In The Light of Destiny

The television hummed softly in the background, some late-night talk show that neither of them was really watching. Kira had her legs tucked underneath her on the left end of the couch, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn balanced on the armrest beside her, her dark eyes drifting in and out of focus on the glowing screen. Lia was sprawled across the opposite end, one leg dangling over the edge, her bare toes occasionally grazing the worn carpet below. The lamp in the corner of their shared living room cast a warm amber glow over everything, softening the edges of the mismatched furniture and the stacks of headshots and résumés piled neatly on the coffee table. It was the kind of quiet evening that settled in after a long, defeating day — the kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful so much as it felt like exhaustion wearing a disguise. The living room was small but lived-in. There was character in the faded floral throw pillows that Kira had found at a secondhand shop three months ago, in the string of fairy lights Lia had tacked above the window, in the motivational quotes they had each written on sticky notes and pressed to the wall above the television like a collage of desperate hope. *Your time is coming. Keep pushing. Stars don't shine without darkness.* They had written those notes on a good day, back when good days came a little more easily. These days, they read them more out of obligation than belief. This was the life of the Bellamy House, a four-story building tucked along a side street in the heart of the city, just far enough from the glamour of the entertainment district to feel like a world away, but close enough that every woman within its walls could smell possibility on the wind when it blew from the right direction. The building was home to a rotating cast of dreamers — actresses, models, singers, dancers, and everything in between. Women who had arrived from small towns and big cities alike, with portfolio bags slung over their shoulders and fire burning behind their eyes. Some had been here for months. Others, like Kira, had been here for years. The front door opened with its familiar creak — the sound they had all long since stopped noticing — and Emma walked in. The moment she stepped through the doorway, both Kira and Lia looked up from the television. They did not need to ask how her day had gone. It was written all over her face, in the way she let her bag drop from her arm to the floor without caring where it landed, in the slow exhale that left her lips the moment she crossed the threshold into the warmth of the apartment. Emma was beautiful in the way that real women are beautiful — not the polished, constructed kind of beauty you saw on billboards, but something more natural and luminous. Her gray eyes were sharp and expressive even when she was tired, and right now, they were filled with the particular frustration of someone who had spent an entire day running into walls. She kicked off her shoes by the door and padded across the carpet in her socks, dropping herself onto the couch between them with the dramatic exhaustion of someone who had just returned from battle. "Hey, any luck today, Emma?" Kira asked, muting the television out of courtesy. Emma turned her head slowly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before answering, as though the words required more energy than she currently had available. "No," she said flatly. Then she seemed to gather herself, sitting up slightly, because Emma was never one to be defeated quietly. "I went to fifteen places today. Fifteen, Kira. I wore my good heels and everything." She gestured toward her abandoned shoes by the door. "Everyone was either out or in meetings. Every single one." She let out a short, humorless laugh. "This search is getting on my nerves. I have been to every entertainment agency in this city, and I always get the same answer. The producers are in meetings. They're out to lunch. There are no auditions available right now. Please leave your headshot at the front desk." She made a face. "As if those headshots don't go straight into the trash." Lia, who had been listening with the particular empathy of someone living the exact same reality, flopped dramatically from the couch arm into the cushion beside her. "I get the same answers every single time," she said, staring up at the ceiling. "Every time. Why is this so hard?" The question wasn't really directed at anyone. It was the kind of question you threw at the universe and hoped, against all reasonable expectation, that the universe might answer. Emma straightened again. There was something unbreakable about Emma, something that reasserted itself even in the moments when she seemed closest to crumbling. "Because the passion we have for this won't let us give up," she said simply. It wasn't a speech. It was just a fact, stated plainly, the way you might state that the sky is blue. Lia let out a long, slow sigh — the sigh of someone who appreciated the sentiment while being absolutely exhausted by the reality of it. "I guess so," she conceded. "I am just ready for my star to shine. Ready to get paid." She sat up and rubbed her hands together with theatrical relish, and despite everything, Kira and Emma both burst out laughing. It was a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere genuine and warm, the kind that could only happen between people who knew each other well enough to find humor in shared misery. Emma shook her head, smiling at herself. "What happened to passion?" "I still have passion," Lia said with complete dignity. "I just also have rent. And passion doesn't cover rent." She paused. "Speaking of which — Kira, what company are you hoping to sign with? You've been the quietest one lately." Kira, who had been listening more than she had been speaking, reached over and took a handful of popcorn from the bowl, chewing thoughtfully before she answered. This was characteristic of her. While Emma burned bright and Lia sparkled, Kira smoldered — quiet and steady and deep, the kind of person whose feelings ran too far beneath the surface for anyone to see the full measure of them without looking carefully. "I really don't care," she said at last, and she meant it in the most resigned and honest way possible. "As long as it's not a p**n company, I'll sign with anyone at this point." She set the bowl down and pulled her knees to her chest. "You two have been trying for a year. I've been trying for four years. Four years, Lia. When I do get signed, it will be worth every minute of the struggle. Every rejection, every waiting room, every front desk receptionist who looked at me like I was wasting her time," She said quietly, and the room felt the weight of it.