Angie Faith Pov -

This is the real performance. Not the sold-out arena. Not the red carpet. It’s the act of letting myself be held when I feel like shattering. It’s believing, for eight hours of darkness, that I am just Angie.

I lean over the marble sink, knuckles white against the cold stone. My reflection stares back—a girl I’ve known my whole life, yet one I keep surprising. My hair is down, no longer sculpted into the perfect, bouncy waves the camera loves. It’s just strands. Brown. Tangled. Human. angie faith pov

In the darkness of the bedroom, I slide back under the covers. The mattress dips. He rolls over instinctively, his arm finding my waist, pulling the static of the world away. This is the real performance

I turn the faucet. Cold water floods my cupped hands. I splash it on my face, not to wake up—I’ve been awake for three days, running on coffee and anxiety—but to feel something real. The shock of the cold is a sharp, clean note in a symphony of noise. It’s the act of letting myself be held

I dry my face with a towel that smells like lavender, not like the stale champagne and smoke clinging to my dress from last night’s gala. I pad barefoot across the cold floor, leaving the bright, harsh truth of the bathroom behind.