Unscripted

CHAPTER FOUR: Static

The sun in Koreatown always found a way to sneak through the blinds before I was ready for it—thin, pale streaks cutting across my bed, catching in the dust motes that hung in the air like they had nowhere else to be. The light felt almost judgmental, slipping past my eyelids no matter how I buried my head in the pillow.
My laptop was still open on the coffee table from last night, Calum Bennett's face frozen mid-interview. YouTube's autoplay had long since moved on to some random video about how to style curtain bangs, but his name still sat in the search bar like a dare.
I shut the lid.
Then opened it again.
Then shut it harder, like that somehow meant I was over it.
I wasn't. Not exactly.
But it wasn't... that kind of interest.
I just wanted to know who I'd be spending weeks on set with.
The more I scrolled, the more it felt like flipping through someone else's highlight reel. Red carpet photos. Press junket interviews. A string of movie posters where his name always floated above the title in sleek silver font. Then the gossip columns—loud, click-bait headlines stacked like neon signs.
One screamed: Calum Bennett and Fitness Influencer Savannah Leigh Spotted in Cabo.
I clicked before I could stop myself.
She was exactly what I pictured—skin the color of perfect, year-round vacations; hair so blonde it almost glowed; a smile so white it could blind you; surgically perfect curves that seemed like they'd set off airport metal detectors. The kind of woman you'd have to compete with in a mirror before you even got to the man.
I shut the laptop again. Harder this time.
I wasn't here for him. Or her. Or whatever that was.
I was here for me.
Coffee gurgled into the chipped mug that came with the apartment. The ceramic was warm against my hands as I stood by the window, trying not to think about the callback. Trying not to replay the near-kiss in my head—the way he'd looked at me like he could see the parts I'd been keeping locked away since Colorado.
Nope. Not going there.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Mom.
Morning, sweetheart. I was thinking about you. Just remember, Hollywood's not the easiest place for a good girl to keep her values. I hope you don't lose yourself out there.
I sighed.
She always meant well, but sometimes her love felt more like a warning label.
Before I could type a response, the phone buzzed again.
Evan.
The name lit up my screen like a match striking in the dark.
I didn't even open it. Just saw the preview.
Hey. Been thinking about you.
Four words. No apology. No explanation. Just enough to make my stomach knot in that way I hated—like muscle memory from an old wound.
I tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned.
The rest of the day, I cleaned.
Scrubbed the sink. Wiped the counters until they caught the afternoon light. Rearranged the tiny bookshelf so the spines lined up perfectly. Anything to avoid looking at that phone again.

Calum's POV
The game was on, low volume. My apartment was all dark wood and clean lines—floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the city's neon pulse across the polished floor. The kind of space that felt both expensive and strangely empty.
Savannah was sprawled across the couch in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked under her, scrolling her phone. She was mid-story about her morning Pilates instructor when she glanced up.
"Babe, come to bed," she called, not moving.
"In a minute," I said.
The laptop balanced on my knee. IMDb glowed on the screen.
I don't even remember why I typed her name in—Lena Brooke.
Curiosity, I told myself. Nothing more.
There wasn't much. A local Boulder theatre review from years back. A couple of grainy college photos, all wide smiles and cheap beer cups. No scandals. No curated PR machine. Just... clean.
I thought about the way she'd cried in the callback scene—how it hadn't looked staged. How she'd brushed me off afterward like she wasn't impressed. Like she didn't care who I was.
That was new.
"Babe," Savannah's voice again, softer this time, like coaxing a dog in from the yard. "The bed's cold."
"Yeah. I'll be there."
But I didn't move.
Didn't close the tab.
Didn't stop wondering why Lena Brooke felt different from everyone else in this city.