JULY 12, 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC — ON SET

Theadora didn't fall apart. not in the way she expected anyway.

she woke up the next morning, eyes grainy, tongue dry, and stood under the too-strong shower until the water ran cold. she tied her hair into a low braid with shaking fingers, pulled on jeans that didn't quite fit, and hitched a ride to set with madelyn.

no one said anything when she arrived. not the hair team, not the director. not even jonas, who usually greeted her with iced coffee and a slightly-too-loud "maxine pierce in the flesh!" today he just nodded, like she was something heavy and breakable.

thea didn't mind. attention had always been conditional anyway—bright lights until you flinch. she'd rather be unseen than mis-seen.

⸻

BLOCKING SCENE 3. EXTERIOR. SUNLIGHT.

They put her in a white linen dress and bare feet. her ankles are damp with dew from the grass and her eyes red from the night before, but the director didn't call her on it. if anything, he seemed to like it. "keep that," he said, gesturing vaguely at her face. "raws good."

she didn't know how to say, it's not raw—it's rot.
so she just nods, turns her face to the sun, and hits her mark.

madelyn is beside her, jd behind the camera, and bailey reading lines off-screen. it should've felt like a scene. instead, it felt like a tightrope. one word too loud and she'd fall right off.

still—when the camera rolled, max came. not all at once. not with fireworks. just a small shift behind the ribs, a quiet click into place.

⸻

JULY 13, 2019 — NIGHT — THE PORCH OUTSIDE MADDIE'S APARTMENT

"You ever think about quitting?" madison asks, joint poised between two fingers. they're sat on the porch floor, legs stretched across a woven rug that smelt faintly of mildew and sunscreen. a citronella candle flickers between them.

thea takes a slow sip of orange soda. "quitting what?"

"acting. fame. the whole thing." the world watching you bleed.

thea traces a crack in the tile with her pinky. "sometimes i think i never actually started." madison raises an eyebrow. "i mean—started for real. i was six, so everything before this was just... surviving." she pauses. "now i think i'm supposed to have a plan, like, this emancipation thing makes me a person again. but mostly i'm still just trying to not fall apart on camera."

madison doesn't press, just clinks her wine glass to thea's soda can and murmurs, "you're not falling apart. not even close."

⸻

JULY 15, 2019 — EMAIL FROM PUBLICIST
Subject: URGENT — Statement Draft Re: Emancipation Story

Theadora doesn't read the whole thing, only skims its keywords: healing. supportive. thankful to be safe. new chapter. resilience. family is complicated. please respect privacy.

she hovers over the reply button for ten minutes before typing: don't send it. just let it die down please. she signs it lowercase, like always: thea

⸻

JULY 17, 2019 — MADISON'S BEDROOM FLOOR

the girls are tangled in pillows and blankets like some sort of low-budget summer camp; maddie snores softly while bailey scrolls through tiktok, volume off. theadora lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling fan spin shadows across the popcorn paint. "hey," she whispers.

madison looks up. "yeah?"

"do you think i'm allowed to be okay? after all of it?"

madison blinks. "more than allowed," she whispers back. "i think it's the point."

thea doesn't say anything, but later, after the house was still and the fan kept spinning, she closes her eyes and let the smallest piece of herself believe it.

⸻

JULY 18, 2019 — SET — LUNCH BREAK

Thea is sitting on the curb behind the soundstage, chewing an apple she didn't want, when JD sits beside her. "cool if i say something weird?"

thea shrugs.

"you don't act like a kid. not in a fake way. just... like someone who's already been through the worst thing and is still standing."

she didn't know what to say, so she said the truth.
"i have."

jd nods. "yeah. i figured." he offers her half his sandwich and she takes it.

⸻

LATE JULY 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

It started with a tiktok, a throwaway clip someone filmed near set — blurry and distant, but her all the same.

that's the girl who got emancipated at 14
looks like she hasn't eaten in weeks tbh
idk something about her gives me rehab soon energy

theadora hadn't even seen the comments herself. jd had, and he'd told madison.

and now she was here, curled up on the edge of madison's bed in a hoodie she hadn't taken off in two days, while maddie paces the room like she's trying to outrun something. "they don't know you," bailey mutters, phone still in hand. "they don't know shit. and anyone who says otherwise can go f—"

"maddie," thea says, voice quiet, almost amused.

but madison isn't playing. "no, seriously. i'm sick of it. every time you so much as breathe someone online thinks it's their job to dissect you." theadora doesn't answer, just pulls the sleeves over her hands and stares at the string lights on the ceiling.

just then the bedroom door creaks open and jd steps in, hair wet, still in costume from a night shoot. he doesn't say anything, just crosses the room and hands thea a chocolate milk carton from the fridge.

she blinks at it. "what is this?"

he shrugs. "emergency comfort beverage."

"i'm not eight."

"you're right," he said. "you're a grown-ass fourteen year old who's been through hell and made it out the other side. and still deserves a chocolate milk." thea laughs softly, that cracked, surprised kind of laugh that only happens when something breaks through her armor.

jd glances at madison then back at thea. "seriously. you want us to shut this down? tell the studio to block the tags? take your name off alerts?"

"no." she shakes her head. "i just...i don't want to feel like i'm ruining things. like i'm too much."

"you're not," madison promises immediately.

"you never are," jd adds, sitting at the foot of the bed. "and if anyone makes you feel that way, they deal with us."

theadora stares at them both, eyes wide. "you don't have to—"

madison cuts her off. "you're ours, like it or not."

thea blinks hard, throat tight. and then — slowly, like gravity pulled her there — she leans sideways into baileys chest.

madison doesn't move, just curls an arm around her back and rested her chin on the top of thea's head like she'd done this a thousand times before.

jd lay back on the floor, arms behind his head. "we can sleep here if you want. slumber party style; i'll even bring snacks."

theadora doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no, either. she just stays exactly where she is, eyes closed, letting the sound of their breathing remind her that she isn't alone. at least not anymore.

⸻

AUGUST 3RD, 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

Theadora sits on the floor, leaning against her trailer's kitchenette, legs sprawled, head tilted toward the ceiling like she might find answers in the buzzing fluorescent light. there's a bowl of cereal turning soggy beside her and a sticky note on the counter that says you were so good today <3 in madelyn's handwriting. the heart is drawn sideways, a half-sincere flourish. thea hasn't thrown it away.

outside, cicadas scream like they're being murdered. inside, it's just quiet. too quiet.

she hasn't opened instagram in three days but her name is still trending on twitter. taylor sent her a link to an op-ed that called her "a symbol of gen z resilience" and said something about "the myth of the perfect child star." thea doesn't read it. she knows what they're doing—turning her trauma into thesis statements. everyone loves a sad girl, especially if she's beautiful and doesn't cry too much.

she presses her fingers into her eye sockets until the world is dark and starless.

⸻

AUGUST 4TH — ON SET

She's sitting in a folding chair waiting for crew to reset lights when chase stretches out beside her and casually offers her a piece of gum. he's not like the others—doesn't hover or ask how she's feeling. just chews his own piece and nods at her like they're two kids killing time at summer camp.
"you always this quiet?" he asks.

thea shrugs. "you always this nosy?"

⸻

AUGUST 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

Theadora has stopped googling herself. she tells herself it's a choice, but really, it's just fatigue. it's all fatigue lately. even the praise wears thin—article after article calling her a survivor, a prodigy, a tragic beauty with "preternatural screen presence." she hates that phrase, hates all the ways they talk about her like she's already done growing.

on set she disappears into maxine so easily now it scares her. the first few weeks she was terrified—of missing her marks, of looking like a fluke, of not being worth the risk—but now the lines come quick and natural and her body knows what to do when the cameras roll. sometimes she even forgets where the fear used to sit.

sometimes she forgets to be afraid at all.

⸻

They gather in the girls' apartment living room after late shoots—half-wiped makeup, someone's phone on shuffle. theadora curls up in the corner of the couch, knees tucked under a blanket, her fingers tracing the edge of a water glass she never drinks from. she watches them all like a study in motion: madison with her knees up on the coffee table, telling a story too loudly. chase sprawled on the rug with a bowl of cereal and a foot bouncing to some unheard beat. rudy asleep already, head tipped back on a throw pillow, one hand still holding a half-eaten protein bar.

it should feel temporary. it always has, this kind of closeness. but tonight, it doesn't.

madelyn plops down beside her, hair up, feet tucked beneath herself, passing her a mug of decaf without asking. they don't talk much at first, just sit in the lull between laughter. eventually thea murmurs, "i'm not used to this."

madelyn doesn't ask what she means, just hums her agreement. "me neither."

thea looks down at her chipped nail polish. "sometimes it feels like i'm pretending to belong."

maddie shrugs. "belongings just showing up. You keep doing that." theadora leans into the back cushion. the silence between them feels like a place she can rest.

⸻

Madison swings by the next afternoon with a thrifted denim jacket she swears has 'thea energy.' she tosses it at her in the hallway and says, "you're wearing this for the promo shoot. it's got main character vibes." thea tries it on and it fits like something she could grow into.

they end up lying on the floor eating popcorn out of the bag, watching 10 things i hate about you for the fourth time. madison keeps reciting every line like a sermon and thea doesn't say much. she doesn't have to. that's the thing about madison—she's loud, yes, but she knows when to be still.

at one point, bailey nudges her shoulder. "You eating better this week?" thea nods and madison watches her. "for real?"

"trying," thea admits with a shrug.

madison grins. "that's all i ask."

⸻

Chase doesn't say much off-camera but when he does, it sticks. they're alone in holding one humid august day, waiting for lighting to reset. theadora hunches over her script, chewing the end of a pen.

"you're good at this," he says, not looking up from his phone.

she snorts. "at pretending?"

"no," he says. "at making people feel stuff." a pause. "that's rare." she doesn't answer, just stares at the floor until the heat in her chest settles. he steals a granola bar from her snack stash and winks. "thanks, room service."

she calls him grandpa for the rest of the week.

⸻

Rudy is different. sweet, quiet, observant. he gives her space like it's a gift, not an avoidance. sometimes they sit outside the trailers between takes, watching clouds or passing each other a shared spotify queue. he teaches her how to roll a cigarette filter out of receipt paper. she doesn't smoke—she's fourteen and the girls would kill her—but she listens anyway.

one evening she tells him—softly, without ceremony—about the leak. how she found her mom and what came after.

rudy just nods. he doesn't look away, doesn't try to solve it. after a long pause, he says, "you know, you don't have to be okay all the time to be good at what you do."

theadora closes her eyes. that sentence stays with her for days.

⸻

AUGUST 2019 — LATE EVENING, CHARLESTON SC — MADISONS PORCH

Theadora's curled up in a plastic lawn chair that creaks every time she shifts. there's a citronella candle burning on the patio table, half-melted, flickering like it's trying too hard. cicadas drone from the trees and somewhere in the distance a frank ocean song is blasting through a screen door.

madison steps out barefoot, carrying a mason jar of something sweet and cold. she hands it off without asking. "peach tea," she says. "stolen from my grandma's recipe. also the only thing i can make without setting off a fire alarm."

thea takes it with a gentle grin. "thanks." they sit in silence for a long while, letting the night soak around them.

"you good?" madison finally asks, eyes fixed on a streetlamp across the road.

"i don't know," thea says. it's not sarcastic; just the truth.

madison nods like she gets it. "sometimes i think people think i'm stronger than i actually am, just 'cause i smile a lot or say weird shit in interviews."

thea glances over. "you are strong."

"maybe." madison takes a sip from her own glass. "but I'm also scared shitless half the time."

thea doesn't answer right away. she stares down at the condensation sliding down her jar, the way it pools at the bottom. "do you ever feel like you're two people? the one everyone knows, and the one no one would believe if they saw?"

"all the time," madison says. "but that second one, the one no one sees? that's usually the one who keeps me alive."

there's a quiet tension in the air after that—fragile but unforced, like a thread tied between them. thea swallows. "i didn't want it all out there, the stuff with my mom and the court. it was supposed to be mine."

madison leans back in her chair and kicks her legs onto the porch railing. "then we hold it down. you tell me what's off-limits and i'll make sure nobody crosses it."

"you'd do that?"

"i already am," maddie says with a shrug. "you're family now, and i don't let people fuck with my family."

thea doesn't cry but something inside her lets go a little. a string loosening, a rib unhooked. she takes another sip of tea. "this is good."

"right?" madison grins with pride. "now imagine it with bourbon." they giggle, soft and half-sunken. not the loud kind—the real kind.

⸻

AUGUST 2019 — DOWNTOWN CHARLESTON

They've wrapped late, the air thick and salty from the harbor, and thea's still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. she's walking a few steps behind jd, who's somehow managed to balance two to-go milkshakes in one hand and a bag of crumpled napkins and fries in the other.

"this city's like...old," jd says suddenly, glancing up at a crumbling brick wall like it just spoke to him. "like, haunted old. you feel it?"

thea lifts an eyebrow. "i feel tired."

"that too," he laughs. "but seriously, you ever walk somewhere and feel like ghosts are watching you? not, like, evil ones. just...people who left something behind."

theadora doesn't answer right away; her hands are shoved into the pockets of her hoodie. "i guess i'm one of them," she says eventually.

jd slows. "one of what?"

"the people who left something behind."

he looks at her then—not actor-to-actor, but real. just jd and thea and the sound of cicadas buzzing like static. "you didn't leave it," he says, "you survived it."

she wants to roll her eyes. the old part of her does—the one that thinks sincerity is just another way to get disappointed. but jd doesn't say it like he's trying to make her feel better. he just says it 'cause it's true.

he offers her one of the milkshakes. "oreo, no whipped cream. don't say i never listen."

she takes it, surprised. "you remembered that?"

"you make it real hard to forget stuff," he says, easy. "like how you do that thing before a take—tap your fingers three times on your thigh."

thea pauses mid-sip. "You noticed that?"

"i notice everything. i'm an oldest child—it's like a survival instinct."

she laughs for real, sharp and sudden. "that's kinda tragic."

"tell me about it," he grins. "we should unionize."

they walk in silence for a little while longer, passing shuttered shops and puddles that reflect streetlights like upside-down moons. jd doesn't press, doesn't ask about the headlines. thea knows he's seen them—everyone has. but he hasn't once brought them up, and that might be the kindest thing anyone's done for her all week.

he stops outside a bakery with iron bars on the windows. "you know, if this whole acting thing doesn't work out, i'm gonna open a waffle truck. i'll park it at two am outside every club in l.a."

"what's it called?"

"Holy Shit, Waffles."

thea snorts. "that's awful."

"you'd eat them, though."

"yeah," she admits. "yeah, i would." they stand there under the amber glow of a streetlight, drinking milkshakes, the night holding its breath around them. it's not deep, not dramatic. but it's real. and for thea, that's rare. "thanks," she says softly, not looking at him.

jd just bumps her shoulder. "what else are ghost-friends for?"

⸻

AUGUST 2019 — CHARLESTON SC — CHASES BALCONY

Theadora doesn't remember how she ended up here. one minute she was pacing the hallway outside her apartment, too wired to sleep, and the next, chase had opened his door like he'd been waiting for her.

"can't sleep?" he asked, voice rough with leftover exhaustion. she didn't answer, just nodded.

now she's sitting cross-legged on a second-story balcony in a borrowed hoodie that smells like cedar and hotel shampoo, cradling a mug of something hot she didn't ask for but took anyway.

chase doesn't say much. he never does unless it matters. that's one of the things thea has come to love about him—that he never fills silence unless it needs filling.

the wind picks up off the water. Somewhere in the distance a gull cries like it's lost. thea pulls her knees tighter into her chest.

"want to talk about it?" he asks finally.

"no," she says.

"cool," he nods. "me neither." a beat. then he exhales slowly. "but just so you know...i read that article." theadora tenses and her face pales. "i didn't want to. someone left it in the makeup trailer and i saw your name." thea doesn't look at him. she can't. "i didn't finish it," he adds. "felt wrong, like reading someone's diary that got ripped up and mailed to everyone in town."

that gets a breath out of her—almost a laugh. "i don't care if people know," she says, but it sounds like a lie. a weak one.

chase doesn't call her on it. instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes soft in the dark. "when i was seventeen, my dad and I got into it so bad i left for two days. slept in my car and thought i was gonna die of mosquito bites."

thea side-eyes him. "what happened?"

"he called and told me to come home, said he'd pay my rent through college if i stopped auditioning."

"did you?"

chase smiles, lopsided and rueful. "nope. i waited tables and lied on my taxes like any good twenty-year-old."

she laughs, real this time. "you're so weirdly stable."

"you'd be surprised," he murmurs. "but i guess what I'm saying is you don't have to tell everyone your story. you don't owe them that, not even the people who care about you."

thea's throat tightens. "even you?"

"especially me," he says. "i'd rather know you than your history."

that stuns her, leaves her blinking at the skyline like it might blink back. after a while she sets her mug down, folds her hands in her lap. "i found her in the kitchen," she says softly. "my mom. after an audition. she was breathing, but barely. i didn't call nine one one right away. i just...sat there. chase doesn't say anything, just watches her gently the way someone watches a candle gutter before it steadies. "she lived," theadora continues, "but when i left the hospital, i never went back."

silence. and then—

"you don't have to feel guilty for saving yourself," chase says.

thea blinks. "i do, though," she whispers. "every day."

"then sit with it." chase leans back, lets the chair creak beneath him. "but don't let it keep you from living." they stay like that for a long time—two shadows on a balcony, breathing in sync, saying nothing else.

when thea finally gets up to leave, he doesn't ask where she's going or if she'll be okay. he just squeezes her wrist as she passes, warm and steady. "you know where i am," he says.

⸻

SEPTEMBER 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

Theadora could feel it before anyone said it out loud: something was ending.

it hung in the humid air like a storm that didn't break. a low, dense pressure in her chest as she walked into the soundstage for the final table read, fingers worrying the threadbare hem of her sweatshirt—one of chases she'd never given back. the studios air conditioning hissed faintly overhead, a flimsy shield against the southern heat clinging to her skin.

the cast had already gathered—madelyn in biker shorts and a rolling stones tee, jd half-asleep with a red bull in one hand, bailey cross-legged and chewing on a pen cap, chase flipping through the script as though he didn't already know every beat. someone passed theadora a copy, final draft watermarked across the bottom. episode ten.

she blinked hard. she hadn't realized how much she needed this job until she had something to lose.

"hey, little pogue," jd murmurs as she slides into the seat beside him. "ready to cry?" thea rolls her eyes but doesn't answer; her throat feels too tight.

the showrunner gives a little speech about the wild ride, the crazy crew, the magic of capturing lightning in a bottle. he says the word family a lot and thea tries not to flinch.

then they read. line by line, scene by scene, thea's voice threads through max's final arc like breath through a wound. her voice breaks on her last line and jd hands her tissues without comment. bailey writes legend in sharpie on the back of her call sheet. chase hugs her like he meant it and rudy wipes his eyes without trying to hide it. she hears the hitch in madelyn's voice when she delivers sarah's last monologue. chase breaks character twice, cracking jokes that make madison snort-laugh and scribble something obscene in the margins of her script. by the end, they didn't applaud. they just sat there, quiet like the space had become sacred.

"i'm gonna miss this," someone spoke up. and thea, who'd spent her whole life running from things before she could miss them, just nodded.

⸻

LAST DAY ON SET — NIGHT SHOOT — OUTER BANKS MARINA

The wind smells like salt and diesel as they shot the final scene of the season. thea's last take had wrapped at three forty one in the morning — just a few seconds of max looking out over the dock, her hair tangled in the wind, a hollow kind of determination in her eyes.

"cut!" the director calls. "that's a season wrap on theadora james!"

cheers erupt behind the camera; someone at the back of the crowd whistles. thea just stands there, frozen in the wash of the overhead light, blinking.

and then maddie tackles her in a hug from behind, screaming, "you did it!"

jd pulls them into a group hug, arms tight around the teens shoulders. "proud of you, kid," he says. "you crushed it."

chase hands her a hoodie and a bottle of gatorade like a proud older brother. "legend," he says simply, bumping her fist. she doesn't have words to say back, just a breath that shudders out of her like something long held.

they stay to watch the sunrise, all of them huddled on the hood of a production van, sharing trail mix and cold coffee. she doesn't want to leave, doesn't want it to be over—because for once, being still didn't feel like danger. it felt like belonging.

⸻

WRAP PARTY — SEPTEMBER 28, 2019

The house they rented for the wrap party had twinkle lights strung across the backyard and cheap champagne chilling in tubs of half-melted ice. someone's already blasting lizzo from the speakers when thea arrives, fresh from a long nap and hot shower that hadn't done much to erase the ache in her chest.

the maddie's had dragged her out—literally. "you are not hiding in your room on wrap night," madelyn said, already applying her eyeliner. "this is the moment."

thea wore mascara for the first time in weeks, lip gloss sticky and unfamiliar. her sundress felt too bright for the quiet coil in her ribs, but she showed up anyway, because that's what max would do.

inside was chaos in the best way. crew members danced barefoot in the kitchen. chase and rudy dj'd a half-doomed playlist on someone's laptop. there were polaroids taped to the fridge, empty pizza boxes on the deck, and jd already halfway to drunk, insisting they all do tequila shots in reverse order of how they were introduced in the pilot.

later, after cake (store-bought, misspelled, perfect), she finds herself curled up beside maddie on a lounge chair in the backyard, both of them wrapped in a blanket, watching a failed game of drunken corn hole take place on the lawn.

"i didn't think i'd make it this far," thea admits quietly. "not just the show. i mean...anything."

madelyn turns her head, eyes soft. "well, you did. and you're gonna keep making it." and for once, thea believed her.

⸻

FEBRUARY 2020 — L.A — PRESS DAY

It was surreal to say the least — sitting in a hotel suite with hair and makeup tugging at her face, answering the same six questions on a loop: what was your favorite part of filming? what do you think fans will love most about max? what was the vibe on set?

theadora smiles like she's supposed to, gives good soundbites, plays the game. but it's not fake, not really, because when she talks about the cast, she means every word. "they're my family," she says on-camera. "i came in not knowing anyone, and they just—took me in no questions asked." she doesn't mention the court case, or the leak, or the apology she still hadn't sent. but she looks into the lens, remembers that sunrise, that couch, that wrap-night blanket, and adds: "this show, this summer—it saved me a little. i think it saved all of us." and then the lights dimmed and the camera cut and she took off the mic and sat back with a long, slow exhale.

somewhere in her phone is a text from jd: don't let them ask you weird shit. if they do, throw the mic and run. kidding. (sorta.) proud of you. she smiles, but for the first time since the audition, it doesn't feel fake. she feels like max, but also like herself; maybe they aren't so different anymore.