Three days… and she still hadn’t responded.
No like. No seen. Not even ahey, go to helloryou're not a complete tool, I guess.
Nothing.
I wasn’t proud of how often I’d opened the app, thumb hovering over her icon like it might summon her by sheer willpower. Or how long I stared at her page like I’d find some kind of clue in a blurry story post or a caption about the bookstore’s author event next week.
She looked happy in the posts. Or at least composed.
Meanwhile, I was halfway to unhinged.
I’d rewritten the same text in my notes app a dozen times. Gone on two runs I didn’t want to take. Tried to throw myself into work — lines, blocking, hitting marks. But everything came out wooden. I couldn't stop thinking about the look on her face when she stood up. The way her voice had cracked when she told me I was treating her like a footnote.
She wasn’t wrong.
And that’s what gutted me.
Because she wasn’t a plotline. She was in every waking thought I had, despite my better judgement. The sharpness of her. The quiet strength. The sarcasm and the softness, all tangled up in a girl who still looked at the world like it owed her answers and wasn’t afraid to ask.
There was something about her that was almost magnetic. Iwantedto be near her, wanted to learn more about her, wanted to let her in.
We’d only had four or five total conversations… but she had already affected my stupid soul.
And I’d made her feel small.
I didn’t know how to fix that.
But I knew I couldn’t just sit here, reading and rereading those damn messages and hoping the universe would do me a favor.
So I opened the app again, fingers shaking a little this time.
Typed:
anselbarlowe
Still sorry. Still hoping you’ll tell me how to make it right.
Hovered over the send button.
And hit it.
Because I’d already messed up once. And if I was going to spiral, I might as well spiral forward.
I didn’t expect an answer. I wasn’t even sure I wanted one. I just needed… something. A direction. A breath of air in the stifling mess I’d made.
Instead, I got silence.
And then another botched take.
“Cut.”
That was the third one. Or maybe the fifth.
Kellogg pinched the bridge of his nose as if it physically pained him to look at me. “Barlowe,” he said, voice thin. “The hell is going on with you?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I just… wasn’t in it.”
“You haven’tbeenin it. Not all week.” He glanced at the DP. “We’re shooting mush. It’s wooden. It’s dead. There’s no tension. No heat. No—” he flailed, “—movement. Which is quite literally the title of the damn film.”
