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Chapter Twenty-Seven: Normal, With a Bruise
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2026-01-10 15:07:06
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OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Epilogue: The Side of the Light No One Films
Backstage smelled like heat and hairspray and fresh gaffer tape. It wasn’t glamorous up close, not the way people imagine when they think tour. It was cables coiled in neat loops, laminated lanyards slapped against chests as people jogged past, and voices in headsets saying things like, “Fifteen to doors,” as if time was something you could hold in your hand and squeeze. My lanyard sat heavy against my sternum: CREW — RUNNER/ASSIST. The first night they handed it to me, I kept touching it like it might vanish. Like someone would tap my shoulder and say, Sorry, we meant someone else. But nobody did. Because I wasn’t someone else. I was here on purpose. “Quinn!” Marisol, stage manager, terrifying in the most competent way, called from the production table. She had a clipboard, a headset, and the kind of calm that only comes from having survived a hundred disasters and learned none of them were worth panicking over. I jogged over. “Yep.” She didn’t look up. “We’re doing the alte
OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Chapter Thirty-Four: The Rest of the Year, on Purpose
That was pretty much how the rest of senior year went. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just… intentional. I went to school. I did my assignments. I kept my head down when people tried to turn the hallway into a runway. I stopped reacting to the occasional phone pointed in my direction like it was a weapon. The media didn’t disappear completely, but it got bored when I refused to feed it. Turns out, the fastest way to starve a headline is to keep living like a person. I didn’t start dressing differently. I didn’t suddenly become glossy or curated. I wore what I always wore. I showed up to class with frizzy hair on rainy days and pen marks on my hand from forgetting the cap was loose again. If people wanted “Plant Girl” to become some kind of aesthetic symbol, they were going to be disappointed. I was still just Quinn Parker, trying to graduate, trying to breathe, trying to keep my world mine. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I found something that helped: a hobby that wasn’t abou
OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Chapter Thirty-Three: The Rumor Mill and the Truth
Jace called ten minutes after I sent the message. Not a text. Not a casual, what’s up? A call, like the words mattered enough that he needed my face, my tone, proof that I was still here and still his. I answered from my bed with the lamp on low and my textbooks spread open like props I wasn’t using. His screen popped up and there he was, hair damp, hoodie on, eyes too bright in that way that meant his thoughts were already sprinting ahead of him. “Hey,” I said gently. He didn’t say hey back. “Quinn,” he blurted, breath quick. “What did you see? What happened? Are you.” He stopped, like he realized he’d asked the last question wrong, then tried again. “Are you okay?” I watched him for a second, letting myself feel the tenderness under the panic. He looked like someone bracing for impact. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m just… not loving what I saw.” His jaw clenched. “Tell me.” I inhaled slowly, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my chest still felt sore from earlier. “The
OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Chapter Thirty-Two: When the World Gets Bored
The attention didn’t end the way it started. It didn’t explode and vanish. It thinned. Like fog that clung too long to the grass and then, day by day, lifted, until you could almost convince yourself it hadn’t been there at all. The first week after Blaire’s post, the cameras still hovered at the edges of my life. Outside school, across the street from my house, sometimes even parked too long at the grocery store like someone was waiting for me to do something worth recording. But I didn’t. I kept wearing the same hoodies. I kept tying my hair up the same way when I had a quiz. I kept walking like a person who belonged in her own neighbourhood, because I did. And slowly, painfully slowly, the people hunting for a story realized I was terrible at being one. By the second month, the “reporters” were mostly gone. Not entirely, every so often a phone would still pop up at the worst moment, someone trying to catch me off guard but the big energy had drained out of it. The crowd h
OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Chapter Thirty-One: Learning to Live With the Echo
The next morning, the street looked normal again. Same mail truck. Same sprinklers ticking in lazy arcs across lawns. Same neighbour walking their dog like my front yard hadn’t been a set the day before. It would’ve been comforting if my phone hadn’t ruined it every time it lit up. I woke up to a quiet house and a loud screen, notifications stacked like a tower I didn’t remember building. Mom had taken my socials off public. Dad had shown me how to filter message requests. I’d blocked more accounts in twenty four hours than I’d blocked in my entire life. And still, the noise found ways to slip through the cracks. I didn’t open most of it. I learned fast that curiosity came with teeth. Instead, I got dressed in the same thing I always wore when I didn’t feel like thinking: soft hoodie, old jeans, my most boring sneakers. No “cute outfit.” No armour disguised as style. No sudden attempt to look like someone who belonged on a screen. If people were going to stare, they could stare
OFFSTAGE, on my Mind Chapter Thirty: Panicking Calls
For the rest of the evening, the house stayed tense in that way it does after something dangerous passes close. Dad checked the locks twice. Mom kept her phone nearby, volume on. I tried to do homework and ended up staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes without absorbing a single word. Around seven, Dad turned on the TV, not to relax, but like he was checking the perimeter of the world. The local news was on. I was halfway down the hallway when I heard my own name. “…a developing story out of Westbridge, where Westbridge High student Quinn Parker.” My feet stopped moving. My stomach dropped. Mom’s eyes snapped to the screen. Dad’s jaw tightened like he was physically restraining himself from throwing the remote. They played footage from someone’s phone, grainy but unmistakable. Me on my porch. Me facing a semicircle of microphones. Me saying, 'Yes. Jace and I are dating.' They cut it in a neat little clip. No context. No fear. No shaking hands. Just the sentence, cle
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