The memory of seeing my sketchbook burn was something I could use to portray Mia's rage. Yes, not sadness, but rage.
Because when someone destroys the one thing that keeps us sane, the only thing left inside us is pure rage.
I held that memory tightly, letting it wash over me, not to hurt myself again, but to remind myself how it felt. The shock. The sting. The slow burn of anger crawling up my chest.
I let all of that settle inside me as I stepped into Mia's shoes.
Brian looked up from his script. "Alright," he said calmly, "start reading whenever you're ready."
The room wasn't silent—papers rustled, chairs squeaked, people whispered—but somehow, it all faded into the background because my mind was already focused on the scene.
I took one more breath, then began reading.
The moment I said the first line, the emotion slipped out naturally. My voice trembled at the right moment, and even though this was only a script reading, tears still gathered in my eyes without me trying.
