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The humid Los Angeles air clings to the windows of the small, nondescript Thai spot in Silver Lake, a far cry from the flashbulbs of the Sunset Strip. Inside, the lighting is a forgiving amber, casting long shadows that help the two women in the corner booth disappear into the wood paneling. It is Tuesday evening, and for Olivia Rodrigo and Jenna Ortega, anonymity is the most expensive thing on the menu.
Olivia leans back, the worn fabric of a vintage red cardigan slipping slightly off one shoulder. It’s a loud color for someone trying to be quiet, but paired with baggy light-wash jeans and a navy Chateau Marmont cap pulled low over her eyes, she manages to look like just another tired UCLA student grabbing a late bite. She fidgets with the edge of her napkin, her thumb tracing the hem of her sleeve. Across from her, Jenna is a shadow given form. She wears an oversized black Champion T-shirt that swallows her slight frame, paired with simple black trousers. Her dark hair is loose, framing a face that the world knows in high definition but currently belongs only to this booth.
There is no makeup, no designer labels, just the steady, grounded presence that has been Olivia’s North Star for seven years—the last three of which have been spent navigating the vertigo of a shared life. The steam from a shared plate of Pad See Ew rises between them, fragrant with soy and charred garlic. Jenna picks up her chopsticks, but she doesn’t move to eat. She pauses, sensing the weight of a gaze that hasn’t wavered for the last three minutes.
Jenna raises her head, her expression unreadable to anyone else, but deeply familiar to the girl across from her. It’s a look of patient curiosity, a silent "What?" that ripples through the air. "Why’re you staring?" Jenna asks.
Her voice is low, a soft rasp that barely carries over the muffled indie-pop playing through the restaurant’s speakers. She doesn't sound annoyed; she sounds amused, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile that she only saves for private corners and quiet Tuesdays. Olivia doesn't look away. Instead, she rests her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped precariously on the edge of the table. The brim of her hat shadows the top half of her face, but her eyes are bright, locked onto Jenna’s with an intensity that feels almost magnetic. The world outside—the charts, the scripts, the frantic energy—feels like a fever dream that hasn't quite reached this table yet.
"You’ve got those eyes that are portals to another universe," Olivia says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. She isn't performing; there’s a raw, unpolished earnestness in her tone that usually only makes it into her songwriting journals. "Like if I look into them too long, I’ll get sucked into this other universe."
Jenna tilts her head, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering candle between them. She remains still, letting Olivia’s words hang in the space, a testament to the seven years of history that allow them to be this vulnerable without it feeling performative. The portal isn't just a metaphor—it's the history of teenage auditions, the shared growth of their early twenties, and the quiet resilience of a three-year relationship lived in the margins of fame. Olivia’s gaze softens, her thumb now tracing the condensation on her water glass.
"And I’d quite like to get sucked into that universe," she adds, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.
Jenna finally breaks the tension, a soft, breathy sound escaping her as she shakes her head. She reaches across the table, her hand covering Olivia’s, her thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle over the other girl's knuckles. The contact is grounding, a physical tether to the present moment in Los Angeles.
"You're such a romantic," Jenna murmurs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Eat your noodles before they get cold, Liv."
Olivia squeezes her hand back, the warmth of the gesture settling the restless creative energy that always seems to hum beneath her skin.