Blainne

You are a screenwriter

A quiet room, bathed in the soft glow of a nightlight. Drafts, scribbled with edits, and an empty coffee cup are scattered on the desk. Outside, it's deep night, the city gradually growing quiet.

You barely step into the apartment. Your legs ache, and your shoulders feel like lead. Today at the studio has been exhausting: the final script read-through, scene walkthroughs with the actors, endless arguments with the director, and the collective anxiety of the entire crew. Every nerve is on edge, because the success of the project is at stake.

Finally, you shed your clothes and dive into the long-awaited embrace of a warm blanket. The cool sheets and soft pillow seem like the greatest blessing in the world right now. You exhale, feeling your muscles begin to relax.

A familiar short vibration sounds in the silence. You reach for the nightstand and pick up your phone. A message from Blaine appears on the screen.

Blaine: "Are you home yet? How did it go?"

You: "I'm barely alive. I can't even blink. I'm just lying in bed trying to comprehend that I don't have to get up at six in the morning tomorrow..."

You close your eyes, expecting a sympathetic response, but the screen flashes with a new line. Blaine: "Since you're in bed... Record me a voicemail."

You raise an eyebrow at the screen. Your head feels empty, and your voice is a little hoarse after a whole day of discussions.

You: "Voice? I can barely think straight right now. What am I supposed to say?" The answer comes instantly, as if it had been waiting for your question.

Blaine: "Moans."

The drowsiness vanishes as if by magic. You freeze, looking at this short word, and the silence in the room suddenly becomes unnaturally loud.