Scripted to Be

Chapter Ten: Delete for Everyone

Lauren:

You're right.
I've been thinking too.
I want to focus on work.
I don't want anything to get in the way.

No emoji.

No "lol."

No cushion.

Just cold clarity.

He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering like they could rewrite the world.

They couldn't.

He turned off the phone and dropped it face-down on the nightstand. Climbed back onto the bed. Pulled the pillow over his head.

The fan kept spinning above him, indifferent.

And somewhere between his ribs, something sharp began to settle in.

The next morning, Steven showed up to set with his hoodie pulled too far over his head and sunglasses still on even though the sun hadn't fully risen yet.

No one questioned it.

No one had to.

He moved on autopilot—checked in, grabbed a banana he didn't eat, and scrolled through his call sheet like he hadn't already memorized it the night before when he couldn't sleep.

Sleep.
Right.

His bed looked the same this morning as it had at midnight: untouched, unbothered, and cold.

He'd dozed off at some point, maybe around 5 a.m., slumped over his phone on the couch. When the alarm went off two hours later, he felt like he hadn't slept at all—just blinked and lost time.

And now here he was, standing outside the wardrobe trailer like it was a cliff's edge.

Sonequa passed by, holding her coffee.

"Morning," she said, like she hadn't seen him unravel twelve hours ago.

Steven gave her a crooked smile that didn't come close to his eyes. "Barely."

She didn't stop walking.

But she saw him. All day.

She saw how he missed a blocking cue during rehearsal, apologized three times, and still had to repeat the line because his voice cracked halfway through it.

She saw how he checked his phone like it was a bomb—tapping it on, swiping down, staring for a moment, and locking it again.

Waiting.

For what? A message unsent? A rewrite of what was already too late?

The group chat buzzed around lunch.

[TWD Family – 8 members]

[Emily – 12:02 p.m.]
She finally ate something real. I witnessed it. A whole piece of toast and two spoonfuls of soup.

[Lauren – 12:03 p.m.]
Okay wow we're doing live updates now? I also drank water. Alert the mayor.

[Christian – 12:04 p.m.]
If you drink tea I'll start planning the parade.

[Lauren – 12:04 p.m.]
Do I get to pick the marching band?

Steven stared at her name.

Her messages.

She was being Lauren.

Perfectly, effortlessly Lauren.

Joking. Typing. Laughing in texts he couldn't hear.

But not to him.

Not directly.

Not even a nod.

He typed "Glad you're feeling better."

Paused.

Deleted it.

Sonequa appeared at his side without warning.

"You know," she said, voice quiet, "for someone who didn't sleep, you're doing a decent job pretending you're not actively dying."

He gave a dry huff. "Thanks."

She sipped her coffee, watching the screen in his hand. "You expecting it to unsend itself?"

He didn't answer.

She nodded slowly. "Thought so."

Another ping from the group:

[Norman – 12:06 p.m.]
Lauren, if you get better too fast you'll ruin the rest of our shifts. Slow recovery, woman. I got a vintage soup spoon and everything.

[Lauren – 12:06 p.m.]
It's not a race. But if it were, I'd be lapping all of you.

Steven didn't type anything.

Didn't eat either.

Just closed the chat and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket like it weighed a hundred pounds.

"I think I messed up," he said finally.

Sonequa just raised her eyebrows. "You think?"

He looked down at the gravel under his boots.

"I didn't mean to make her regret it," he murmured.

"I don't think she does."

"She said she wants to focus on work."

"She also wants waffles for dinner and thinks ice cream is medicine. She can want more than one thing at a time."

He looked at her. "So what do I do?"

Sonequa shrugged. "Figure out which one you want to be—the thing she regrets, or the one she chooses next."

Then she walked away again.

Leaving him with his thoughts.

And the lingering echo of a kiss he wasn't sure he deserved.