Famous in the Dark
They sit like anyone else does. Ankles crossed, phone in hand, hunting for decent light in a bad hotel room. Half the time they’re poking at the mini-bar, hoping the peanuts aren’t $18. The other half they’re just waiting for the silence to kick in.
You think they live in glitter. But they mostly live in chairs.
Off camera, their face doesn’t hold that shape. The one that got them the job, the deal, the third season. Without a lens, it falls a little. Sinks back into whatever it used to be before headshots and handlers. A face like yours. Like your cousin’s. Like the guy who scans groceries and makes change without looking.
I once watched a man, someone whose name you’d know, eat a sandwich alone in a cafe bathroom. Not because he was hiding. Not because it was some performance art. Just because the lobby was packed and the stall was quiet and he hadn’t had five minutes to himself since February.
They get tired. Not the kind you fix with sleep. The kind that hums in your bones even when you’re horizontal. The kind that comes from smiling too wide for too long and nodding at things you don’t believe in.
There’s a thing that happens to them in elevators. When the doors close and no one's watching, they deflate slightly. Not all at once. Just enough to remember gravity exists. Their bags look heavy. Their eyes don’t blink as often. Sometimes they whisper things to themselves, trying out a new voice or rehearsing an apology they’ll never give.
Their dogs don’t care who they are. Their dogs just want dinner and someone to scratch that spot behind the ear.
They spend long stretches looking out windows. Not watching anything. Just letting the world move without them for a second.
Sometimes they go three days without being recognized and it rattles something loose. Other times, they’d trade their jawline to be ignored at the coffee shop.
They love and lie and forget birthdays. They burn toast. They check themselves out in dark glass and then pretend they didn’t. They wonder if they’re getting better or just getting older.
They’re more ordinary than we let them be. Which might be the loneliest part. Because when the makeup comes off and the lights shut down and the room stops clapping, they’re just people again. And people, no matter how shiny, don’t always know what to do with that much quiet.