Chapter 73

CELESTE’S POV

The door closed behind Rowan with a soft click.

That was the worst part.

No slam. No argument. No explosion she could point to and say, this is where it broke. Just the quiet finality of wood meeting frame, like punctuation at the end of a sentence Celeste hadn’t finished speaking.

She stood there for a long second after Rowan left, hand hovering uselessly in the air where she’d almost reached for her. Almost said something better. Something braver.

Too late.

The condo felt different immediately. Too open. Too still. The hum of the fridge seemed louder now, the tick of the clock sharper. Even Simone and Lila moving around felt distant, like Celeste was underwater and everyone else was breathing normally.

She went through the motions.

That’s what she told herself.

She rinsed her mug. Put it upside down in the rack. Straightened the throw pillows that didn’t need straightening. When Simone asked if she was okay, Celeste nodded automatically and said, “Yeah, just tired.”

A lie. But an easy one.

By late morning, Simone and Lila left to run errands, offering one last look that said we’re here if you need us. Celeste smiled and waved and waited until the door shut before the smile fell off her face completely.

The silence rushed in.

She sat on the couch.

Then stood up.

Then sat again.

Her phone was already in her hand.

She stared at Rowan’s name first.

Celeste: Can we talk?
Delivered.

She waited.

Nothing.

Five minutes later:

Celeste: I shouldn’t have shut down like that. I’m sorry.
Delivered.

Her chest tightened.

She tried calling.

Straight to voicemail.

Celeste swallowed hard and set the phone down, only to pick it back up less than a minute later. This time, Naomi.

She hesitated—then didn’t.

Celeste: Nae… please text me back.
Delivered.

She paced the living room, barefoot steps restless against the floor.

Another call.

Straight to voicemail.

Her jaw clenched. She tried Rowan again.

Voicemail.

Naomi again.

Voicemail.

“Fuck,” Celeste whispered, dragging a hand down her face.

She told herself it was reasonable. Rowan needed space. Naomi asked for space. She knew that. She understood that.

Understanding didn’t make the panic stop climbing her ribs.

She showered in the early afternoon, letting the water run too hot, standing there longer than necessary. She rested her forehead against the tile and closed her eyes, phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

When she got out, she checked again.

Nothing.

She dressed carefully—jeans, clean shirt, hair brushed—like appearances still mattered even though no one was there to see her. She looked like herself in the mirror.

She didn’t feel like herself.

She tried to eat. Took two bites of toast before pushing the plate away. Coffee went cold on the counter. She reheated it and forgot about it again.

Her phone buzzed once.

Her heart leapt.

Just an email.

By evening, the light shifted orange and then blue through the windows. Celeste sat on the balcony with a glass of water she didn’t drink, watching the city move on without her.

She typed another message to Rowan. Deleted it. Typed again.

Celeste: I hate that I hurt you.
Delivered.

No response.

She stared at the screen until it dimmed.

She called Naomi again.

Voicemail.

“I’m not disappearing,” Celeste whispered bitterly, even though no one was there to hear it. “You are.”

That thought scared her enough that she immediately hated herself for it.

Night came. She turned on the TV just for noise. Didn’t watch it. Just stared at her phone, refreshing nothing.

She sent one last message—to both of them.

Celeste: I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.

She went to bed alone, the condo too quiet again. She lay on her side, phone on the pillow beside her, screen dark and accusing.

Sleep came in fragments. Half-dreams where Rowan was standing in the doorway but wouldn’t step inside. Where Naomi was right there, close enough to touch, but every time Celeste reached out, she woke up.

Morning arrived whether she was ready or not.

Celeste woke with that familiar hollow feeling in her chest—the one that comes when you remember, all at once, that something is wrong.

She grabbed her phone immediately.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Rowan usually texted by now. Even something small. Morning. Drive safe. Talk later.

Nothing.

Celeste sat up slowly, rubbing her face. Her body felt heavy, like she’d run a marathon in her sleep.

She tried calling Rowan again.

Voicemail.

Naomi.

Voicemail.

Her chest burned now—not sharp, not explosive, just aching and constant.

She moved through the morning on autopilot again. Shower. Coffee. Clothes. She stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, staring at the empty space where Rowan usually leaned while she cooked.

That was when it hit her—not like a wave, but like erosion. Slow. Steady.

This wasn’t about one night.
Or one kiss.
Or one secret.

It was about her always waiting too long to speak.
About choosing silence when honesty felt dangerous.
About assuming love would stay put if she didn’t touch it too hard.

By the time the 24 hours were nearly up, Celeste was back on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering uselessly over two names that refused to light up.

“I’m going to lose you if I don’t fix this,” she whispered to the empty room.

But for the first time since Rowan walked out—and since Naomi went quiet—Celeste didn’t know if fear would be enough to make her brave…

Or if she’d already waited too long.

Celeste got dressed on autopilot.

That was the only way she could do it—muscle memory instead of thought. Black slacks. A soft blouse. Hair pulled back neatly, makeup minimal but precise. The version of herself the world expected. The version that didn’t fall apart just because two people hadn’t texted her back.

As she fastened her watch, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

She looked… fine.

That almost pissed her off.

She grabbed her keys, her bag, her phone—checked it one more time out of habit.

Still nothing.

I’ll see her at work, she told herself as she locked the door.
Rowan can’t avoid me there.

The drive to set was quiet. No music. No podcasts. Just the steady sound of tires on pavement and the low hum of the city waking up around her. Celeste rehearsed what she might say when she saw Rowan.

I’m sorry.
I should’ve told you.
Please don’t shut me out.

Each version felt either too weak or too late.

By the time she pulled into the lot, her chest felt tight but focused. Work she could do. Acting was safe. Acting had rules.

She stepped onto set and was immediately greeted by the familiar bustle—crew members adjusting lights, PAs hustling with clipboards, the smell of coffee and cables and makeup powder in the air.

“Morning, Celeste,” someone called.

“Morning,” she replied automatically, professional smile locked in place.

She scanned the space instinctively.

No Rowan.

Her stomach dipped, but she brushed it off. She’s probably in wardrobe. Or makeup. Or running late.

Celeste headed toward her trailer to drop her bag when she heard her name again—this time from behind.

“Hey, Celeste.”

She turned to see one of the producers walking toward her, tablet tucked under their arm, expression neutral but businesslike.

“Morning,” Celeste said. “Is Rowan—”

“Yeah, so,” the producer cut in gently, clearly choosing their words. “Small schedule change today.”

Celeste stilled.

“We’re only working with you today,” they continued. “Rowan called out this morning.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

“Oh,” Celeste said. Just that. One syllable. Calm.

The producer nodded, already half-distracted by their schedule. “Yeah. We’ll be focusing on your solo coverage and some pickups. Nothing heavy. You good?”

Celeste forced a nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Great. Let wardrobe know when you’re ready.”

They walked off, leaving Celeste standing there amid the controlled chaos of set life—lights, voices, movement—while something inside her went very still.

Rowan called out.

Not late.
Not delayed.
Out.

Celeste’s hand tightened around the strap of her bag. She swallowed and pulled out her phone, thumb moving without conscious thought.

She opened Rowan’s contact.

Hovered.

Didn’t press call.

Instead, she locked the screen and slipped the phone back into her bag like it had burned her.

She doesn’t want to see me, Celeste thought.

And for the first time since all of this started, the realization wasn’t sharp panic.

It was dull.

Heavy.

Like something settling into place.

She walked to wardrobe, answered questions, stepped into costume. Elena Vega slid over her like armor—controlled, lethal, composed. Someone touched up her makeup, powdered away the slightest shine, the slightest sign that she hadn’t slept.

As she waited for her cue, standing alone on set where Rowan should’ve been, Celeste stared at the marks taped on the floor.

Yesterday, they’d stood here together.

Yesterday, Rowan’s hand had brushed hers between takes.

Today, there was just empty space.

Celeste exhaled slowly, steadying herself.

You wanted time, she thought, not sure if she was thinking about Naomi, Rowan, or herself.
Well… here it is.

And as the director called for quiet and the cameras rolled, Celeste realized something terrifying:

For the first time, she didn’t know which absence hurt more—

The one who asked for space,
or the one who stopped showing up.