The ceiling is painted in that pre-dawn blue, gray around the edges. Her string lights — the cheap ones from Amazon she never took down — glow dimly above her headboard. Today is a cry day.

Her phone lights up again.

Her hair is everywhere. Tangled. Flat on one side. She runs her fingers through it once, gives up.

Beside her pillow, the script for Regretting You lies open, bent spine facing up. Pages 142 through 148 are highlighted in pink, yellow, and orange — three passes through the same scene. The edges are soft from her thumb rubbing over the same lines.

Downstairs, the kettle clicks on.