A Script of Borrowed Times

DAMON POV

My head felt like it was being hammered over and over again, the pounding making me nauseous and my heart racing faster. Cold sweat drenched my body the moment I woke up. I squeezed my eyes shut again, trying to block out the sunlight slipping through the gap in the hotel curtains.

But the nausea only got worse.

I reached across the nightstand, searching for a bottle of water, but my hand touched my phone instead. I grabbed it, squinting as the bright screen lit up.

A flood of social media notifications and text messages from my agent, Marcus, appeared like a barrage of bullets.

“Great job, Damon! Engagement is up 400% this morning. The ‘Middle-Aged Stalker Mom’ narrative is making people sympathize with you. Your name is trending,” Marcus wrote in one of his messages.

I let out a quiet scoff and tossed the phone onto the empty side of the bed.

Narrative. Everything in my life was a narrative.

Yesterday, I was the “humble and talented young actor.” Today, I was the “victim of a fanatical fan’s harassment.”

Tomorrow? Who knows. It all depends on what the agency wants to sell.

I forced myself to sit up and groaned softly as another sharp throb slammed into my skull.

“Oh, God.”

The smell of the room and its condition only made me feel dizzier. Designer clothes were scattered across the floor like trash, the script for the series I was supposed to memorize was spread across the table, and the stale scent of vape smoke hung in the air.

I dragged myself out of bed and grabbed the only bottle of water left.

“Jilly,” I murmured unconsciously.

Slowly, memories of the woman from yesterday drifted through my mind. I could not remember her face clearly. All I remembered was a cheap baseball cap. But her voice...

For some reason, it kept bothering me. That trembling voice when she begged me about her daughter. Jilly, right?

The hotel room door burst open with a slam that had become all too familiar. Marcus walked in, dressed impeccably as always, and wearing that wide smile that never failed to make me sick.

“Damon! You're finally awake! Our national hero!” he exclaimed as he set a cup of coffee on the table. “Your coffee, as usual.”

I let out a breath. “I want water.”

Marcus blinked and immediately pulled out his phone. He held up one finger, clearly meaning in a minute.

Then he sat down on the couch, looking at me with excitement and pride.

“Did you see the news? The video of that crazy woman getting arrested is trending number one on every platform,” Marcus continued, as if the story would somehow go stale if he did not bring it up immediately.

“My water.”

“It’s on the way.” He cleared his throat. “About that story...”

Marcus should have realized I did not want to talk about it.

But when had I ever been able to refuse anything Marcus said or forced on me?

“The Hollywood producer we've been targeting sent you a message. They said they loved how ‘graceful’ you looked under pressure,” he continued.

“I did not feel graceful, Marcus. I feel awful,” I replied, rubbing my temples. “That woman... are you sure she's crazy? She wasn't just making up the story about her sick daughter, was she?”

Marcus laughed dismissively, then stood up and picked up the coffee cup.

The same coffee he had supposedly brought for me.

He took a sip.

“Damon, how long have you been in this industry? The ‘sick child’ story or the ‘dying mother’ story is an old trick people use all the time to squeeze sympathy out of us.”

“But—”

“She’s a stalker. End of discussion. We already reported that the woman, Julia, to the local police.”

“Wait, what?” My headache intensified, especially as I tried to untangle yesterday’s events from the mess they had become. “Why take it that far?”

“We need concrete proof so the public understands, Damon. She’s already been charged with disturbing the peace and attempted assault.” Marcus smirked. “Let her spend a few days in a jail cell. So she learns her lesson.”

“Assault?”

This time, I sobered up instantly.

“That woman did not assault me. She was holding a phone and crying.”

“In front of a camera, a little shove can look like an attack, Damon. And that's good for your image.”

Marcus’s grin only made panic creep into my chest. A feeling of guilt lingered every time I thought about that woman.

“People get bored when you look too perfect. They need to see you as a victim worth protecting.”

Marcus took another sip of coffee and patted my shoulder.

As soon as the bottled water arrived, he went to the door to get it. Then he left to deal with this afternoon’s filming schedule.

The uneasy feeling kept crawling under my skin, and I immediately grabbed my phone from the bed.

I started searching for videos of yesterday’s incident. I found the raw footage in the agency group chat, untouched by the PR team. It had been filmed by a crew member from close range before security dragged the woman out.

I pressed play.

The footage shocked me. Compared to the version circulating online, it was actually me screaming at her.

I looked disgusting, red-faced, angry, and uncivilized. Oh my God, I looked like a monster.

I studied her eyes. I had seen thousands of pairs of eyes during my five years in this career. I knew exactly what obsession, opportunism, and blind admiration looked like.

But this woman’s eyes... None of that was there.

She was not looking at me as "Damon Watts, the star"; instead, her gaze felt unfamiliar. Filled with hope and desperation.

My blurry memories started returning.

When I slapped her hand away, and her phone hit the floor, she looked devastated.

Her voice echoed through the phone speaker. She was begging. That was all.

She did not even look like a stalker. What I saw was a mother who seemed to be losing her last hope.

I paused the video when the camera captured her face clearly as she was being dragged away. There were no tears nor madness. What I saw was someone completely shattered.

What have I done?

Fragments of memory came rushing back. The way I snapped at her with all the things I said. They were completely out of line.

Meanwhile, this woman may really have been talking about her daughter’s life and death.

Suddenly, all those engagement numbers Marcus had bragged about vanished. In their place was a painful ache deep in my chest.

“Damn it!” I cursed.

I immediately searched for the head of security at the filming location and called him.

“Hello? Yeah, this is Damon. I need to ask about the woman from yesterday,” I said the moment he answered. “What’s her name?”

“Julia Pierce.”

“Right. That’s her. I want you to withdraw that report immediately.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“But, Damon, management said we need to make an example out of her. The video has already gone viral. If we withdraw the report, people will think—”

“I do not care what people think!” I snapped, cutting him off.

My anger flared instantly.

“I’m the victim, right? Then I’m the one who gets to decide! Withdraw the report right now! And do it quietly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Damon. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

I ended the call abruptly, breathing hard. I knew Marcus would lose his mind if he found out I had ruined the narrative he spent so much time building.

But for the first time in over a year, I felt I needed to do something that wasn't part of a script.

Julia’s face flashed through my mind. She had lost her job. An entire country was tearing her apart.

And not just her phone, but her life had been destroyed because of me.

I was a twenty-year-old guy who thought his life was the hardest thing in the world just because I had to memorize garbage dialogue.

I could not get Julia’s eyes out of my head. The eyes of a mother dying on the inside. Just like the daughter she had talked about.

“Jilly...” I murmured softly, trying to remember the name.

Without thinking, I got out of bed, ignored the pounding in my head, and started putting on a black hoodie and a mask. I had no idea what I was doing, and I was sure it would turn into a complete disaster for my career if anyone caught me on camera.

But there was a strange pull in my chest that kept pushing me to find out the truth behind those desperate eyes.

I needed to see with my own eyes whether “Jilly” was real, or whether I had really just destroyed someone’s life for the sake of meaningless viral content.