Chapter 1: Viral Tears and Spicy Regrets

When my ex—the movie star—called, I was posted up at a food truck with my best friend, scarfing down spicy buffalo wings and fries.

Hot sauce hung in the air. Fries sizzled in the oil. We sat perched on the tailgate, napkins tucked into our collars like bibs. Just laughing our heads off at nothing. The streetlights threw a warm glow over cracked pavement, and the only soundtrack was the hum of passing cars and a distant radio blasting classic rock. The city felt alive at this hour, but for us, it was just another night, just another late craving for wings we’d regret tomorrow.

I groaned, "No more... my tongue’s going numb from all the sauce."

I tried to fan my mouth with a napkin. No luck—the burn only got worse. Lauren snorted, "You always say that, then you go back for more."

Right then, my phone buzzed. I glanced down, and my heart did a weird little skip. My ex, the movie star, was calling me? I fumbled the phone, suddenly all thumbs, and answered.

"What exactly are you licking over there?"

His voice snapped through the phone, sharp and suspicious, like he could see me through the line. My brain short-circuited for a second. Lauren shot me a look, mouthing, "Who is that?" I just shrugged. Not ready to explain. Not yet.

The next day, the trending topic #TheColdMovieStarBreaksDownOnSet blew up on Twitter.

My notifications buzzed nonstop. Even before coffee, my phone was blowing up—hashtags, hot takes, memes. There were gifs, and even a couple of fan edits set to sad indie music. I scrolled through them in a daze, not sure whether to laugh or hide under my covers.

And then, of course, Mason Whitlock did an interview.

The clip was everywhere. YouTube. Instagram. Even my cousin sent it to the family group chat, loaded with crying emojis. Lauren texted, "Girl, is this about you?"

The reporter asked, "Do you have anything to say to the person who made you cry like this?"

Mason gritted his teeth, face cold. "I'm not letting her off the hook."

He looked like he was barely holding it together, but you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. The camera zoomed in, catching every twitch of his jaw. People online went wild—dissecting every micro-expression. Like he was a suspect on a true crime doc. Wild.

Me, with my tongue blistered from too much hot sauce: "Huh?"

I licked my lips and winced at the sting. Glanced at Lauren. "Did I just get threatened on national TV?"

That weird call had come and gone in under two seconds.

The screen had flashed Mason’s name, but I thought I’d imagined it. The call was gone before I could even say hello. For a second, I wondered if it was some weird fan prank. But the familiar area code made my heart skip.

I shrugged it off and kept drinking with Lauren.

We clinked our plastic cups together, laughing at nothing. Letting the world spin around us. It felt good to be invisible, to be nobody important. Lauren said, "To being nobodies! Cheers!" and I laughed so hard I almost choked on a fry.

Being a nobody in the industry has its perks. You don't have to hide when you go out for late-night snacks.

No one cared if I wore sweats and no makeup. I could double dip my fries, make a mess, and no one would snap a photo. There’s a freedom in being overlooked. A comfort in not having to watch your back every second.

We drank until we couldn't tell up from down. Finally, my tongue hurt so bad I couldn’t stand it, so we wrapped up and called it a night.

Lauren gave me a sloppy hug. Hot sauce stains on her sleeve. "Text me if you don’t die from the spice," she joked, waving as she disappeared into the night. I stumbled home, shoes in hand, humming a song I couldn’t remember the words to.

I flopped onto my bed. The alcohol hit me. My eyelids grew heavy.

The ceiling spun a little. I kicked off my jeans and face-planted into my pillow. Let the exhaustion wash over me. My phone buzzed somewhere on the floor, but I was too tired to care.

Suddenly, I remembered that strange phone call. The voice had sounded a little familiar. Kind of like Mason Whitlock. Weird.

I replayed the tone in my mind—sharp, impatient, the way he used to sound when I’d steal the last slice of pizza. My heart did a weird little flip, but I shook it off. No way.

But I quickly dismissed the thought. He was on set, filming. It was a closed set—no phones, not even WiFi.

Mason was notorious for taking his roles seriously. His director once joked he’d go full method and sleep in the mud if he had to. I figured he was somewhere in the middle of nowhere, too busy to remember my existence. Out of sight, out of mind.

By now, the shoot should be wrapping up...

I thought about the last time I’d seen him—makeup smeared, eyes hollow, all sharp angles and silence. He hadn’t looked back when he left. Maybe he was already moving on, just like I was supposed to be.

A jumble of thoughts fought in my head, and I drifted off to sleep.

The last thing I remember was the taste of buffalo sauce and the echo of Mason’s voice, both burning in different ways.