Chapter 3: A Fading Light

After I got sick, I withdrew from the entertainment industry. Other than my therapist—Dr. Wood, a kind-eyed woman who always kept a box of tissues on her desk—I rarely left the house. Old friends stopped calling. The messages dried up. My world shrank to four walls, sunbeams filtering through maple leaves, and the white noise of my own breathing.

On a random Tuesday, out of nowhere, I found myself wanting to see Marcus. Not out of hope—just a restless need for something familiar. So I took my car, that battered old Prius with the chipped “I Voted” sticker and a faded Savannah Bananas bumper magnet, and drove into downtown Savannah. The city was half-awake, moss draping the oaks, Spanish moss waving in the breeze. It almost felt like going home.

Standing at the door to his office suite—big glass panes, company logo in brushed silver—I saw her. A young woman, curled up on the sofa across from Marcus's desk, pale as the moon. Marcus stood over her, carefully handing her a steaming mug of ginger tea, then tucking a soft navy blanket around her stomach. "Hey, you look wiped out—why don’t you take the rest of the day off and get some real rest?" His voice had that warm, practical note he used to use with me, back when I was the one who needed taking care of.

She took the cup, insisting, "If I bail now, I’m basically the world’s worst assistant."

Marcus raised his chin, gestured toward his private break room. "Then go lie down in my break room for a while. I’ll be fine."

She sipped the ginger tea, half-smiling, "How could I, Marcus? You’re a married man now. I have to avoid suspicion."

Marcus snorted and shook his head, an exasperated, almost fond little gesture that twisted something deep inside me.

Then he looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. The smile at the corner of his mouth froze—like someone had cut the power. For a heartbeat, time stopped. I could see my own reflection in the glass, pale and uncertain.

I was a bit dazed too, if I’m honest. My mind kept replaying that smile Marcus had just given his assistant. It was open, easy, the kind he hadn’t worn around me in months—maybe longer.

Ever since I got sick, I’d felt myself growing duller, fading at the edges. Looking back now, I realized he hadn’t smiled that easily in front of me for a long time.

But Marcus was quick. In less than a second, he wiped that smile away, replaced it with his usual calm mask, and strode over. "Rachel, what brings you here?"

He tried to take my hand, but I pulled back without thinking. His hand hovered in midair, caught between us. I saw the flicker of pain before he let it drop.

"Is this a surprise inspection, Rachel?" The assistant—Aubrey Quinn, as I’d soon remember—still clutched the ginger tea, but she managed a bright, professional smile as she walked over and offered her hand. "My name is Aubrey Quinn. I also graduated from Emerson College. I wonder if you still remember me?"

Aubrey Quinn... Aubrey Quinn...

Her name echoed. For a moment I just stared, studying her face, the way her lips curled, the nervous energy behind her smile. Then it hit me—this wasn’t our first meeting.

She was once a junior in the same program as Marcus at Emerson. When she first arrived on campus, she was all bright eyes and boundless optimism—a little sun in a sea of gray lecture halls. She fell for Marcus at first sight, and I can still remember her relentless, shameless pursuit: hand-written notes, ridiculous care packages, even baking cookies she’d deliver to the dorms. Once, I found a note from her tucked into Marcus’s backpack and a bag of still-warm snickerdoodles on his desk. I’d felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it made my face burn, and I hated that I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Back then, I was already struggling to juggle my budding acting career and my relationship with Marcus. I was madly in love, but busy, always gone. Marcus knew it, and in his way, he tried to protect what we had. He kept his distance from other women, even if it made him seem cold. When Aubrey started chasing him, he shut her down fast.

She didn’t believe him, not at first. A girlfriend you never see is like Schrödinger’s cat—real only if you open the box. She thought it was just Marcus’s way of brushing her off. Until the day I wrapped shooting and showed up at a campus party, and she saw for herself.

I remember her face, the heartbreak in her eyes as she looked from Marcus to me. She’d asked, almost pleading, "Rachel, can I add his contact? If love is gone, so be it, but I must work hard on my studies."

Before I could reply, she turned to Marcus, her voice small but determined. "Marcus, since I can’t pursue you, can I at least be an ordinary classmate? You’re the top student in our major, and I’ll need your help with academic problems in the future."

She made it sound so casual—aboveboard, almost noble.

But Marcus didn’t hesitate. He said: "Sorry."

"There’s no need."

"If you have academic questions, you can ask the professor directly."

I’d felt such a rush of relief then. He’d chosen me, made it clear. I’d believed in that security, the kind that wraps around you like a favorite old hoodie.

Now, all these years later, Aubrey was still that same bright spark, warming everyone she touched. And me? I’d become a black hole, sucking in all the light, unable to radiate even a flicker of joy.