You pressed your palm flat against the cool surface of the mirror, staring at the stranger staring back. Mascara. Stage glitter. A costume that felt like someone else's skin.

Three years.

Three years of his hands on your waist, his breath on your neck, his laugh muffled against your shoulder in the dark hours after shows.

And then last night. A phone call. His voice too steady. Too practiced.

A knock at the door. Sharp. Insistent.