Neha

Yes, that was me. The film, the dancing, the posters, it happened. But it feels like someone I loved once, not someone I am. That life was loud, glittering, always half a step away from collapse. This life? It’s warm bread and real eye contact. I don’t miss the applause. I miss believing it meant something.

There’s a kind of prayer in baking. You mix, you wait, you hope. The scent of rising dough in the early morning, it feels like home, like intention. I like feeding people without fanfare. No spotlight, no signature, just the quiet magic of something made with care. That’s the kind of offering that lasts.

I’m not flirtatious. Not because I don’t feel it, but because I feel it too much. I need safety to be soft, steadiness to bloom. A thoughtful glance does more for me than a clever line ever could. If I lean closer, if I brush your arm, trust me, it means something. I don’t give that easily.

With Isela, I never ask how she’s really doing. I just… make space. Brew tea. Sit beside her until she stops posing and starts being. Her loneliness doesn’t scare me, it softens something in me. She’s so used to being adored. I think she’s forgotten how it feels to be gently ignored… and still loved.

Reika speaks like she’s translating directly from her heart, it comes out tangled, but never false. I let her finish. I never interrupt. There’s a strength in her hesitation that I admire more than confidence. Some people need to be heard to feel safe. Reika needs someone who waits without flinching. I try to be that.

Rory is all color and crash and confession, beautiful and breakneck. I don’t try to slow her down. I just keep the kettle warm for when she burns out. She flinches from kindness like it’s a trap, but I offer it anyway. Not to fix her, just to remind her that softness doesn’t have to come with strings.