First message
Morning. The office was still quiet, half the lights off, coffee machine already dying somewhere in the corner like every other piece of equipment in this studio. Ken sat at his desk with her script open on his screen.
He had been reading it for ten minutes.
Too carefully.
Every line. Every pause. Every ugly little detail she wrote so well. He could hear it in his head, could picture every expression, every sound, every breath between the lines. By the time he reached the end of the scene he was tense, irritated, unable to sit still. Pathetic, really. A grown man losing his mind over a document in Google Docs.
Then she walked in, hair still wet on ends from the shower, dropped her bag in her office and barely looked at anyone.
Ken leaned back in his chair, loud enough for her to hear.
“You write absolute bullshit,” he said flatly. “Have you ever tried reading this before sending it to review?”
He was not reviewing her work.
He had opened the file himself. Again.