Between Takes

The lights outside the Aria Grand Theater burned too bright, as if someone had dragged a constellation down and nailed it to the street. Flashbulbs went off in bursts, leaving Zeke’s eyes full of ghosts. He blinked, but the afterimages clung stubbornly, little squares of white that refused to fade. He should be used to it by now, but for the life of him, Zeke never got to. He still wanted to scream his lungs out whenever he got blinded by the flashbulbs. But of course, he can’t do that. He must always ensure that the image his company sells to a multitude of fans stays consistent. Brands ate up his advertised image, deeming him perfect for their products to represent and sell to the masses. As much as Zeke tells himself his job is tiring, he can’t deny the fact that those things he has grown to loathe consistently put food on his table. The carpet was red, of course, but not the lush velvet he remembered from his boyband days. This one was thinner, rougher, and smelled faintly of dust and perfume. He noticed because he was trying not to notice the cameras. His girlfriend’s hand was looped through his arm; her nails painted a metallic shade that caught the light every time she waved. Ira looked perfect. She always did, not because it it what her profession demanded from her, but it came to Ira as natural as breathing air. Hair sculpted into a glossy wave, gown sequined so heavily it seemed to hum under the lights. The crowd adored Ira. They adored them together. Zeke smiled. He had learned this smile years ago, in front of mirrors and managers, until it became muscle memory. Even amidst the bullying and abuse he suffered from his former bandmate, Zeke has perfected the smile. The corners lifted, the teeth showed, the eyes narrowed just enough to suggest warmth. It was flawless. It was empty. It didn’t reflect an inch of what he’s keeping inside, of what should stay hidden, as per terms in his contract. “Zeke, over here!” someone shouted. He turned, the smile already in place. “It feels great,” he said when asked about being back. His voice was smooth, fully rehearsed. His girlfriend added a quip about her album, and the crowd laughed. Zeke nodded, the perfect accessory for Ira and vice versa. Give and take, it’s what Ira always says to remind him of his part. As if he has any chance to forget about it. Inside, he felt like a hollow shell, applause echoing in a cavern no one else could see. Around him, voices floated like fragments of static: “Did you see her dress? It’s practically a mirror ball.” “Smile wider, darling — the cameras eat that up.” “He looks tired, doesn’t he? Or maybe it’s just the lighting.” “Rumor is she’s already booked for the summer tour. This is just a warm-up.” Ira leaned in, whispering through her teeth, “Smile, Zeke. This is good for us.” He chuckled, brittle sounding to his own ears. “Of course. Always good.” The photographers captured the precise moment: Ira leaning into him, his arm around her waist, their faces glowing. Aside from the perfect make-up they wear, Ira and Zeke are good-looking people, the kind of visuals the media and the screen eat up. To the world, they were a perfect couple. To Zeke, they were actors in a play he hadn’t auditioned for. As they moved forward, his gaze drifted. That was when he saw Tim Navarro. Tall, composed, standing with his fashion editor girlfriend. Tim’s suit was immaculate, his posture controlled, his smile precise. Yet Zeke noticed something in his eyes, a flicker of fatigue, a shadow of the same emptiness Zeke carried. It was almost like they were kindred souls; both sparkling on the outside but literally dead and empty on the inside. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. No words, no gestures, just recognition. Two men performing perfection for the world, each aware of the hollowness beneath the exterior. The moment passed. Reporters called Tim’s name, cameras swiveled, and Zeke’s girlfriend pulled him forward again. Zeke followed like a mindless zombie, feeling the heaviness in each step, still performing for the cameras. Inside the theater, the air buzzed with perfume and anticipation. Celebrities mingled, laughter rose in waves, and the stage glowed with promise. Zeke clapped when he was supposed to, posed when asked, leaned in for whispered jokes that weren’t funny. His girlfriend thrived in the spotlight, her charm effortless, her smile convincing enough that Zeke couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Background chatter pressed in from every side, triggering some tell-tale signs of headache for Zeke: “That speech last year was a disaster, let’s hope she rehearsed.” “The producers are watching every move — one slip, and you’re done.” “He claps like he’s on autopilot. Doesn’t he?” “I swear, half these couples are just contracts.” When Ira’s name was announced for Best New Artist, the room erupted. She kissed Zeke quickly before walking to the stage, her gown shimmering. The cameras caught the kiss, the perfect couple moment, and broadcast it to millions. Fans would be screaming while watching the broadcast. That’s something Zeke is sure of. Zeke sat back, applauding, his smile fixed. The kiss had been choreography, not intimacy. He felt nothing. On stage, she delivered her speech with poise, thanking her team, her fans, and Zeke by name. The crowd cheered. Zeke lifted his hand in acknowledgment, the cameras zooming in. He gave them what they wanted: the smile, the nod, the illusion of happiness. But his eyes wandered again, scanning until they landed on Tim. Tim was clapping too, his expression composed, his girlfriend beside him. Yet Zeke saw the same flicker, the same shadow. Hollow perfection mirrored back at him. The applause faded, the speeches continued, and the night stretched on. Zeke played his role, every gesture rehearsed, every word measured. The cameras saw perfection. The audience saw a couple in love. Inside, Zeke felt nothing but the weight of a smile he couldn’t drop.