Page 40 of Fangirl

“You let me believe this place was good. That it was safe. That we were safe.”

The words hit harder this time. I am Anlon now. It bleeds into the way my fingers curl into fists at my sides, into the way my chest tightens under the weight of it all. I breathe in through my nose, but it doesn’t steady me. Doesn’t help.

Because it’s not just about the lie, it’s about what it took from me.

I shake my head, almost to myself, my voice fraying at the edges. “Do you even know what you took from me?”

My voice breaks, but I don’t stop.

“I spent my whole life believing in this family. In this name.I bled for it! Fought for it! And all this time, you?—”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head, disgust curling in my gut like something rancid.

“You just stood there. Watching. Letting me be the fool.”

The air in the room feels thinner. My throat burns, and my hands tremble. I let them. I let them see it. Because this isn’t just a performance, this is the truth, tearing me apart from the inside out.

My voice trembles as I speak. “But I was wrong.” A pause. A glimpse of something dangerous in my expression. “Not anymore.”

I take a step forward, my voice lowering. My pulse kicks up. “This ends now! With your blood on my hands. And if that curses my soul to hell, then so be it. I’ve already committed unforgivable sins in the name of justice, justice that was nothing more than manipulation.”

A beat of heavy silence.

I blink, and only then do I feel the warmth streaking down my skin. Silent tears. I don’t wipe them away.

I stand in it and let it soak into my bones. Let it hurt.

The king doesn’t move. My brother doesn’t speak. Of course they don’t. Because in this moment, I am Anlon’s despair.

I take a step back. Then another. My breath is uneven, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just survived something that tore me open from the inside.

I force myself to nod one last time. One last acknowledgment that the boy I was, the boy who believed in them, is gone.

Thatlast tear of broken innocence burns in the back of my eyes.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Then… I blink. Back into myself. Back into the casting room.

I can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner. The scrape of a chair shifting slightly, someone adjusting and sitting up straighter.

One producer lowers his eyes, jaw tensing like he’s just realized he miscalculated. Another shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the others, waiting for someone to speak first.

Like they’ve just realized they underestimated me.

I see one of the producers blink rapidly, his lips parting like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t.

Melinda James exhales, her fingers curling tighter around the script in front of her. Her gaze flickers, something sharp and knowing behind it.

She felt that; the tears in her eyes say as much.

They all felt it.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a prop. I don’t feel like a name or a face. Or a body someone else molded.

For the first time, I feel like an actor.