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The morning started like any otherâquiet, calm, and a little too perfect. I should have known better. By the time I stepped out of my trailer on set, the air was already buzzing with tension. People were huddled in corners, phones in hand, whispering and shooting me sideways glances.
I didn't think much of it at first. Gossip on a movie set was as common as craft services running out of coffee. But when a nice makeup artist who i've got to know intercepted me near the makeup trailer, her face a mix of concern and apology, I knew something was wrong.
"Ava, have you seen...?" she started, holding out her phone.
"Seen what?" I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.
She hesitated, then handed me her phone. On the screen was a tabloid headline splashed across an all-too-familiar photo: Ava Monroe and Walker Scobell: Hollywood's Newest It Couple?
The image was grainy but unmistakable. It was from the day I'd spent with Walker and his family. We were laughing over ice cream, my hair windblown, his hand resting casually on the back of my chair. To anyone else, it probably looked like a candid moment between two people who couldn't get enough of each other.
To me, it was a PR nightmare.
I handed the phone back to her, my hands trembling slightly. "It's nothing. Just gossip."
"Ava," she said gently. "It's everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, the entertainment blogs. Fans are freaking out."
"Let them freak out," I muttered, walking past her into the makeup trailer. But inside, I wasn't as composed as I pretended to be. My mind was already spiralling.
What would my manager say?
What would the studio say?
What would this mean for my career?
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By lunchtime, the photo had metastasised into a full-blown scandal. #AvaAndWalker was trending on social media, and the comments ranged from ecstatic shippers to die-hard fans accusing me of betraying them.
"So Ava's dating Walker now? Great, another one. Slut!"
"This can't be real. They have zero chemistry on screen."
"Honestly? They're kinda cute together. Don't h@te me."
I sat alone in my trailer, scrolling through the endless feed of opinions. My manager, Grace, had already left me three voicemails, each one more frantic than the last. I ignored them all.
A sharp knock at the door made me jump. Before I could respond, the door swung open and Walker stepped inside, his face a mix of amusement and frustration.
"Well, looks like we've made it," he said, holding up his phone with the same photo on the screen.
"What do you want, Walker?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended.
He frowned, closing the door behind him. "Are you seriously upset about this?"
I stared at him, incredulous. "Of course I'm upset! Do you have any idea what this kind of attention does to someone like me?"
"Someone like you?" he repeated, crossing his arms. "Enlighten me."
I shot up from the couch, pacing the small space. "This isn't just some cute little headline for me, okay? This is my life. My brand. People don't see Ava Monroe, the person. They see Ava Monroe, the image. And now that image is tied to you."
Walker's expression darkened. "And what's so bad about being tied to me?"
I hesitated, suddenly aware of how harsh I sounded. "It's not about you. It's about what people expect from me. My career is built on being untouchable, Walker. Perfect. Rumors like this make me look unprofessional, like I'm distracted."
He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You're so obsessed with what people think, you're forgetting how to actually live."
"Don't," I warned, my voice low.
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" he shot back. "Ava, you're so busy trying to be perfect that you're missing the point of all this. The acting, the fameânone of it matters if you're miserable."
"You think I don't know that?" I snapped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "You think I don't feel trapped every single day? Like I'm drowning in expectations and I can't even come up for air?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Walker's eyes softened, and for a moment, I hated him for looking at me like thatâlike he understood.
"Ava," he said quietly, stepping closer. "You don't have to do this alone. You don't have to let them control you."
I turned away, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's not that simple."
"It is," he insisted. "You just have to stop caring so much about what everyone else thinks."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You're not the one under a microscope."
"No, but I am the one standing right here, trying to help you," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "And for what it's worth, I think you're pretty greatâwith or without the perfect image."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
Walker didn't take my silence as the end of the conversation. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against the trailer wall, his posture casual but his eyes blazing with determination.
"You know what your problem is, Ava?" he started, his tone teetering on patronizing.
I spun around, glaring at him. "Oh, please, enlighten me, Dr. Phil."
He ignored the sarcasm. "You're so scared of being anything less than perfect that you push everyone away. God forbid someone sees you as a human being instead of some polished, untouchable idol."
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice rising. "You have no idea what it's like to be me. To have your every move scrutinised, your mistakes turned into tabloid fodder. You think it's so easy to just 'be real'? Try living in my world for a day."
Walker stepped forward, his jaw tightening. "And you think my life is a cakewalk? Newsflash: I didn't grow up with people handing me awards and telling me I'm amazing. I had to fight for every role I've got. And yeah, maybe I'm not perfect, but at least I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not."
"Good for you," I shot back, my hands clenched into fists. "Not all of us have the luxury of being messy and still being loved for it."
His gaze hardened. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Maybe I am!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "But at least I'm not arrogant enough to think I can waltz into someone's life and fix them!"
We stood there, glaring at each other, the tension so thick it felt like a third person in the room. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in short bursts. I hated how he always managed to get under my skin, how he made me feel so out of control.
And yet, somewhere beneath the anger, I felt the faintest flicker of something else. Something dangerously close to admiration. He didn't back down from me. He didn't let me push him away, no matter how hard I tried. For a brief moment, I thought maybeâjust maybeâI could like him as a friend.
But then he opened his mouth again.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly calm tone he used when he thought he was being wise, "maybe if you stopped being such a control freak, you'd actually enjoy life for once."
And just like that, the flicker was snuffed out.
"Get out," I said through gritted teeth.
Walker blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Ava, come onâ"
"I said, get out!" I shouted, pointing to the door.
He hesitated, like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Have it your way."
As he walked out, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression a mix of frustration and something else I couldn't quite place. "For the record, I wasn't trying to boss you around. I was trying to help. But hey, you do you, Monroe."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the growing weight of everything that had just happened.
I sank back onto the couch, staring at the photo still glowing on my phone screen. The comments were relentless, a swirling storm of opinions and assumptions. And now, thanks to Walker's unsolicited advice, I couldn't stop questioning whether any of thisâany of meâwas worth it.
But mostly, I couldn't stop replaying his words in my head. "You're so scared of being anything less than perfect that you push everyone away."
What did he know? He didn't live my life. He didn't know what it was like to carry the weight of an entire industry's expectations on your shoulders. And yet, some part of meâa very annoying, very persistent partâwondered if he might be right.
I shook my head, as if I could physically dislodge the thought. No. I didn't need Walker Scobell, of all people, telling me how to live my life. I was fine. I was handling things. I always had.
And if I kept telling myself that, maybe one day it would feel true.
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