Summer's POV
The first twenty-four hours after Home Project went live felt like a tidal wave.
The numbers were almost unreal—hundreds of thousands of views, thousands of comments, emails from small theaters asking to host screenings. The documentary had been up for less than a day, and already, it was everywhere.
But fame—even the quiet kind—had its echo.
At first, the comments were all warmth:
> "This is beautiful."
"Finally, something honest."
"They've grown so much."
Then, as always, came the shadows.
Someone unearthed old clips from the survival show—edited out of context, paired with sarcastic captions: "So much for authenticity."
Another post claimed the documentary was "just PR rebranding."
And then the inevitable comment storm followed—defenders, critics, strangers arguing about what was "real."
Summer scrolled for too long before forcing herself to stop.
Her thumb hovered above the screen as she whispered, "It's happening again."
Ethan, beside her, looked up from his laptop. "What is?"
"The noise."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. It never really goes away. We just got better at hearing around it."
She closed the laptop. "I thought this one would be different."
"It is," he said gently. "But people project what they need to see. That's not on us."
---
Ethan's POV
He'd learned not to read everything—but that didn't mean he didn't notice.
The contrast fascinated him: one post calling their film "a love letter to authenticity," another calling it "a carefully edited illusion."
It reminded him of something a mentor once said:
> "The truth doesn't need everyone's belief to stay true."
He typed that line into a message and sent it to Summer.
She read it, smiled faintly, and replied with a simple heart.
Later that night, they joined a livestream Q&A organized by the festival. It was small but heartfelt—fans, students, creators asking about process and message.
A young viewer asked, "How do you stay honest when people keep questioning your sincerity?"
Ethan hesitated, then said, "By remembering that honesty isn't a strategy. It's a decision you keep remaking—especially when it's uncomfortable."
Summer added, "And by reminding ourselves that our story isn't a debate. It's a diary we decided to share."
The chat flooded with heart emojis and clapping reactions. But among them were still the skeptics: "Too polished to be real," "Nice PR script."
Ethan didn't react. He'd learned that silence was sometimes louder than defense.
---
Summer's POV
When the livestream ended, the studio was quiet again.
Summer sat by the monitor, scrolling through feedback messages—half of them inspiring, half disheartening.
She noticed something new this time, though: she didn't feel angry.
She felt... steady.
Maybe that was growth—understanding that approval and misunderstanding came from the same place: people trying to make sense of things.
Still, one message stood out, longer than the rest:
> "I watched this with my teenage daughter. She said she doesn't want to be famous anymore. She just wants to be real. Thank you."
Summer stared at the words until her eyes stung.
That single message drowned out all the noise.
Ethan walked in carrying tea. "Bad comments?"
She shook her head. "No. The opposite."
She handed him the phone. He read it, then smiled.
"That's the one," he said. "That's who we made it for."
---
Ethan's POV
The next day, he woke up to another trending tag:
> #HomeProjectTruth
It wasn't hostile, just chaotic—people dissecting scenes, debating authenticity, quoting lines, arguing over meaning.
He scrolled, amused and tired at once. "We made homework for the internet," he muttered.
Summer laughed over her coffee. "That means it mattered."
"Maybe." He looked at her. "You okay with people picking us apart again?"
She sipped her coffee, thoughtful. "If they're talking about ideas, not just us—then yes."
He nodded, understanding. "Then we did our job."
---
Summer's POV
Later that evening, they reviewed footage for the next project.
She paused over a clip—one of them sitting by the island fire, both quiet, looking at the sea.
"That moment," she said softly, "wasn't planned."
He smiled. "The best ones never are."
She turned toward him. "Do you think we'll ever stop being watched?"
He met her gaze. "Probably not. But we can stop performing."
She exhaled, a soft laugh escaping. "That's the best line you've ever written."
He grinned. "Then don't edit it out."
---
Ethan's POV
As the night deepened, the world outside the studio glowed with screens—phones, laptops, endless commentary.
Inside, it was just them. The faint hum of the equipment, the glow of the monitor, the shared silence that didn't need words.
Ethan looked at her across the table and thought, Maybe the world will always talk.
But here—here was the part they didn't see:
the quiet between takes, the truth uncut.
He reached over, touched her hand lightly.
No statement. No speech. Just steady presence.
She smiled back. The light of the monitor flickered across both their faces, the reflection soft and human.
And in that small moment, surrounded by both screens and shadows,
they stayed real.