never puts down his mask, just like you.
You think it’s good that you two seem to be the same, because now sympathy doesn’t come to you when you see him, and instead you feel some odd feeling of jealousy, of need.
“Good for him”, you think when you see his empty eyes and the way he barely looks at you, “Good for him, because he made it.” when he stands up and everyone flounders to help him.
“Good for him”, because he’s done what you couldn’t.
Because he keeps going.
You think you hated him before he even opened his mouth.
You think you’ll hate him forever.
…
You’ve grown to know that the world listens. Whether it’s the people or the earth itself, everyone and everything listens.
They take your failures and use them to place more obstacles, a challenge almost, a “have you learnt your lesson yet?” for every mistake you make, and every regret you accumulate.
They shove your old traumas and weaknesses onto your paths so that you stutter, cracks in sidewalks, and slight tripping while you walk. Almost nothing but just enough for other people to notice, to listen and add on.
It becomes a cycle, a train, and it connects everyone and everything. We are all connected through pain in mistakes, some call them blessings, things that contribute to their upbringing, and sometimes in poor humor, character development.
So you think it’s no wonder Miguel starts appearing more after your last interaction, whether it’s in grocery stores or shared friend hangouts, you see him.
You mostly ignore him, speaking to him only when you have to, which is almost never. For the most part, he’s only a ghost creeping up on you. Haunting you.
Other times, he comes up to you himself, acting like you’ve known each other for ages, commenting on scenery, giving you run-downs on drama in the industry, the fakes, who screwed you, and etc etc.
The first time it happens, he texts you. Using the number you handed off to Lyla (which you now think was a mistake), he’ll ask you questions on what you think he should prepare for during the photoshoot and follow up interview.
After a while you think it’s stupid he’s the only one benefiting from these interactions and you start suggesting to see each other in person. The places are public enough that photographers can spot you– which adds just a little more fame to your name–, but lowkey enough to leave room for casual conversations.
Someone more delusional would call this the beginning of a friendship, and perhaps even a relationship.
You recognize it for what it really is. A lonely man clinging to anybody possible to entertain him, maybe even staying with him.
You hint at this the next time you see him, you put your feet up on his couch, something you do only because you see the twitch in his face and the build up of irritation.
“Why’d you suddenly start hanging out with me? Are you that lonely?” The question is punctuated with a teasing tone, but he knows you’re not joking.
He shrugs, carrying your drinks over to you, “who knows?” he starts, turning on his TV and handing the remote over to you, “maybe I just enjoy your company”.
The answer is meant to be a joke, yet for some reason it pisses you off.
You know what affection really is, years of having it used on you for selfish desires and success, and greed and much too much of needing too much. It comes in the form of a weapon.
Miguel has known how to wield it his entire life.
You stand up, pettiness settling on your tongue like it’s second nature, as you stand up suddenly and settle for dropping the glass and letting it shatter instead of throwing it at him in frustration.
“it’ll pass.”
You slam his door on the way out,
he doesn’t chase you, and you don’t call him later.
…
The next time you see him, he’s at the foot of your bed, watching you.
His outfit is casual, yet you don’t miss the sliver of a latex suit underneath his shirt, and you narrow your eyes at it.
You open your mouth to form some kind of witty response, something along the lines of “you always break into womens’ houses, or am I just special?” but you’re tired. You simply roll your eyes and adjust yourself back in your bed, waiting for sleep to caress you once more.
You hear clicking for a moment, and the weight shifting on the bed as he leans to one side, before the distinct chatting on your TV builds up before he raises the volume.
You take the bedsheets off and you’re met with a familiar interview.
Instead of watching, you watch him. His expression is neutral, he’s not waiting for you to explain anything, or even react a certain way.
“Do you ask everybody these personal questions, or only people who could get you fired?”
The woman on the screen– your interviewer–’s face morphs into something terrified as she scrambles to her feet to apologize.
“Ma’am, of course not! I didn’t mean to offend you, I just-”
You watch yourself press a tight smile across your lips, cutting her off and grabbing your stuff to leave.
“Wanted to embarrass me on television? Yes, I’m aware. Your employer will be hearing from me soon.”
Your last words are punctuated with a glare as all hope and curiosity she had throughout the interview fades. Her face falls completely and she doesn’t even bother to turn off the camera as she walks off, her shoulders slumped and tears down her cheeks.
Miguel turns off the TV, and doesn’t even bother looking at you.
You decide on humor.
“Guess I’m not the nice person you thought I was, huh?”
You expect rolled eyes, maybe a hit on how bad that recovery was, something.
He turns to you, smiling. Straight up, soft, light hitting his face, beautiful smile.
Fight or flight mode kicks in as he leans in slightly, leaving you blinking like a fool.
“I never thought you were a good person to begin with.”
It should be an insult. It should hurt. but the way he says it, all smiling and calm, you can’t help but hear “I don’t expect anything from you”. It feels good to be told something like that.
To not be yelled at, or given disappointed looks.
You shove his face away from you, a watery laugh escaping as you practically roll off the bed.
(You’re doomed.)
…
The woman, your interview, she had eyes you recognized.
Tiny soft doe eyes, helpless eyes, of a girl you knew in high-school.
You had been the epitome of her back then. Your mother. You had started to stand like her, to act like her, adjust your expectationslike her.
You stared down at the 85% on your report card paper, side by side to 100s and 99s. Your chest and heart ached, and you teared up in the middle of the hallway at your locker.
You scanned the hallways of stupid boys cheering in their 60s, and even dumber girls barely looking at their papers, instead focusing on their phones and their short skirts.
They were background characters, you were a force to be reckoned with. They all stopped, to stare at you, and surround you. Offering overexaggerated praise and smiles you would eventually learn to hate.
Pats on your back, and hands on your shoulder that one day you would shrug off. It should’ve felt like something, you thought. Their encouragement and attention. It should’ve changed something.
Later, the girl. Your nightmare walking, she stops everything for you too.
Instead, she offers words.
“It’s really not that bad.” She says, kind. “I mean you’re top of all your classes, and it’s only first semester. You can still do better.”
Your fists shake in their grip on your shirt, your eyes are watery and you look up at her, practically glaring.
“You’re only saying that, because you don’t know how it feels.” You’re yelling now, and you watch her shrink, you watch her get smaller and smaller and she watches you more.
“You don’t know what it’s like to win.”
You’re holding a knife now, your words stabbing her with every finishing sentence. In the silence, you hand it to her.
She can kill you, you know it. She knows it.
She looks at you instead, reaching out a hand. Take it, her eyes say. Let me help you.
You leave.
…
“Do you ask everybody these personal questions, or only people who could get you fired?”
You say this as a challenge, not to her. Not exactly, but mostly to the girl with the soft helpless doe eyes.
In the end, they’re the same, you tell yourself. Once again, in the brief silence, you hand her the knife.
She can kill you, as she could that day. The opportunity is there. You brace yourself for a stab wound, for pain.
This will change something. You think. It should change something.
You aren’t the same people anymore. Even if this is not her, even if this is a completely different person, and you’ve changed, you still wait.
(She picks up the knife.)
“Ma’am, of course not! I didn’t mean to offend you, I just-”
(She drops it.)
You try to ignore her, after that.
You convince yourself.
She would’ve gotten herself fired one day anyway.
She would’ve been blacklisted from her dream job with any company anyway.
She would’ve ruined herself anyway.
(Eventually,
her outstretched hand will pull away.
“leave,” your eyes will tell her.
She’ll listen.)
…
Days later, you recognize the same eyes in a grocery store. Except these are authentic. Years of kindness that you’ve rejected, taken by others, in the making.
(You remember that you never bothered to learn her name.)
You watch her from a distance, as she helps a little girl reach a tall item on the shelf, as she helps an old woman who’s tripped.
You watch her and she embodies everything you’re not. Even more so, when she turns around and spots you, offering a small smile despite it all.
But you’ve always been a coward,
even without the anger, or the pride, you’re forever left to hesitate.
You didn’t spare her a second glance, as you left, and you walked off to a path where she will no longer recognize you. You’ll walk off into years of more fame and more money, and everything you’ve ever deemed yourself worthy of having.
She will watch you, with a smile on her face.
You’ll walk away too afraid to face it.
…
“Her name is Aita.”
Her friend tells you one day, as you ask.
You throw your head back, laughing.
“No wonder.” you say to nobody.
…
You tell Miguel the story, the way it’s written.
You’re not sure why, and he doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t react much, instead raising an eyebrow at you.
“Well after all that, you better have won.”
You snort, throwing your legs back across his couch.
“Do I look like a loser to you?”
He kisses his teeth before shooting you and uncertain look, you gasp dramatically, throwing the nearest pillow at his face.
“Oh, shut up!”
…
You’re back in his house again, because it’s practically a routine at this point.
Your body practically aches at the thought of having a routine with somebody. Something repeating without you getting bored or the irrational urge to leave.
He comes out of his office, leaving you to roll your eyes as he comes out with his computer.
You slide your bookmark into your book, and raise a mocking eyebrow at him as he sits next to you.
“Please explain to me the reason you came out to do more work?”
He huffs, almost amused to show you his screen.
Online shopping.
He does a double take at you before putting down his computer completely, his turn to now raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you read?”
“Since when could you walk?” you shoot back, not missing a beat.
“You like to read?”, he asks once more, like you reading is the most baffling thing he’s seen all his life. You should be offended, you think, but it’s not condescending. He seems genuinely surprised.
You hand it to him, and have the pleasure of finding out he’s a fast reader as he reads the description in under a minute, before handing it back to you.
“Why do you read?” he says, shifting to get comfortable.
Now you’re confused.
“What is this, 20 questions?”
he lets out a small laugh, “indulge me.”
You nod, sitting up, and looking to the side. “Well,” you start, “Why breathing?”
He laughs again, looking up at you with more admiration than anything, “seriously?”
You swallow. “Seriously.” You fiddle with your fingers, cracking them, then trying again. “I don’t know how to explain this exactly, but reading is… a force of its own.”
He makes a motion to go on, spurring you on.
“It’s… an escape route. From one reality to another, from your mind to somebody else’s.”
When you notice his genuine interest, you hand him your book.
“Read it, and then I’ll show you the movie, and I promise, I can turn you into a reader with just that.”
“Really?” he says, with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on him.
“Really.”
…
There’s a dream playing in your head.
Your father appears to you in the form of poison ivy, long and twisting branches wrapping all around you, starting rashes and scratches along your skin.
You look around in all directions, searching for a way out. Scratching your skin, the itch worsening as it consumes you, and eventually you turn into it.
More and more people pass by you, you extend your vines further and further, dragging them down with you.
You extend, and travel, and eventually land at the feet of Miguel.
He looks down at you, curious and admiring.
You feel yourself shake in fear, in anger and in jealousy.
Your vines stop as you look away from him.
You turn back into yourself, and leave.
…
You enter the code to his house, distracting yourself from the fact that you’ve been here enough to know it.
He’s in his kitchen, wearing a basic t-shirt and sweatpants and you sit at the counter resisting the urge to eat him alive.
“The book.” He says.
You nod and practically scoot to the end of the seat. “You loved it.”
He starts at you intently and then sighs, his brows furrowing at the sight of you cackling, almost falling off your chair.
You wipe a fake tear from your eye before checking your phone.
“The photoshoot and interview is tomorrow right?”
He nods, sliding one of two plates of food over to you. You don’t miss the way that it was already prepared even before you got here.
“Yes, I still have a few notes and practices from Lyla that I have to do later tonight.”
You slip off the counter, and bring both plates with you over to the living room to turn on the TV.
“Perfect, then let’s watch the movie now.”
He follows you, and you bicker for the first five minutes about the characters, the differences in the movie versus the book, and etc etc.
Eventually, Miguel gets into it. Completely silent as he even takes out a notepad to write the changes made and how the “best parts are represented in a mediocre way”. (Yes you’re quoting him.)
When the movie ends, he looks starstruck.
He explains how it was disappointing but enlightening at the same time.
“I want to read the book again.”
You laugh, handing it to him, and he reads through it, and rewinds parts of the movie for comparison during the next 2 hours.
When he’s done, he slams the book shut and looks at you, expression unreadable.
You sit in front of him and take his hands and give him your most serious face.
“Now you tell me, Miguel O’hara.” you smirk, “Why read?”
He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again.
He kisses you instead.
…
The next day during your interview, when it’s time for his solos, Lyla smiles from the side at you like you’re her saviour. You barely notice her though, you’re too busy looking at Miguel.
They ask him what it’s like to know you, and work with you. He doesn’t describe you as beautiful, and charming like all your other collaborations do. Instead he calls you the most intelligent woman he knows.
His eyes travel around the room until he locks eyes with you, as he talks about your love for books, your stubborn but motivated personality and how working with you was almost better than all accomplishments in his career combined.
You know his words will make the front of some gossip magazines.
Stores will be filled with your dating rumors, and an uprising scandal, but you don’t think about it.
Your mind is filled with nothing but the look on his face as he looks straight into the camera and says,
“I never stood a chance.”
Your eyes widen, and you look at him, your face saying “Me too. I never stood a chance either.”
He looks back at you, his eyes screaming “I know.”
There’s something starting here.
(“Why did you kiss me?”, you asked him
You think it’s your downfall. The end of something good, leaning into the bad.
He laughs, pulling you closer,
Your mind screams at you in that moment. It tells you to leave him, go, go, It won’t end well, you need to leave him.
“Why, breathing?” he says, mocking your last answer.)
You’ve never been a soft woman. You haven’t and you aren’t now. You’ve broken hearts and people, you’ve made mistakes, committed petty crimes to succeed, you’ve pulled people in, and pushed them away, worst of all, there’s always one foot out the door just in case.
A hand on the handle of a suitcase. You’re always ready to leave.
You know, eventually. You will have to leave.
“Someone has to leave first.” It will always be you.
He smiles at you again.
(You never stood a chance.)