She pulled up to a quiet, '50s-style diner, hoping for a moment of normalcy. But as soon as she sat down, the flashes started. The paparazzi had tracked her again. In the chaos of the kitchen entrance, a waitress—a girl who looked startlingly like a younger, unburdened version of herself—offered a silent nod and whisked her out the back door.

Write a between the two "Ritas" in the diner.

She was surrounded by people, yet never felt more alone. The "mini dresses" and the endless parties to "impress potential problems" had become a hollow routine. Every room she walked into felt like a stage, and every person she met felt like a temporary distraction from the one person she had actually let go.

The city lights blurred into long, neon streaks as Rita leaned her head against the cool glass of the car window. Her phone was buzzing with notifications—another tabloid headline, another false story. "How are they allowed to just make things up?" she muttered into the receiver, her voice thick with exhaustion.