The silence after the generators go still is deafening. The sea lapping against the beach is not enough to lure Sariah to sleep. The wind threads through the palms, shaking the leaves around her, and she can hear the small movements of something in the brush. The night feels larger without the cameras humming.

She sits cross-legged on her cot, knees glowing with sunburn, mascara ghosted beneath her eyes. The crew packed up an hour ago, but the heat still clings to the fabric walls of her tent. She peels off the contestant wristband they all have to wear and stares at the pale stripe it’s left on her skin. It looks like proof that she’s been claimed. 

She tells herself not to overthink it. It’s a game, a show, a job. Still—her mind keeps replaying the day, ignoring her stomach flips. 

The handshake with Ryan that lingered a second too long. The way Tara whispered to Noah at the water barrel, laughing like they’d been friends for years. The host’s voice echoing “Welcome to Stranded!” as if it were scripture.

Sariah had smiled the whole time, camera-ready, even when sweat stung her eyes. Now she can’t stop wondering how they’ll cut it together. Will she look clever, or desperate? Calm, or calculating? She’s seen enough seasons to know: edit is destiny. 

She flips open the tiny journal she smuggled in, the one production doesn’t know about. Its pages already smell like salt and sunscreen. She scratches out: Day 1, I’m pretending this is fun. No one seems real yet. Maybe I’m not either.

The pen blots. She closes her notebook and stares at the dark slit of sky above the mesh window. She realizes that this is the first time in a while that she’s been able to really see the stars. Just then a shooting star falls, fast and cheap. It reminds her of something her ex once said during their last fight—You burn bright, Sariah, but you burn out faster. She had laughed at him then, but it doesn’t feel funny here. 

She pulls out the old phone they let her keep for music. No service, just stored memories. A voicemail icon waits there like a dare. She takes a deep breath before she plays it. It’s her sister’s voice, small and trying to sound brave: “If you actually do this show, don’t let them make you the villain, okay?”

Sariah laughs once sourly, too loud in the tent. “Too late,” she murmurs. 

Outside, someone coughs. A tent zipper whispers. Maybe the others can’t sleep either. She imagines the editors splicing this night into silence—no tears, no hesitation, just the next morning, bright and cruel. 

She picks up her notebook and quickly jots one last line: If they only filmed this part, maybe they’d see me differently.

A scratch at the canvas of her tent grabs her attention. “Sariah? We need you for a quick pickup shot before lights out.” 

She exhales, wipes her face with the heel of her hand, and pastes on the grin. By the time she steps into the torchlight, the ocean noise has disappeared again—swallowed by generators, crew chatter, and the low hum of make-believe.

Tropes & Themes:

• Enemies-to-lovers

• Workplace forbidden romance

• "You forgot me? I’ll make you remember."

• Reality TV satire

• Forced proximity

• Power dynamics & subversion