AVERY'S MONOLOGUE
I lost my best friend to a man I've never actually met.
That's the part that's driving me insane.
Three years of friendship. Three years of late-night calls and emergency brunches and her showing up at my place at 2 AM because she needed to vent about some asshole director.
And then Khalid happened.
And Roman disappeared.
---
The last real conversation we had was six months ago.
Before the breakdown. Before the film. Before everything.
We were getting coffee and she was telling me about some party she'd been to, and she was—herself. The Roman I knew. Wild and sharp and completely present.
Then her phone buzzed. She looked at it. Her entire face changed.
"I have to go."
"We just got here."
"I know. I'm sorry. I just—I have to go."
She was gone in two minutes.
That was the last time I saw that version of her.
---
I know things about their relationship that I probably shouldn't know.
I know he made Gary disappear. Roman told me when she was drunk one night, then made me swear never to mention it again.
I know she scratched herself until she bled after the film premiered. I saw the scars.
I know she tried to leave him three times. Each time he found her. Each time she came back.
I know she's dependent on him in a way that would terrify me if I was her.
But she's not terrified. Or if she is, she's chosen it anyway.
---
I met him once. Kind of.
Roman and I were having lunch. He showed up. Said he was in the neighborhood.
He wasn't in the neighborhood. His office is forty minutes away.
He stayed for maybe five minutes. Kissed her forehead. Left.
Roman watched him go with an expression I've never seen on her face before.
Soft. Vulnerable. Completely unguarded.
"That's him?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"He's tall."
"I know."
"He looks—" I stopped. How do you describe someone you've barely met? "Intense."
"He is."
"Does he treat you well?"
She looked at me. "Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes. But also—it's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"Complicated like I test him constantly and he passes every time. Complicated like I'm dependent on him and I hate that I'm dependent on him. Complicated like—" She stopped. "I love him. Actually love him. And that's terrifying."
---
After the breakdown I tried to visit.
She wouldn't see me. Wouldn't answer texts. Wouldn't answer calls.
Finally I showed up at Khalid's building. The doorman wouldn't let me up.
"Miss Helton isn't taking visitors."
"I'm her best friend."
"I'm sorry. Her instructions were clear."
I left. Went home. Cried.
Not because I was hurt. Because I was scared.
Because my friend was isolated in some prince's penthouse and I couldn't reach her and I didn't know if she was okay.
---
When she finally called—two months later—she sounded different.
Quieter. Smaller.
"I'm sorry I disappeared."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm getting there."
"Can I see you?"
"Not yet."
"Roman—"
"I'm not ready. I'm sorry. I just—I'm not ready."
She hung up.
I stared at my phone for twenty minutes.
---
The first time I saw her after everything, she was wearing long sleeves.
Middle of summer. 90 degrees. Long sleeves.
I knew what that meant.
"Let me see," I said.
"See what?"
"Your arms."
She pulled back. "I'm fine."
"Roman—"
"I'm fine. The scars are healing. I'm fine."
But she wasn't fine. She was different. Changed.
The wildchild I knew—the one who thrived on chaos and never needed anyone—was gone.
In her place was someone softer. More careful. More dependent.
Someone I barely recognized.
---
I asked her once if she was happy.
"I don't know. Am I supposed to be happy?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"I'm—content. I have him. I have work starting again. I'm not scratching anymore. That's something."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
---
Here's what I don't understand:
Is he good for her or is he destroying her?
Because from the outside it looks like both.
She's more stable now than during the breakdown. She's eating. She's sleeping. She's not scratching.
But she's also—smaller. Less vibrant. Less herself.
She doesn't go to parties anymore. Doesn't flirt with random guys for fun. Doesn't do the chaotic wildchild thing that made her HER.
She just—exists. In his space. In his orbit.
Is that love? Or is that losing yourself?
---
I tried talking to her about it last week.
"You're different."
"I know."
"You're—I don't know. Quieter. Like you're taking up less space."
"I know."
"Does he make you happy?"
"Yes. But also no. He makes me feel safe and terrified simultaneously."
"That's not healthy."
"I know."
"Then leave."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I won't survive it. Because I love him. Because—" She stopped. "Because this is who I am now."
---
Sometimes I'm angry at him.
For taking my friend. For making her dependent. For being so obsessed with her that she can't breathe without him knowing about it.
But then I remember: she chose this.
She could have walked away. Could have stayed in her apartment. Could have kept her distance.
She didn't.
She moved in with him. She let him in. She fell in love.
So maybe I'm not angry at him. Maybe I'm angry at her.
For choosing this. For choosing him over everything else. For disappearing into a relationship so completely that I barely recognize her anymore.
---
Last week we had coffee and she mentioned him four times in ten minutes.
I counted.
"Khalid thinks I should take the directing job."
"Khalid said the funniest thing yesterday."
"Khalid made dinner last night."
Four times.
She used to talk about her work, her projects, her ideas.
Now she talks about him.
And I don't know if that's love or if that's losing yourself.
---
Here's what scares me:
What happens if they break up?
What happens to Roman if Khalid leaves?
Because she's built her entire life around him. She moved in. She gave up her apartment. She stopped being the independent wildchild and became—his.
If he leaves, she falls apart.
And I won't be able to put her back together.
Because I don't even know this version of her anymore.
---
I asked her yesterday if she regretted it.
"Regretted what?"
"Falling in love with him. Becoming dependent. All of it."
She was quiet for a long time. "No."
"Really?"
"Really. Because before him I was pretending. Pretending I didn't need anyone. Pretending I was strong. Pretending I could survive alone." She looked at me. "With him I don't have to pretend."
"But you're not yourself anymore."
"Maybe I am. Maybe the wildchild was the pretend version. Maybe this is who I actually am."
I didn't know what to say to that.
---
I'm mourning someone who's still alive.
That's what this feels like.
Mourning the Roman I knew. The one who was chaos and brilliance and completely independent.
She's gone.
In her place is someone softer. More vulnerable. More in love.
Someone I don't entirely recognize.
And I don't know if I should be happy for her or terrified for her.
Both, probably.
---
I saw them together two days ago.
They were at a restaurant. I was walking past.
Through the window I could see them. She was laughing at something he said. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the world.
And for a second—just a second—I understood.
He's obsessed with her. Completely. Dangerously.
And she's built a life in that obsession.
Is it healthy? Probably not.
But it's real.
And maybe that's enough.