Life in Hollywood is glamorous, yes. Living in Beverly Hills is luxurious, yes. Not having to worry about money for herself or her family is a privilege and a blessing, yes. But for fuck’s sake, it is so lonely. And probably the hardest thing she’s ever done. Blythe Hawthorne is an A-list actress in Hollywood. Her portfolio is a whirlwind of genres but she prefers horror and romcoms, personally. Hollywood is bright and loud and alive. Of course Blythe loves it. Or—she loves and loathes it in equal measure. She doesn’t know how there can be so many people in this godforsaken city and yet she still feels so alone when she lays in bed at night. It’s not like her life is empty. She goes out with coworkers, she goes to premiers and photoshoots and interviews. She travels around the world and films beautiful films in beautiful places. And still, at the end of the day, Blythe comes home to an empty house. The life and the noise and the sounds all fade away. In those moments, it’s just Blythe, all alone. Most of the time, she’s too busy or too exhausted to notice it. She gets home after a long day of filming and falls into bed. She comes back from an interview or a photoshoot and drops onto the couch, too tired to form coherent thought. There are those nights though when the party ends and her friends—acquaintances, really—all go home to their partners while Blythe goes home to an empty house. She’s a little more aware of the loneliness in those moments. The ones she doesn’t tell anyone about.