Another pause, shorter this time. “Elena, I spent five years building props for movies no one saw. Now twelve-year-olds send me drawings of me falling into a pool of Jell-O. I’m not used. I’m seen .”
“There’s only one Leo,” Elena said.
Elena typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.
But the comments were different. “I cried,” one said. “I’ve been depressed for months and this made me want to try something again.”
Instead, the drone’s propeller clipped his ear. It was a small cut—three stitches—but Leo didn’t break character. He held his bloody ear, looked into the camera, and said, “Worth it. No, seriously. I’ve never felt more alive.”
