Chapter 18: 17

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The aftermath of the interview was immediate and overwhelming. By the time I left the studio, my phone was buzzing incessantly with notifications—texts, emails, and every social media app lighting up like fireworks. My publicist had already sent me a cautiously worded email about "navigating the discourse," which I promptly ignored.

When I got home, I hesitated before opening my phone. I knew what was waiting for me: a mixture of praise, speculation, and criticism. Bracing myself, I opened Twitter first.

The hashtag #AvaMonroe was trending.

"Ava Monroe being honest about Walker and public pressure is the realest thing I've heard from a celeb in ages. Respect. 👏 #AvaMonroe"

"Can we all agree Ava just gave the classiest clapback to the tabloids without actually clapping back? Queen."

But not all the reactions were kind.

"Ava thinks she's so above it all, but her vagueness just adds fuel to the fire. What's she hiding? #WalkerAndAva"

"Ugh, I used to love Ava Monroe, but her 'I'm done with expectations' spiel feels so fake. Just admit you're dating him or not!"

I sighed, scrolling through the endless comments. It didn't matter what I said; people would twist it to fit their narrative. And yet, there was something liberating about knowing I'd told the truth—or at least my version of it.

Instagram was no different. My name was tagged in countless posts, many of them screenshots of the interview with captions like "Ava speaks her truth" or "What did Ava really mean here?". Walker's name appeared frequently, too, his fanbase and mine colliding in a flurry of excitement and debate.

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By the time I arrived on set the next morning, the shift in mood was palpable. Conversations hushed when I walked by, crew members stealing glances at me as if I'd grown a second head overnight.

Walker was already there, standing by the coffee station with a script in hand. His back was to me, but I could tell by the way he stood—shoulders slightly tense, his head tilted just enough—that he was waiting for me.

I walked up, pretending not to notice the way a nearby makeup artist subtly lingered to eavesdrop. "Morning," I said casually, reaching for a cup.

He turned, his expression carefully neutral, though there was a spark of something in his eyes. "Morning."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I busied myself pouring coffee, the silence stretching between us like a taut string. Finally, Walker broke it.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

I looked up, meeting his gaze. "I did."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Why?"

I set the coffee pot down and leaned against the counter, my voice steady. "Because I'm tired of hiding. And because you're my friend. I wasn't going to let anyone twist that into something dirty or shameful."

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression softening. "You didn't do it for me."

"No," I admitted. "I did it for me. But if it helped you too, then I'm glad."

Walker's lips curved into a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes but felt sincere nonetheless. "Thank you," he said, his tone laced with gratitude.

"For what?"

"For reminding me it's okay to care about what really matters."

I blinked, surprised by his vulnerability. "You're welcome," I said softly.

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For the first time in days, the tension between us seemed to dissipate, replaced by an unspoken understanding. It wasn't a grand reconciliation or a dramatic declaration—it was quiet, simple, and real.

But not everyone was thrilled with my newfound honesty.

During lunch, I caught snippets of a heated conversation between two producers, their voices too loud to be entirely discreet.

"She's pushing the line," one of them said. "This isn't the image we want for her."

"She's not out of control," the other replied. "It's bold, sure, but it's also authentic. People love that."

Their argument fizzled out as I walked by, but their words lingered. No matter how much I tried to reclaim my narrative, there would always be people trying to control it.

Later, during a break in filming, Lydia Blake, the interviewer from the day before, sent me a text:

"The reaction has been wild. Hope you're holding up okay. You handled yourself beautifully."

I typed a quick reply: "Thanks, Lydia. I'm good—just letting it all sink in."

But was I?

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That evening, when the set had cleared out and the city's lights blinked softly in the distance, I sat alone in my trailer, scrolling through comments again. The mixture of support and criticism was dizzying, and for a moment, I wondered if I'd made the right choice.

Then a new comment caught my eye.

"I don't know if Ava will ever see this, but her words inspired me today. I've been so scared to be myself, but hearing her speak made me feel less alone. Thank you, Ava. ❤️"

I stared at the words, a lump forming in my throat. It wasn't about the noise, the speculation, or the headlines. It was about moments like this—when honesty could connect with someone, even a stranger.

Walker's voice echoed in my mind: "It's okay to care about what really matters."

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was starting to figure out what that was.

I comment back. "Im so glad i helped you, there were many people who helped me along the way, just remember that your not alone in this🩷"

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