Work Text:
Jackie Burkhart had learned, over the years, the precise moment a room decided something about her.
It was never when she walked in. People always noticed her then hair glossy, posture perfect, mouth already shaped into something pleasant. The decision came later. It came after the smiles lingered too long, after the compliments stacked up and began to curdle, after someone thought, She knows she’s pretty, and then decided that was a crime.
She felt it happen now.
The conference room was all glass and soft gray tones, designed to look calming while extracting your soul. Jackie sat at the long table with her legs crossed, pink heels tucked neatly beneath her chair, hands folded on top of a leather notebook she hadn’t opened. Across from her sat three people whose job it was to make sure she remained palatable.
Mara, her lead publicist, wore a silk blouse the color of sand and the expression of someone who had practiced concern in a mirror. Next to her was a junior associate Jackie couldn’t remember the name of Emily? Emma? who typed furiously and avoided eye contact. At the far end was a man from Crisis Strategy who had introduced himself ten minutes ago and had not smiled once.
The room hummed with quiet importance.
“Jackie,” Mara said gently, like she was about to explain something inevitable. “We need to talk about the narrative.”
Jackie smiled. She had perfected a smile that said I’m listening without promising compliance. “Which one?”
Mara slid a folder across the table.
Jackie didn’t open it immediately. She already knew what was inside. Screenshots. Headlines. Tweets cropped just enough to hurt. A carefully curated mirror held up to her face.
“‘Diva,’” Mara said, enunciating the word as though it were a diagnosis. “It’s gaining traction.”
Jackie laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Because I asked for sparkling water instead of still?”
The man from Crisis Strategy cleared his throat. “It’s not just that.”
Jackie’s smile tightened. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not.”
Emily finally spoke, voice small. “There was also the thing with the stylist.”
Jackie’s head snapped up. “I did not yell at her.”
“No one’s saying you did,” Mara said quickly. “But she did cry.”
Jackie scoffed. “She cried because her boyfriend forgot her birthday. I literally told her she deserved better.”
The room went quiet in that way that told Jackie the details didn’t matter.
Mara folded her hands. “Perception is everything.”
Jackie leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So what’s the perception? That I’m demanding? Because I’m a woman with opinions?”
“That you’re difficult,” the Crisis Strategy guy said flatly.
Jackie stared at him. “Funny how that word never applies to men who throw chairs.”
Mara winced. “Jackie”
“I’ve watched male co stars scream at PAs and get called ‘passionate,’” Jackie continued, heat rising in her chest. “I ask for decent lighting and suddenly I’m Marie Antoinette.”
“We agree with you,” Mara said, and Jackie almost laughed at how untrue it sounded. “But the public doesn’t see nuance. They see headlines.”
Jackie looked down at the folder and finally opened it.
There she was, frozen mid expression in an unflattering frame, mouth open, brows arched caught between sentences. The headline read:
JACKIE BURKHART: BEAUTY OR BEAST BEHIND THE SCENES?
Her stomach twisted.
Another page. A tweet with twenty thousand likes:
Pretty doesn’t excuse rude.
Another:
Why is she always so fake nice?
Jackie swallowed.
She had built her life on being seen. On controlling how she appeared. On knowing exactly what to wear, how to stand, when to smile. She had learned early that attention was currency, and she had been careful with it.
But this this was different. This was slippery. Viral. Uncontainable.
“So,” she said carefully, closing the folder. “What’s the fix?”
Mara’s relief was immediate, though she tried to hide it. “We lean into warmth. Approachability. Stability.”
Jackie raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to tell me to volunteer with puppies.”
“Actually,” Mara said, sliding another page across the table, “we were thinking romance.”
Jackie stared at the glossy headshot in front of her.
The man looked like he had been grown in a lab. Perfect teeth. Kind eyes. The kind of face that casting directors loved because it offended no one. He wore a Henley shirt and a gentle smile that suggested he said things like “aw shucks” and meant it.
“Who is this?” Jackie asked.
“Avery Cole,” Emily said, a little too eagerly. “He’s in that superhero franchise. You know, the one that”
“I know who he is,” Jackie said flatly. “Why is he here?”
Mara leaned forward. “He has an impeccable reputation. Charity work. No scandals. America’s sweetheart energy.”
Jackie felt something cold settle in her chest. “You want me to date him.”
“We want you to be seen with him,” Mara corrected. “Casually at first. Coffee. Walks. Nothing staged just organic moments.”
Jackie laughed, hollow. “You want to use him like a bandage.”
“This is mutually beneficial,” the Crisis Strategy guy said. “He’s open to it.”
Jackie looked back at the photo. Avery’s eyes seemed earnest. Trusting.
“Does he know I’m a rehab project?” she asked.
Mara hesitated for half a second too long. “He understands the optics.”
Jackie pushed the photo away. “I’m not a charity case.”
“No,” Mara said quickly. “You’re a brand.”
There it was.
Jackie exhaled slowly, pressing her fingertips together. She had known this moment would come eventually. Every woman in her position hit it sooner or later the point where being adored turned into being resented, where beauty became arrogance in the public imagination.
Still, knowing didn’t make it easier.
“How long?” Jackie asked.
“Six to eight weeks,” Mara said. “Enough to redirect the conversation.”
“And after that?”
Mara smiled, smooth and practiced. “Then you’re free.”
Jackie thought of the way her life had always been structured around appearances. Around what played well. Around what people expected from her.
She thought of how exhausting it was to always be on.
She thought briefly, unwillingly of Steven Hyde.
The thought surprised her. She hadn’t said his name in months. Hadn’t spoken to him in longer. He existed in a quiet corner of her mind now, dusty and unresolved, like an old song she couldn’t bring herself to delete.
Hyde had never cared about optics. He’d sneered at them. Mocked them. He’d looked at Jackie Burkhart lipstick, hair, ambition and seen something real when no one else bothered to look past the surface.
She pushed the thought away.
That life was over.
“Fine,” Jackie said, lifting her chin. “I’ll do it.”
Mara relaxed visibly. “Good. We’ll coordinate schedules. A soft leak to Page Six, nothing too obvious.”
Jackie stood, smoothing her skirt. “I have one condition.”
Mara blinked. “Of course.”
“No scripts,” Jackie said. “I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
Mara’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “We’ll… guide you.”
Jackie walked out before she could say anything she’d regret.
Later, alone in her apartment, Jackie kicked off her heels and sank onto the couch.
The silence pressed in on her. No assistants. No cameras. Just the hum of the city outside and the echo of the meeting replaying in her head.
She picked up her phone.
Her notifications were a minefield. Mentions. Think pieces. Armchair psychologists diagnosing her personality based on thirty second clips.
Jackie scrolled until it hurt.
Then she opened Instagram and paused.
She didn’t post.
Instead, she opened Spotify.
She didn’t know why. Muscle memory, maybe. Or self sabotage.
She searched a name she hadn’t typed in years.
Hyde.
His band’s page loaded slowly, gritty album art and song titles that looked like they were meant to challenge you. He looked different now older, rougher but his eyes were the same. Dark. Defiant. Unapologetic.
Jackie stared at his face on the screen.
He had never wanted this life. The meetings. The narratives. The constant negotiation of who you were allowed to be.
She wondered, not for the first time, if that was why it had hurt so much when he’d walked away. Because with him, she hadn’t needed armor.
Jackie locked her phone and set it aside.
She stood and walked to the mirror.
The woman looking back at her was flawless. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect posture.
A brand.
Jackie pressed her hand to the glass.
“Six weeks,” she whispered to herself. “You can do anything for six weeks.”
Outside, somewhere across the city, a different kind of meeting was happening. Guitars tuning. Lyrics being sharpened.
And the narrative hers and Hyde’s, tangled and unresolved was already shifting into something neither of them could control.
Steven Hyde hated Thursdays.
Something about them always felt unfinished, like the universe was holding its breath but refusing to exhale. Mondays were honest. Fridays at least had the decency to pretend things were going somewhere. Thursdays just… lingered.
The studio smelled like old beer, warm amps, and dust baked into carpet that had seen too many cigarettes and not enough forgiveness. Hyde liked it that way. Clean places made him itch. Clean places lied.
He sat on a cracked leather couch with his boots hooked on the edge of a low table, guitar balanced across his lap, fingers idly worrying at the strings without playing anything real. Across the room, the drummer Leo was tapping out a rhythm on his thighs, restless energy vibrating through him.
“So,” Leo said finally. “You gonna tell us who the song’s about, or are we pretending it’s just vibes?”
Hyde didn’t look up. “It’s not about anyone.”
“Uh huh,” said Mitch, the bassist, who was leaning against an amp and scrolling on his phone. “Because songs just accidentally drop the same week your famous ex debuts her Ken doll boyfriend.”
Hyde’s jaw tightened.
He twisted a tuning peg a fraction too hard. The string twanged in protest.
“I don’t follow celebrity gossip,” he said flatly.
Mitch snorted. “You don’t have to. The internet does it for you.”
Hyde finally looked up. “Drop it.”
The room went quiet not tense, exactly, but aware. The band had known Hyde long enough to recognize the signs. The stillness. The clipped responses. The way he went defensive without raising his voice.
Leo raised his hands. “Hey. I’m just saying, the timing’s… loud.”
Hyde leaned forward, elbows on his knees, guitar sliding slightly. “The song’s been written for months.”
“That line about ‘magazine covers’ wasn’t,” Mitch said.
Hyde shot him a glare. “You don’t know that.”
Mitch held up his phone. “Reddit’s already putting together spreadsheets.”
Hyde scoffed. “Of course they are.”
He stood, slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, and walked toward the sound booth. “We’re dropping the track. Today. No teaser.”
Leo blinked. “Today? Dude, we were gonna wait till next”
“Today,” Hyde repeated.
There was something in his voice that brooked no argument. Not anger. Something colder. More brittle.
The band exchanged looks but nodded.
Hyde disappeared into the booth and shut the door behind him.
The thing about writing a diss track if that’s what this was was that Hyde had never set out to do it.
The song had started as a riff, slow and sharp edged, the kind that crawled under your skin instead of punching you in the face. He’d written the first verse at three in the morning, sitting on the floor of his apartment with a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey and a head full of thoughts he refused to name.
He told himself it was about Hollywood.
About the machine. The way it chewed people up and spat out versions of them that were easier to sell. About smiling when it hurt. About choosing shine over substance.
It just happened to wear Jackie Burkhart’s face.
He hadn’t said her name. Hadn’t needed to. The shape of her was in every line anyway.
Hyde leaned into the mic, eyes closed, jaw clenched as he listened to the final mix play through the headphones.
She trades her spine for a spotlight glow
Loves any man who the cameras know
His voice sounded rougher than usual. Honest. Like something had been torn loose.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
He told himself he was over her.
He told himself this was just music.
By the time Hyde stepped back into the main room, Mitch was already grinning.
“It’s live,” he said. “Spotify, Apple, everything.”
Leo checked his phone. “Jesus. It’s already climbing.”
Hyde grabbed his jacket. “I’m heading out.”
“Wait,” Leo said. “You don’t wanna see the response?”
“No,” Hyde said too quickly. “I don’t.”
He left before they could argue.
Outside, the city was cold and loud and uncaring. Hyde lit a cigarette, even though he’d been trying to quit, and leaned against the brick wall of the studio.
The smoke burned his lungs. He welcomed it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
Buzzed again.
Ignored.
On the third buzz, he swore and pulled it out.
Mitch:
Dude. Reddit clocked it in under ten minutes.
Hyde rolled his eyes and typed back.
Hyde:
Clocked what?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Mitch:
That it’s about Jackie. Obviously.
Hyde stared at the screen.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Hyde:
It’s not.
The reply came with a link.
Hyde hesitated, then tapped it.
The Reddit thread loaded slowly, each second stretching like it was daring him to look away.
r/MusicDrama
Title: “Hyde’s new song ‘Plastic Smile’ is 100% about Jackie Burkhart and I will not be convinced otherwise.”
Top comment:
The timing alone is insane. Jackie’s PR team leaks her new relationship with the cleanest man alive and Hyde drops THIS? Come on.
Another:
Listen to the lyrics. ‘Magazine covers’? ‘Plastic’? He’s BEEN calling out her Hollywood era.
Another, with too many upvotes:
He always hated that she wanted fame. This feels bitter.
Hyde locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket.
Bitter.
The word stuck to him like tar.
He wasn’t bitter.
He was… honest.
Wasn’t he?
He walked for hours, letting the city blur around him. Every bar looked the same. Every reflection in a darkened window looked older than he felt.
At some point, he ended up in a dive near his apartment. Sticky floor. Cheap beer. No one paying attention to him.
Perfect.
He ordered a whiskey and sat at the bar, shoulders hunched, staring at nothing.
Jackie hadn’t crossed his mind this much in years.
He thought about the last time he’d seen her in person how she’d looked so put together it had almost hurt to look at. Like she was daring the world to try and crack her again.
He thought about how she used to sit on the hood of the Vista Cruiser, swinging her legs and complaining about everything and nothing, somehow softer when no one else was around.
He thought about how she’d wanted more than Point Place. More than small dreams. More than him.
And how he’d let her go because he’d convinced himself that loving her meant standing in the way.
The bartender set the drink down.
Hyde downed it in one swallow.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t Mitch.
It was a notification.
@StevenFHyde mentioned you in a tweet
Hyde frowned and opened it.
A fan account had clipped the chorus of Plastic Smile over paparazzi footage of Jackie laughing beside some guy Hyde didn’t recognize but instantly hated. The caption read:
He said what we were all thinking.
Hyde’s stomach twisted.
He scrolled.
More clips. More takes. People dissecting his lyrics like entrails.
Someone tweeted:
Jackie Burkhart really said “image rehab” and Hyde said “absolutely not.”
Hyde slammed his phone down on the bar.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” Hyde muttered.
He picked the phone back up.
He shouldn’t have.
He knew better.
But he opened Jackie’s name anyway.
Her feed was pristine. Perfect lighting. Smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes if you knew how to look. And there it was photos of her and the guy from the Reddit thread, walking side by side, hands brushing like it meant something.
Hyde stared.
The guy looked like a mannequin. All clean lines and safe edges. The kind of man you put next to someone when you wanted to say, See? She’s normal. She’s harmless.
Hyde laughed, humorless.
Of course that’s what she’d do.
Of course she’d choose someone who fit.
He typed without thinking.
Stopped.
Deleted.
Typed again.
His thumb hovered.
He told himself he didn’t care.
Then he tweeted.
@StevenFHyde:
Funny how you always fall for men who look good on magazine covers.
The tweet sent.
Hyde stared at the screen, heart pounding, a strange mix of relief and regret flooding his chest.
Within seconds, the likes started climbing.
Retweets.
Replies.
He’d thrown a match into gasoline and pretended it was an accident.
Across the city, Jackie’s phone would be confiscated within the hour.
Hyde didn’t know that yet.
All he knew was that the silence he’d been living with for years had finally cracked, and whatever came next was going to hurt.
He finished his drink and stood.
As he walked out into the night, Hyde told himself one last lie.
I don’t care.
And for a moment just a moment he almost believed it.
Jackie Burkhart found out the world was on fire because Donna Pinciotti called her five times in a row.
Jackie was in the middle of hair and makeup, sitting under fluorescent lights that were too bright and too unforgiving, her phone resting face down on the counter like a bad omen. The stylist was curling a section of her hair with clinical precision, and Jackie was staring at her own reflection, cataloging imperfections no one else would notice.
The phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
By the third vibration, the stylist glanced at it nervously, like it might explode.
“You can answer it,” Jackie said, voice flat. “It’s probably just my mom panicking about something on Facebook.”
The stylist hesitated. “Your publicist asked us to”
The phone buzzed again.
Jackie reached for it.
Donna’s name filled the screen.
Jackie answered. “Hi, Donna.”
“Jackie,” Donna said, breathless. “Where are you right now?”
“In a chair,” Jackie replied. “Why?”
There was a pause. A dangerous one.
“Okay,” Donna said slowly. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.”
Jackie’s stomach tightened. “Donna.”
“Do not open Twitter.”
Jackie closed her eyes.
Too late.
Her thumb was already moving, muscle memory overriding caution. The app loaded faster than it ever had before, like it couldn’t wait to hurt her.
And there it was.
Hyde’s name. Verified. Blue checkmark. Familiar handle that used to text her dumb jokes at three in the morning.
@StevenFHyde:
Funny how you always fall for men who look good on magazine covers.
Jackie stared at the screen.
The room seemed to tilt.
The stylist said something her name, maybe but it sounded distant, warped, like Jackie was underwater.
Donna was still talking. “Jackie? Jackie, are you there?”
Jackie swallowed. Her throat burned. “He tweeted.”
“Yes,” Donna said gently. “Yes, he did.”
Jackie laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Wow. So mature. He writes a whole song calling me fake and then tweets like a bitter fourteen year old.”
“Jackie”
“He always does this,” Jackie continued, words tumbling out too fast. “He pretends he’s above it and then boom public humiliation. Like he’s the only one allowed to feel hurt.”
Donna didn’t interrupt this time. She let Jackie spiral, which somehow made it worse.
Jackie stared at the tweet again.
It had already been liked tens of thousands of times.
People were replying.
He ate her up.
Finally someone said it.
Why is she always dating walking billboards?
Jackie’s chest felt tight. Like something was pressing down on her ribs.
“Donna,” she said, voice breaking despite her effort to keep it steady. “He didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Donna said softly.
Jackie’s reflection stared back at her from the mirror perfect makeup, glossy hair, eyes rimmed with the faintest red that even the best concealer couldn’t fully erase.
She looked composed.
She felt flayed.
“I have to go,” Jackie said abruptly.
“Jackie”
“I have to talk to him.”
“Please don’t,” Donna said. “Not right now.”
Jackie hung up.
Her fingers hovered over the reply box.
The urge was overwhelming. A physical pull. Like scratching at a wound even though you knew it would bleed.
She typed.
Funny how you always think you’re above it while profiting off my name.
Deleted.
Typed again.
You don’t know anything about my life anymore.
Deleted.
Typed again.
You don’t get to judge me for surviving.
Deleted.
Her hands were shaking now.
The stylist had stopped curling her hair. Everyone in the room had gone quiet, pretending not to watch, pretending Jackie Burkhart wasn’t unraveling in real time.
Jackie stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair.
“I need a minute,” she said.
She walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
The quiet was deafening.
She leaned against the counter, gripping the edge like it might anchor her. Her phone buzzed again notifications stacking, the world reacting faster than she could think.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
Hyde’s words echoed in her head.
Men who look good on magazine covers.
As if she hadn’t known exactly what she was doing.
As if it hadn’t cost her something.
Jackie slid down until she was sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to her chest, phone clutched in her hand.
She remembered a different Hyde. One who had rolled his eyes at her obsession with appearance but had still waited patiently while she reapplied lipstick in the Vista Cruiser’s rearview mirror. One who had held her hand in the dark when no one was watching.
He knew her.
That was the worst part.
He knew where to aim.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t a notification.
It was a knock on the door.
“Jackie?” Mara’s voice, calm and controlled. “Open the door, please.”
Jackie didn’t move.
“Jackie,” Mara repeated, a little firmer now. “We need to talk.”
Jackie unlocked the door and stood, smoothing her dress automatically, reflexively. Armor on.
Mara took one look at her phone and sighed.
“Okay,” Mara said. “I’m going to need you to hand that over.”
Jackie blinked. “What?”
“Your phone,” Mara said, holding out her hand. “Now.”
Jackie’s grip tightened around it. “No.”
Mara’s expression didn’t change, but something sharpened behind her eyes. “Jackie, this is escalating. You responding right now would pour gasoline on an already massive fire.”
“He attacked me,” Jackie snapped. “Publicly.”
“And if you respond,” Mara said evenly, “you become the villain in the story he’s already framing.”
Jackie laughed bitterly. “Oh, so I just shut up and let him say whatever he wants?”
“For now,” Mara said. “Yes.”
Jackie shook her head. “You can’t just”
“Jackie,” Mara interrupted, voice still gentle but unyielding. “This is damage control.”
The phrase hit her like a slap.
Damage.
Control.
As if she were a wildfire instead of a person.
Jackie looked down at her phone.
At the half written reply still sitting in the draft box.
At the words she wasn’t allowed to say.
Her chest ached.
“He always does this,” Jackie whispered, more to herself than to Mara. “He gets to be raw and honest and angry, and I have to be… quiet. Palatable.”
Mara softened, just a fraction. “I know this feels unfair.”
“It is unfair,” Jackie said, tears threatening despite her efforts. “He knows exactly how hard I worked to get here. And he makes it sound like I just… traded myself in.”
Mara waited.
Jackie swallowed. “I didn’t want this. Not like this.”
There it was.
The truth she rarely admitted.
Mara stepped closer. “Hand me the phone, Jackie.”
Jackie hesitated.
For a moment, she considered refusing. Posting anyway. Letting herself be messy and loud and human.
Then she imagined the headlines.
Jackie Burkhart Melts Down Online.
Diva Confirms Reputation.
Her shoulders slumped.
She handed over the phone.
The weight leaving her hand felt like a loss.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Jackie smiled when she was told to smile. Answered questions with rehearsed warmth. Let herself be guided from room to room like a doll being repositioned on a shelf.
Inside, she was screaming.
Hyde’s tweet followed her everywhere. Whispers on set. Sideways glances. Someone’s phone lighting up when they thought she wasn’t looking.
She wasn’t allowed to address it.
Instead, her team released a statement emphasizing positivity, growth, and “not engaging in negativity.”
Jackie hated it.
By the time she got home that night, she felt hollowed out.
Her apartment was immaculate. Too clean. No trace of chaos. No sign that a person actually lived there.
She sank onto the couch and stared at the blank television screen.
Without her phone, time stretched uncomfortably. There was nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
They circled Hyde relentlessly.
She replayed the tweet again and again, dissecting it, imagining the satisfaction he must have felt pressing send.
She wondered if he’d hesitated.
If he’d felt even a flicker of guilt.
Or if she really had become exactly what he’d always feared.
Jackie curled into herself.
She had done everything right. Played by the rules. Worked harder than anyone ever acknowledged.
And still, somehow, she was the problem.
Outside, the city buzzed on, indifferent.
Somewhere else, Hyde was probably telling himself he didn’t care.
Jackie closed her eyes and whispered into the empty room, “You don’t get to define me.”
But without her voice, it felt like no one could hear.
Steven Hyde woke up with a headache that felt earned.
It pulsed behind his eyes in a slow, punishing rhythm, the kind that came from equal parts cheap whiskey, too little sleep, and the lingering aftermath of adrenaline finally crashing. The room was dim, curtains half drawn, morning light slicing across the floor in a way that felt accusatory.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Hyde groaned and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Pretending the world hadn’t noticed him. Pretending he hadn’t said anything worth noticing.
The phone buzzed again.
With a sigh, he grabbed it and squinted at the screen.
Notifications stacked like a crime scene.
Mentions. Messages. Missed calls. His name trending in places he didn’t want to see.
He closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he muttered to the empty room. “That tracks.”
He opened Twitter anyway. Because of course he did.
The tweet was still there.
Still climbing.
Likes in the hundreds of thousands now. Retweets multiplying like he’d unleashed something that fed on itself.
People weren’t just talking about Jackie anymore. They were talking about him.
Hyde finally said what we were all thinking.
Artists calling out fake celebrity culture is always a win.
Jackie Burkhart deserved this.
Hyde scrolled.
A knot tightened in his chest.
This wasn’t what he’d imagined. In his head, the tweet had been a release valve a sharp, contained thing. A line thrown into the void.
Instead, it had become a bonfire.
He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face.
There were replies, too. Thousands of them. Some supportive. Some ugly. Some taking it further than he ever had.
She’s nothing without PR.
She slept her way into relevance.
Plastic is right.
Hyde’s jaw clenched.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
He hadn’t said that.
He hadn’t meant that.
He told himself it wasn’t his responsibility what people did with his words. He told himself he couldn’t control how the internet behaved. He told himself Jackie had chosen a public life and knew the risks.
All true.
None of it made the weight in his chest go away.
He swung his legs out of bed and padded into the kitchen, the cold floor biting at his feet. The place was a mess empty bottles, guitar cases, clothes draped over furniture like abandoned thoughts.
Hyde poured himself stale coffee and drank it anyway.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Leo.
Hyde answered without thinking. “Yeah.”
“What the hell did you do?” Leo asked.
Hyde winced. “Good morning to you too.”
“You trending is not the same as the band trending,” Leo snapped. “You hijacked the release.”
Hyde leaned against the counter. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“You tweeted,” Leo said. “About her.”
Hyde didn’t respond.
“That wasn’t just venting, man,” Leo continued. “That was throwing a match.”
Hyde exhaled slowly. “I know.”
There was a pause.
“Do you?” Leo asked. “Because it doesn’t sound like you thought past the dopamine hit.”
Hyde bristled. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not,” Leo said. “I’m asking if this was worth it.”
Hyde stared at the wall.
Was it?
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Leo sighed. “Look, I get it. She hurt you. Or whatever.”
Hyde flinched at the reduction.
“But this?” Leo said. “This is bigger than that now.”
Hyde hung up without saying goodbye.
By noon, the regret started to settle in fully.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with tears or dramatic revelations. It arrived quietly, insidiously, in the form of things Hyde couldn’t unsee.
Screenshots of Jackie looking stiff and hollow at events, captions speculating about her silence.
Articles framing him as the “authentic rebel” and her as the “manufactured star.”
Think pieces praising his honesty at the expense of her humanity.
Hyde sat on the couch and scrolled until his eyes burned.
This wasn’t a conversation anymore.
It was a pile on.
He tried to tell himself she could handle it. That Jackie Burkhart was strong. That she’d survived worse.
But the truth crept in anyway.
He remembered how deeply she’d cared what people thought, no matter how much she pretended she didn’t. How every insult lodged somewhere inside her, cataloged and remembered.
He remembered how she’d once cried in his car because a magazine had called her “pretty but empty.”
Hyde had told her they were idiots.
Now he’d practically handed them a megaphone.
He tossed the phone aside and stood, restless energy crawling under his skin.
The studio might help. Noise always helped.
He grabbed his jacket and left.
The studio was quiet when he arrived. Too quiet. No bandmates. No amps humming.
Hyde set his guitar down and sat on the edge of the stage, staring at nothing.
The lyrics of Plastic Smile echoed in his head.
He’d meant it as critique. As commentary.
But intent didn’t erase impact.
He pulled out a notebook and flipped through pages of half written lines, angry thoughts, unfinished confessions.
One page caught his eye.
A lyric he’d crossed out weeks ago.
She learned to smile because silence scared her.
Hyde swallowed.
He closed the notebook.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t a call or a notification.
It was a text.
From Donna.
Hyde stared at her name like it might disappear if he looked too long.
Finally, he opened it.
Donna:
She’s not okay.
Hyde’s chest tightened.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Hyde:
I didn’t mean
He stopped.
What did that even mean?
Donna:
Her phone was taken. She can’t respond even if she wanted to.
That hit harder than expected.
Hyde sank onto the bench.
Hyde:
Are they serious?
Donna:
Yes. And people are saying things she can’t defend herself against.
Hyde stared at the floor.
Hyde:
I shouldn’t have tweeted.
There it was.
The truth, finally stated.
Donna took a long time to respond.
Donna:
No. You shouldn’t have wanted to hurt her.
Hyde closed his eyes.
The worst part wasn’t the backlash.
It wasn’t the criticism or even the guilt.
It was the realization that he had become exactly what he claimed to hate.
Someone with a platform punching down and calling it authenticity.
Someone mistaking cruelty for honesty.
He had always told himself he stood outside the system.
But the system had a way of absorbing everything even rebellion.
Especially rebellion.
That night, Hyde sat alone in his apartment, guitar untouched, phone face down on the table.
He drafted apology tweets he never sent.
I didn’t mean to start a pile on.
This wasn’t about Jackie as a person.
I’m sorry.
Each one felt insufficient.
Public apologies turned into performances. He knew that better than anyone.
And yet silence felt like cowardice.
He stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city.
Somewhere, Jackie was being told to smile through it. To stay quiet. To let it pass.
Hyde had always hated that expectation.
And now he’d enforced it.
Near midnight, he opened Twitter one last time.
He scrolled past the noise until he found the tweet.
His tweet.
The words looked smaller now. Meaner.
He considered deleting it.
Then he imagined the headlines.
Hyde Backtracks.
Damage Control.
He closed the app.
He didn’t delete it.
But he didn’t feel victorious either.
He felt tired.
And for the first time since the song dropped, he admitted something he’d been avoiding since the moment he hit “send.”
Hurting Jackie hadn’t made him feel powerful.
It had made him feel empty.
Hyde lay back on the couch and stared into the dark.
Tomorrow, the world would keep talking.
Tomorrow, Jackie would still be silent.
And tomorrow, he would have to figure out how to live with the sound of it all.
The first thing Jackie noticed when she got her phone back was how heavy it felt.
Not physically though that too, familiar weight settling back into her palm but emotionally, like it had absorbed everything she hadn’t been allowed to say. It had been three days. Three days of silence that felt longer than any breakup she could remember, longer than any scandal she’d lived through.
Mara handed it to her like it was something fragile.
“We’re still recommending minimal engagement,” Mara said carefully. “But the worst of the cycle is passing.”
Jackie nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak yet.
She waited until she was alone in the back seat of the car before unlocking it.
The screen lit up.
Hundreds of notifications flooded in at once, the phone vibrating nonstop in her hand like it was trying to warn her. Mentions. Messages. Missed calls. Think pieces. Apologies from people who had never said anything kind to her before.
Jackie scrolled slowly, deliberately.
She didn’t open Hyde’s tweet.
She didn’t have to.
She already knew it by heart.
What surprised her were the other things.
A long DM from a girl who said Jackie had inspired her to leave an abusive relationship. A comment buried under an article saying, I think we forget she’s a real person. A quiet, simple text from an old stylist: I’m sorry they did this to you.
The internet hadn’t turned kinder.
But it had grown… complicated.
Jackie leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
For the first time since the tweet dropped, her chest didn’t feel like it was collapsing in on itself.
That night, Jackie didn’t turn on the television.
She didn’t order takeout or pour a glass of wine or distract herself with noise.
She sat on the floor of her living room, back against the couch, phone resting screen down beside her like a truce she wasn’t ready to break.
The apartment was quiet in a way that felt intentional.
She stared at the far wall, letting herself think.
Really think.
She thought about Hyde’s song. About how she’d avoided listening to it after the first time, as if refusing to engage could somehow make it stop existing.
She thought about the word plastic.
About how often people used it like a verdict.
As if wanting nice things, wanting recognition, wanting more than what you were handed automatically stripped you of sincerity.
Jackie had spent her whole life being underestimated. First as the pretty girl. Then as the rich girl. Then as the famous girl who must have had everything handed to her.
No one saw the way she worked twice as hard to be taken seriously. The way she memorized scripts until her head ached. The way she bit her tongue in rooms full of men who talked over her.
No one saw how often she swallowed herself to survive.
She wrapped her arms around her knees.
Hyde had seen it.
That was the problem.
She finally opened Twitter near midnight.
Not to respond. Not yet.
She searched his name.
Bad idea.
The discourse had shifted, but it hadn’t softened.
People argued over intent versus impact. Over whether Jackie was “in on it.” Over whether Hyde was a hero or just another man tearing down a woman to look authentic.
Jackie scrolled until her eyes blurred.
Then she stopped.
Not on Hyde.
On herself.
Someone had posted an old clip grainy, clearly ripped from a DVD of her at nineteen, sitting in the Vista Cruiser, complaining about nothing in particular while Hyde leaned against the hood, cigarette dangling from his lips.
The caption read:
This version of Jackie deserved better.
Jackie stared at the image.
She barely recognized herself.
Not because she looked different but because she remembered exactly how she’d felt in that moment. Loud. Insecure. Desperate to be loved without conditions.
She swallowed hard.
She hadn’t stopped wanting that.
She’d just learned how to hide it better.
The next morning, Jackie declined two interviews.
Mara frowned but didn’t argue.
“You okay?” Donna asked later, sitting cross legged on Jackie’s couch with a mug of tea she hadn’t touched.
Jackie considered the question.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I don’t think I’m broken.”
Donna smiled faintly. “That’s new.”
Jackie huffed a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
“Hyde called me,” Donna said carefully.
Jackie stiffened. “When?”
“Last night.”
Jackie looked away. “What did he want?”
Donna hesitated. “To apologize.”
Jackie’s throat tightened. “Did he?”
“He tried,” Donna said. “He sounded… wrecked.”
Jackie closed her eyes.
She didn’t feel triumphant.
She didn’t feel vindicated.
She felt tired.
“I don’t know what I’d even say to him,” Jackie admitted.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Donna said. “You don’t owe him closure.”
Jackie nodded.
She knew that.
But knowing didn’t make the ache go away.
Later that day, Jackie stood in front of her mirror and didn’t fix her hair.
She wore a sweatshirt an old one, soft and stretched out and minimal makeup.
She looked… normal.
The realization startled her.
She snapped a photo.
Not for Instagram.
Just for herself.
Then, after a long moment, she opened Notes.
She started typing.
Not a tweet.
Not a statement.
Just words.
I’m tired of being quiet when I’m hurting.
I’m tired of being reduced to an image.
I’m not plastic. I’m not perfect. I’m not disposable.
She stopped.
Read it over.
Deleted nothing.
She didn’t post it.
But she saved it.
That felt like something.
Hyde didn’t contact her.
Not directly.
That, somehow, hurt and relieved her at the same time.
Part of her wanted him to show up, metaphorically or otherwise, and make it right. To say the exact words that would ease the sting.
Another part of her resented the idea that her healing might depend on his apology.
She refused to give him that power again.
A week later, Jackie attended an event without her “boyfriend.”
The press noticed immediately.
Questions buzzed.
Jackie smiled and answered calmly.
“We’re no longer together,” she said. “I wish him the best.”
No defensiveness. No spin.
Just truth.
The headlines were gentler this time.
Jackie Burkhart Moves Forward.
Jackie Burkhart Chooses Herself.
She didn’t read too closely.
That night, alone again, Jackie finally listened to Plastic Smile all the way through.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, letting the song wash over her.
It hurt.
But not in the way she’d expected.
Some of it was unfair. Some of it was cruel. Some of it was projection masquerading as truth.
But underneath it all beneath the anger and the distortion was something else.
Fear.
Hyde had been afraid of losing her to a world he didn’t understand.
She had been afraid of staying small.
Neither of them had known how to bridge that gap.
The song ended.
Jackie sat in the quiet afterward, breathing slowly.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t throw the phone.
She just sat with it.
She opened Twitter.
Her finger hovered.
Then she typed.
Not a subtweet.
Not a callout.
Just one sentence.
@jackieburkhart:
I’m allowed to grow, even if it makes people uncomfortable.
She hit send.
The reaction was immediate.
Support. Pushback. Analysis.
Jackie muted the app and set the phone down.
Her heart was racing but she felt grounded.
For the first time since this started, she’d spoken in her own voice.
Across the city, Hyde saw the tweet.
He stared at it for a long time.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just quiet.
He didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Jackie wasn’t talking to him.
She was talking to herself.
And that, more than anything, made him realize what he’d almost taken from her.
Jackie went to bed that night feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
The world was still loud.
The narrative wasn’t fixed.
But the space between silence and survival that space was hers now.
And whatever came next, she wouldn’t disappear into it again.
The bar wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
That was what Jackie told herself when she walked in hood up, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact. It was the kind of place that existed outside the algorithm. No velvet ropes. No step and repeat. No incentive for anyone to pretend they were someone else.
Donna had suggested it, casually. “It’s quiet. No one goes there anymore.”
Jackie had agreed without thinking.
Only when she pushed through the door did she realize why her chest felt tight.
This was exactly the kind of place Hyde would love.
The air smelled like old wood and stale beer. The jukebox in the corner played something scratchy and half forgotten. A few people sat scattered across mismatched tables, conversations low and unperformative.
Jackie hesitated just inside the door.
Then she saw him.
Hyde was leaning against the bar, black jacket slung over the back of a stool, one boot hooked around the rung. He looked older than she remembered not worse, just… lived in. His hair was longer, threaded with the faintest silver at the temples. His shoulders were still tense, like he expected the world to swing at him when he wasn’t looking.
For a moment, Jackie considered leaving.
No one had seen her yet.
She could turn around. Claim the night. Keep the closure she’d carved out for herself intact.
Then Hyde turned slightly, and their eyes met.
The world didn’t explode.
No dramatic music. No slow motion.
Just recognition.
Hyde froze.
Jackie didn’t.
She crossed the room before she could overthink it, boots quiet against the worn floor.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
Her voice didn’t shake.
Hyde blinked, then huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
Jackie folded her arms. “You always were.”
He nodded, eyes flicking over her face like he was checking for damage. “You look… good.”
Jackie snorted. “Wow. Original.”
“I didn’t mean”
“I know what you meant,” she said, softer now. “You always mean more than you say.”
That landed.
Hyde swallowed. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Jackie considered it.
“No,” she said. “But you can sit.”
They took a booth near the back. The vinyl cracked faintly beneath them. For a moment, neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t hostile.
It was careful.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Hyde said finally.
“Neither did I,” Jackie replied. “Donna said it was quiet.”
He glanced around. “It usually is.”
Another pause.
Hyde rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I shouldn’t have tweeted.”
Jackie exhaled slowly. “No. You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t think”
“You never do,” she said, then stopped herself. Closed her eyes. Reopened them. “That’s not fair. You think. You just… think with your anger first.”
Hyde flinched. “Yeah.”
Jackie studied him.
He looked tired. Not in a performative way. In the way people do when they’ve spent too long believing their pain excused everything.
“You hurt me,” she said.
“I know,” Hyde replied quietly.
“You knew exactly where to aim.”
“I know.”
She waited for him to defend himself.
He didn’t.
Jackie felt something inside her loosen.
“You made it sound like I sold myself,” she continued. “Like I chose that life because I’m shallow.”
Hyde shook his head immediately. “I don’t think you’re shallow.”
“But you let everyone else think it.”
Hyde’s throat bobbed. “I was angry.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know.”
Jackie leaned back against the booth, staring at the table between them. The wood was carved with initials and old scars.
“I didn’t want the PR relationship,” she said suddenly.
Hyde looked up. “What?”
“I didn’t want it,” she repeated. “I did it because I was told I had to. Because I was being labeled ‘difficult’ and ‘ungrateful’ and I was scared.”
He stared at her.
“I’ve always been scared,” Jackie admitted. “I just dress it up better now.”
Hyde’s voice was rough. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jackie laughed softly. “You weren’t exactly in my life anymore, Steven.”
He winced at the use of his full name.
“You walked away,” she continued. “Because you thought staying meant betraying yourself. And I let you, because I thought wanting more meant betraying you.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
“I wrote the song because I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” Hyde said.
Jackie’s head snapped up. “That’s a terrible excuse.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s the truth, though.”
She stared at him, searching for irony.
There was none.
“I was afraid,” he went on. “That you’d become someone I couldn’t reach. That you’d forget who you were.”
Jackie’s voice softened despite herself. “I didn’t forget.”
“I know that now,” Hyde said. “I didn’t then.”
She nodded slowly.
“I didn’t forget you either,” she said. “But I couldn’t stay the same just so you wouldn’t feel left behind.”
Hyde nodded. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”
The irony of that hung between them.
They both laughed quietly, a shared recognition of how badly they’d misunderstood each other.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Hyde said after a moment. “I don’t think I deserve that.”
Jackie considered him.
“I already did,” she said. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
Hyde’s eyes flickered. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not disappearing,” he said. “You could have.”
She shrugged. “I spent too long disappearing for other people. I’m done with that.”
He smiled faintly. “Sounds like you.”
She smiled back.
Not plastic.
Not practiced.
Just real.
The jukebox changed songs.
Something slow. Familiar.
They sat with it.
“So,” Hyde said eventually. “What happens now?”
Jackie thought about it.
About the past. About the future. About all the versions of herself she’d been, and the one she was still becoming.
“We go back to our lives,” she said. “Separate ones.”
Hyde nodded. “Yeah.”
“And we don’t use each other as ammunition,” she added.
He winced. “Fair.”
Jackie stood. “Take care of yourself, Steven.”
He stood too, hands shoved into his pockets. “You too, Jackie.”
They lingered for a moment.
Not close enough to touch.
Not far enough to pretend they hadn’t mattered.
Then Jackie turned and walked toward the door.
She didn’t look back.
Hyde didn’t ask her to.
Outside, the night air was cool and grounding.
Jackie breathed it in, deep and steady.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn’t check it right away.
She walked.
When she finally did look, it was a notification not from Hyde.
From herself.
A reminder she’d set days ago.
You’re allowed to take up space.
Jackie smiled.
Across the city, Hyde sat back down in the booth and stared at the empty seat across from him.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the urge to write about it.
Some things were better left unperformed.
The internet would move on.
It always did.
New scandals. New villains. New narratives.
Jackie would keep growing. Hyde would keep making music.
Their story would exist only in fragments now old episodes, old songs, old memories softened by time.
But for once, that felt okay.
Because they had said the things that mattered.
Without cameras.
Without applause.
Without trying to win.
And that was enough.
The first time they tried again, it was awkward.
Not painful just… careful. Like two people handling something fragile they both remembered breaking.
It had been four years since the bar. Four years since the night they’d sat across from each other with nothing but honesty and restraint between them, choosing not to reopen wounds they didn’t yet know how to heal.
Life had moved on.
Jackie Burkhart had stopped being a headline in the way people expected. She still worked still acted, still produced but she did it on her own terms now. Fewer red carpets. Smaller projects with more control. She was respected in rooms that once dismissed her.
Steven Hyde’s band had grown quieter and better. Less rage. More depth. He’d stopped writing songs that bled and started writing ones that lingered. He still toured, but not endlessly. He slept more. Drank less. Learned, slowly, how to sit with himself.
They followed each other online again before they ever spoke.
It felt like a truce.
Then, one day, Hyde liked a photo Jackie posted nothing glamorous, just her in a garden, dirt on her hands, smiling at something off camera.
Jackie stared at the notification for a long time.
Then she liked one of his back.
That was how it started.
The first coffee was stiff.
They met in the middle literally and emotionally. A quiet café halfway between their neighborhoods. Jackie wore sunglasses out of habit, then took them off when she realized no one was looking.
Hyde stood when she walked in.
That made her smile.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I did.”
They talked about safe things at first. Work. Donna. Music. The weather. Anything that didn’t crack open the past.
When they hugged goodbye, it was brief and polite.
They both went home wondering if that was it.
It wasn’t.
The second date was easier.
The third involved laughter.
By the fifth, Jackie found herself sitting cross legged on Hyde’s couch, barefoot, complaining about a producer who’d tried to explain her own character to her.
Hyde listened. Really listened.
“You know,” he said, “you don’t do that thing anymore.”
“What thing?”
“Apologize for taking up space.”
Jackie blinked. Then laughed softly. “Huh.”
It startled her how seen she felt without feeling dissected.
They didn’t rush it.
No dramatic declarations. No grand gestures.
Just consistency.
Just showing up.
The first fight came six months in.
It was stupid. Scheduling. Hyde canceling dinner last minute for a studio emergency. Jackie hearing echoes of old patterns and snapping before she realized what she was doing.
“You always choose work,” she said, sharper than she meant.
Hyde went still.
They sat in silence, the air thick with memory.
Then Hyde spoke.
“I used to choose anger,” he said quietly. “Now I choose responsibility. I’m not pushing you away.”
Jackie swallowed. “I know. I just panicked.”
“Me too,” he admitted.
They talked it through.
No yelling.
No disappearing.
That was when Jackie realized something fundamental had changed.
This wasn’t a rerun.
This was new.
The proposal didn’t happen on a stage or at an event.
It happened in their kitchen.
Jackie was barefoot, wearing one of Hyde’s old band shirts, chopping vegetables with the kind of focus that suggested she was thinking about something else entirely.
Hyde watched her for a long moment from the doorway.
He’d known for months.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just a quiet certainty that had settled into his bones.
He loved her.
Not the idea of her. Not the memory.
Her.
Now.
He cleared his throat.
“Jackie.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
He walked toward her, heart pounding like he was seventeen again but steadier this time. Intentional.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said.
She frowned. “Okay…”
“I’m not asking because I’m afraid of losing you,” he continued. “I’m asking because I choose you. Every day. Even when it’s boring. Even when it’s hard.”
Jackie set the knife down slowly.
Hyde reached into his pocket.
Her breath caught.
“I used to think marriage was a trap,” he said. “Turns out, I was just afraid of staying.”
He knelt.
Jackie covered her mouth, tears springing instantly.
“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Not because of history. Not because of timing. But because this us feels like home.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she said, voice breaking. “God, yes.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger with hands that shook just a little.
She laughed through tears and pulled him up into a kiss that tasted like relief and certainty and something earned.
They told Donna first.
Donna screamed.
Then cried.
Then threatened Hyde with bodily harm if he ever hurt Jackie again.
Hyde accepted this calmly.
They told Kitty and Red next.
Kitty cried and hugged them both too tightly. Red nodded once and said, “About time,” like he’d known all along.
Jackie’s mother tried to take credit.
Jackie shut that down immediately.
They didn’t rush the wedding.
They talked about it.
About what they wanted. What they didn’t.
They agreed on small.
Intimate.
No spectacle.
“This is for us,” Jackie said.
Hyde nodded. “No cameras.”
They talked about kids too.
Not in a fantasy way but realistically. Honestly.
“I want them,” Jackie admitted one night, curled against Hyde on the couch. “Not right away. But someday.”
Hyde pressed a kiss to her hair. “Me too.”
She tilted her head to look at him. “You’d be a good dad.”
He snorted. “I’d be terrifying.”
“You’d be patient,” she corrected. “And you’d teach them how to question everything.”
“And you’d teach them how to stand up straight and not apologize,” he said.
Jackie smiled.
It felt possible.
Not perfect.
But real.
Years ago, love had felt like something that happened to them.
Now, it felt like something they were building.
Brick by brick.
Choice by choice.
On a quiet night, Jackie sat on their porch, engagement ring catching the light as she absentmindedly turned it around her finger.
“You ever think about how badly we messed this up the first time?” she asked.
Hyde chuckled. “Constantly.”
“And yet,” she said, leaning into him, “here we are.”
“Yeah,” he replied, wrapping an arm around her. “The last time.”
She smiled at that.
The final time.
Not because love was fragile.
But because they weren’t anymore.
They would argue sometimes.
They would grow.
They would change.
But they would not disappear on each other again.
They had learned finally that love wasn’t about being ready all at once.
It was about becoming ready together.
And this time, they were.