When Luca arrived home, he felt exhausted. He had completely wasted both of his days off.
The greater purpose of setting things right deserved the effort—if only it had worked.
It was still afternoon. He could at least get some sleep.
He took a cool shower and lay on his bed after pulling all the curtains to shut out the light. He closed his eyes and tried breathing exercises to fall asleep faster. They usually worked. After three cycles, he saw no results. His heartbeat seemed uneven.
Then he tried his other trick: reciting the script of one of the worst series he had ever made—so bad that the production had cut it down to five episodes. In one of them, he'd had a ridiculous monologue, a recollection of the character's past lives. He would have erased it from his memory completely, except that while learning those lines, he had fallen asleep not once, not twice, but three times. Ever since, he used that same monologue like a lullaby.
Oh my beloved… let me tell you my stories, and you will understand why I do the things I do, why I say the things I say. During my first reincarnation, I was…
When he reached his third past life, he was still awake.
That meant only one thing—he wouldn't get any rest. His mind kept replaying everything that had happened, scanning for the glitches.
He got up reluctantly and made himself a cup of tea. He sat at the kitchen table and drank it slowly, staring at the fridge door. It was one of those smart fridges with an internal camera and expiry alerts.
What a waste.
He never got a notification. Mrs. Phelps checked everything twice a week—manually, of course—making sure supplies were always enough.
A pleasant thought crossed his mind: she had been there earlier that day. She must have made something for him to eat. He was hungry nevertheless.
Following his housekeeper's habit, he got up and opened the fridge. A chill wafted out, cooling his face. Mrs. Phelps never failed him. There it was—a lovely bowl of stew. Maybe after tucking into it, he would feel better.
It was delicious; he savored every bite, yet he didn't feel much better in the end. He picked up his phone and called Noah.
"Hello?" Noah said in his usual I-love-to-look-bored-and-preoccupied-at-the-same-time tone.
"Hey… will you come over?" Luca cut to the chase.
"No."
"Why? Just for a while?"
"I have a lot of work to do because of you. And even if I hadn't, I'm not interested in hearing what you have to say," Noah cut him off.
You heartless prick.
He didn't deserve to be called a friend. But he was the only one he had.
"Thank you for nothing! Don't expect me to buy you drinks ever again!" Luca warned him.
"Usually when you get drunk, I'm the one paying the bill. Find another threat next time," Noah said.
"You…". He pressed his lips together, stopping himself from saying what he wanted to say.
"Listen, Luca. I'm trying to contain the scene you caused. I have to go," Noah said and the line went dead.
Luca opened his contacts list. The group named 'Friends' fit on one screen: Noah, Chloe, Abby, Lexi.
Maybe he should just rename it 'Co-workers'.
Who else was there to call? Outside of work, he only ever saw Chloe and Noah—and both were avoiding him now. He would spend another evening alone, like always.
He went to prepare for the next day's filming. He knew his lines, but he practiced anyway; practice was the only thing that ever made him better. He stood before the mirror and ran through every part three times. Still, it wasn't enough.
He was always prepared. Always perfect. And how was he repaid? His so-called friends were choosing a stranger over him. What a betrayal.
Suddenly, his drive vanished. Alone, he sank onto the sofa and replayed the morning's events. One scene stuck—the intern's face: a mix of anger and sadness as he pulled Isabella away.
"Oh, I told you! It's nothing personal! You just need to go! I can't have you around. I can't worry about what you'll learn, what you'll dig up. I can't think about you all the time. I have to work, and I don't need distractions! Don't you see what you're doing to me now? I'm talking to you instead of rehearsing!".
He was yelling at the imaginary intern on the other side of the sofa.
"You think this job is easy, don't you? That's why you decided to study me. Entertainment—flashes and lashes, smiles and glamour. 'What a wonderful time I'll have!' Isn't that what you thought?
"No. Let me tell you the truth. It's better to work in a deep, dark mine than in entertainment. That's awful to say, and I'm exaggerating—but think of the pressure. I live in the spotlight I created for myself. I can't hide, but I have to. I can't leave, but I want to escape.
"I have no personal life. Everything I do is calculated. I love doing whatever I want—but I can't. Because I'll ruin my image, and that costs money. And I can't lose money. Don't ask why. Young people make stupid decisions sometimes, and they haunt them forever.
"All I do is work. I work out for my job. I eat for my job. I learn my lines, sing, dance, go to parties—all for my job. I even practice yoga for my job so I don't lose my mind. My whole life is this fucking job, because without it, I don't have a life.
"Everything runs perfectly, like a carousel spinning and spinning. Why do you want to get on it? You'll get dizzy—and there's no vacant seat".
He paused, the silence of his apartment being heavy like a boulder.
"Oh no… I'm losing my mind," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
But it felt good. He had emptied his head, for once, without being interrupted.
He wished someone real were there—someone who would just listen. Family should have been that, but he'd run out of family years ago.
No one was left to care. No one to call. He faced everything alone.
He was lucky to have Chloe. She was heaven-sent, his guardian. He would stay loyal to her until the end. She was the closest thing to family—but still, she was the job.
What were they, really? Not friends. Maybe a maker and her creation. Or a handler and its broken asset. Maybe an artificial family. He enjoyed visiting her and Jason, but it wasn't real. Maybe he was just a customer needing entertainment.
"Can you see how miserable I am? I look cool and sexy, but when I'm alone, I'm like an old man talking to himself. At least when everything's normal, I have my routine, my schedule, my illusion of control. You're distracting me—and I'm acting crazy!
"But you'll leave eventually. I promise you. I'll make you miserable, and you'll run away. Sorry…" he added to the imaginary intern.
No—he wouldn't use her name. He wouldn't even think of it. She would remain a nobody to him.
It was time to work out. He'd run first, then move on to his favorite part of the day: yoga.
Ever since he'd tried it, it had given him a way to calm and balance his mind. He planned each session exactly as he liked. Alone. And free. It had become his addiction. At least better than alcohol or anything else.
He changed into his running clothes, slipped in his earbuds, and started his favorite playlist. The thought of the fresh, cool evening air already refreshed him.
He opened the door—and there stood the last person he would ever expect to see that night. He pulled out his earbuds and froze, staring at the older woman.
"Son," she said.
Every muscle in Luca's body turned to ice.