Chapter Text
The bass of the studio speakers rattled the cheap drop-ceiling tiles and vibrated up through the sticky linoleum floor, settling directly into the marrow of Amanda’s ribs.
She stood near the craft services table, absentmindedly peeling the damp label off a lukewarm water bottle, letting the sheer, suffocating volume of the room wash over her. It was her first weekend officially single in two years.
For twenty-four months, her life had felt like living in a house with all the windows painted shut. Her ex had been fine – too fine, some would say – but Amanda had spent two years unconsciously sanding down her own edges. She had dialed back her volume, monitoring her own decibel level, swallowing the loudest, most chaotic parts of herself to keep the peace in a relationship that always felt just a little too quiet.
Tonight, the windows were shattered. She was untethered, running on the hollow, electric energy of a fresh breakup, and her gravity immediately sought out the densest object in the room.
Her eyes scanned the strobe-y magenta darkness and locked on the ratty prop couch.
Angela was perched precariously on the armrest, her head thrown back, laughing at something Shayne was yelling over the music. Even in the dim, chaotic lighting, she looked impossibly sharp. A live wire throwing sparks.
Amanda let out a slow breath, feeling the phantom weight of the last two years physically slip off her shoulders.
This was why she always drifted back to this exact spot.
With Angela, the script vanished. She didn't have to monitor herself or worry that she was being "too much." Angela matched her, decibel for decibel. She was the one person whose space Amanda could completely collapse into without fear of hitting the ground.
She didn't consciously decide to move. It was sheer, magnetic pull.
As she slipped behind the couch, the ambient noise of the party seemed to dial back, replaced by the immediate, humming warmth of proximity. Amanda didn't announce herself. She didn't tap Angela on the shoulder. She just stepped right into her space, letting her chin drop heavily onto Angela’s shoulder, draping her arms loosely over the back of the couch to box her in.
Beneath her chin, Angela’s body went completely rigid. It wasn’t a flinch. It was a total, instantaneous seizing of muscle.
Amanda barely registered it. It was just Angela being Angela — high-strung, over-caffeinated, a tightly wound spring.
"I’m stealing a sip," Amanda murmured, her voice vibrating right against the shell of Angela's ear.
She reached blindly over Angela’s shoulder. Her knuckles dragged deliberately across the bare, fever-hot skin of Angela’s forearm before plucking the dented plastic Solo cup from her grip.
Angela forced a sharp exhale, tilting her head away just a fraction. When she spoke, her voice scraped, a half-octave too high. "It’s practically backwash, Lehan-Canto."
"Don't care." Amanda took a slow drink, the cheap vodka burning the back of her throat, and leaned her entire body weight forward. She let her chest press flush against Angela’s spine, a deep, contented sigh escaping her. "I’m exhausted. Carry me."
"You have legs like a baby giraffe, I would literally snap in half." Angela didn't turn her head. Her hands were planted firmly on her own thighs. In the flashing neon light, her knuckles were bone-white.
"Rude." Amanda blindly bumped her nose against the side of Angela's head, burying her face in her hair for a split second. She breathed in the familiar, sharp scent of her styling cream.
Amanda felt completely, utterly safe.
And Amanda had no idea Angela was suffocating.
Across the room, the karaoke machine shrieked with feedback. The opening piano chords of Wicked cut through the thumping bass.
Amanda’s head snapped up. The adrenaline spiked instantly.
"Oh, absolutely not," Angela yelled, sensing the shift in Amanda’s posture immediately. She tried to slide off the armrest, but Amanda’s arms were already locking around her waist. "I am not doing theater kid karaoke with you at one in the morning! Let me go!"
"You're Glinda, let's go," Amanda demanded, laughing. She hauled Angela to her feet, completely ignoring the frantic resistance in Angela’s shoulders.
She dragged her to the center of the makeshift dance floor, shoving a sticky microphone into her chest. The crowd of crew members parted, forming a loose, cheering circle around them.
The music swelled.
"What is this feeling?" Amanda belted, dropping her voice into a booming, theatrical register. She stalked forward, invading Angela’s space. She backed Angela up a half-step, staring her down with intense, manufactured aggression. "...Fervid as a flame."
Angela swallowed hard. Amanda watched the physical mechanics of it — the rapid, terrified flutter of her pulse right at the collarbone. For a fraction of a second, Angela looked like she was drowning in plain sight.
But then, a wall slammed down over Angela's eyes. The theater kid training overrode the panic. Her jaw set, her eyes darkened, and she stepped right back into Amanda’s space, closing the gap until the toes of their sneakers hit.
"...Does it have a name? Yes!" Angela sang back, her voice razor-sharp, laced with a raw edge that made the fine hairs on the back of Amanda’s neck stand up.
"Loathing!" they screamed into the mics together.
The physical space between them evaporated entirely. Amanda threw her free arm around Angela’s waist, yanking her violently flush against her side for the chorus.
The collision knocked the breath out of both of them.
Amanda felt the erratic, thumping heartbeat hammering against Angela's ribs. The air between them was practically vibrating. They were playing to the crowd, singing to the ceiling, but Amanda’s eyes were locked firmly on the side of Angela's face.
They hit the bridge. The party around them blurred into a smeared painting of neon lights and static.
Amanda dipped her. She stepped into Angela’s guard, hooked her arm securely around her lower back, and bent her backward. The final note stretched out, echoing through the studio. Amanda hovered over her, looking down.
Time stalled. The noise of the room vanished.
Amanda looked into Angela's eyes and saw it.
It wasn't the frantic, chaotic humor of her best friend. It was a dark, bottomless panic.
Angela's hand was clamped onto Amanda's shoulder, fingers digging so painfully into her collarbone that it was going to leave a bruise.
Angela was gripping Amanda like she was slipping off the edge of a cliff.
Angela’s chest heaved. Her dark eyes flicked frantically down to Amanda’s mouth, lingered there for a microscopic, agonizing beat, and then snapped back up, terrified.
A cold shock of adrenaline hit Amanda’s stomach.
Something was absolutely, terribly wrong.
Then, Angela planted both hands on Amanda's chest and violently shoved her backward.
"Okay, get off me, big girl!" Angela shouted into the mic, scrambling upright and throwing her head back with a loud, obnoxious cackle that shattered the vacuum seal of the moment. "You're literally crushing my spine!"
The room erupted into cheers. The spell broke.
Amanda stumbled back a step, laughing breathlessly, trying to shake off the bizarre dread that had just pooled in her gut. She hoisted herself entirely upright, riding the high of the crowd, but her hands were trembling slightly.
"We are incredible," Amanda gasped. She reached out, leaning heavily against Angela’s side again, resting her damp forehead against Angela’s temple. "We should take this on the road."
Angela didn't push her away, but she felt as rigid as a stone pillar.
"Sure. Vegas residency," she replied, her voice completely hollow.
Over Angela's shoulder, Amanda’s eyes met the makeshift bar.
Chanse was standing there, perfectly still. He wasn't smiling. He was staring directly at Amanda with a cold, unblinking intensity that made her blood run cold. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful.
Before Amanda could even process the look, a hand clamped down on her wrist. Hard.
Courtney materialized from the flashing magenta darkness. Their face was a mask of pure, exhausted fury. They didn't say a word, didn't look back at Angela, just hauled Amanda through the throng of sweaty bodies with a localized, terrifying momentum.
Amanda stumbled over a rogue mic cable, laughing nervously. "Hey, Court, wait, I left my drink–"
Courtney shoved the heavy soundproof door of the breakroom open with their shoulder, dragged Amanda inside, and let the door swing shut.
The transition was violent.
The thumping bass of the studio was instantly reduced to a dull, muffled thud. The strobes were replaced by the clinical, buzzing hum of overhead fluorescent lights. The air in here was freezing, smelling of stale coffee grounds and industrial cleaner.
Courtney let go of her wrist.
Amanda rubbed the skin there, leaning back against the cool stainless steel of the industrial fridge. She let out a jagged breath, a residual smile still playing on her lips.
"What the hell, Court? What's the emergency? Did something break? Are we hiding from Tommy?"
Courtney didn't smile. They stood by the island counter, arms crossed, staring at Amanda with an expression that bordered on actual grief. They looked like they had been holding their breath for three years and had finally decided to exhale.
"God, it is exhausting watching you two," Courtney muttered, their voice flat and drained.
Amanda blinked. The residual adrenaline in her veins began to curdle into genuine confusion. She shifted her weight, the smile slipping off her face. "What? Me and Ange? We were just doing a bit. We're doing the wives thing."
Courtney reached out and placed their hands flat on the counter. "Now that you're finally single, Amanda, can you please just put her out of her misery?"
The kitchen suddenly felt hollow. The buzzing of the lights seemed to amplify. "Put her out of her... what are you talking about?"
"I don't think any of us can handle another 'I Live In Your House' era," Courtney said, their voice deadpan, completely stripped of any irony.
Amanda scoffed. Her brain scrambled desperately to reroute the conversation back to familiar territory. "What? The short? It was a great project. We played wives. It was fun."
Courtney closed their eyes for a second, shaking their head. When they opened them again, their gaze was entirely unamused, piercing right through her.
"Amanda." Courtney’s voice dropped, quiet and merciless. "You already acted like her wife. You were touchy, you were glued to her hip, and then you went home to your girlfriend. A girl who, by the way, had her exact same energy. You spent two years dating a watered-down, non-showbiz version of your best friend and you didn't even realize it."
Amanda felt the air physically leave her lungs. Her fingers gripped the edge of the fridge behind her.
"She purposely wrote herself as the absent wife in that short," Courtney continued, striking like a metronome, "because that's exactly what she felt like. She had the title but never actually had you. She was directing you from behind a monitor while she was desperately in love with you. We literally had a support group chat for her."
The breakroom tilted. A cold shock hit Amanda’s stomach, a visceral, plummeting dread.
"Oh my god. Are you actually blind?" Courtney whispered.
Amanda’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Desperately in love with you. The words didn't just land; they detonated. The shock wave blew backward through her memories, violently re-contextualizing the last thirty-six months of her life in a span of five seconds.
Tick.
Arasha, sitting across from her in a booth at a diner two years ago.
Amanda complaining about how distant Angela had been acting. Arasha taking a slow sip of her water, staring at Amanda with dead eyes, and saying, "You literally have a blindfold on. I cannot help you if you refuse to see what's right in front of your face."
Amanda had laughed it off as Arasha being dramatic.
Tock.
Ian, three months into her relationship, casually passing her in the hallway and asking, "Hey, how are your two girlfriends doing?" Amanda had thought he just forgot her partner's name.
He hadn't.
Ian had genuinely thought she was dating both of them.
Tick.
The set of I Live In Your House. Angela, sitting behind the monitor in the dark, watching Amanda play house with a ghost, while Amanda went home every night to a girl who shared Angela's laugh but none of her gravity.
And then, the final, devastating piece slotted into place. The memory hit Amanda so hard she physically slumped against the fridge.
Tock.
Three years ago. The green room.
Amanda was sprawled across the ratty couch, her legs draped heavily over Angela’s lap. They had been touching constantly back then. Amanda had been playing with the hem of Angela's oversized hoodie.
"The dating pool in our circle is just completely dead, right Ange?" Amanda had complained, staring at the ceiling. "I just wish I had a crush. Literally anyone. But there's just nobody around here to even look at."
Through the new, horrifying lens of Courtney's revelation, Amanda finally saw the exact micro-expression she had missed three years ago.
The way Angela’s smile hadn't just faded — it had collapsed. The way the light had entirely drained from her dark eyes, leaving a bruised, hollow emptiness behind. Angela had quietly, carefully slipped her arm out from under Amanda’s shoulders, stood up, and murmured something about needing a coffee.
A week later, Amanda had met her ex. And for two years, Angela had disappeared into her work.
Amanda had handed her the shovel and asked her to dig her own grave.
"Oh my god," Amanda breathed out. Her voice was barely a rasp. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth. "Oh my god, Court. I didn't... I didn't know."
Courtney watched her, the anger in their shoulders finally giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion. "I know you didn't. That was the whole problem."
Courtney pushed off the counter. They walked to the door, pulling the heavy handle open. The thumping bass of the party immediately flooded back into the room, loud and violent and completely oblivious to the fact that Amanda's reality had just been rewritten.
"She made us promise not to say anything," Courtney said, pausing in the doorway, not looking back. "But you're single now. And you're doing it again. So figure it out, Amanda. Because if you drag her back into that orbit just to leave her again, Chanse is going to actually kill you, and I am going to let him."
The heavy door swung shut. The click of the latch echoed off the tile.
Amanda was left entirely alone in the blinding, humming fluorescence of the kitchen, suffocating under the crushing weight of three years of blindness.