Roz sits in her desk chair with her legs drawn to her chest, jutting out her chin awkwardly so that she can rest it on her knees. Her arms are fully extended before her so that she can reach her typewriter-inspired keyboard. Her eyes squint as she alternates between glaring at the screen before her and at the thick stack of pages next to her right hand.

I dust the shelf of writing awards behind her and try not to stare.

Then Roz murmurs something, and I glance over in a slight panic, heart hammering in my chest. I don't want to be in her way, or for her to think that I want to distract her, or for her to lose her train of thought. I'm frozen in place, terrified of the thought that I've disturbed her.

But all she says is, "This dialogue sounds so jilted. My god, Mauro, were you high?" Then she shakes her head, rubs the back of her neck tiredly, and goes right back to her considerably unergonomic sitting position.

When Roz had asked me to clean her office, I'd expected she'd use it as an opportunity to take a little break—maybe go for a walk, stretch her legs, breathe in something other than the stale office air—but, nope. She's in here with me, still clad in her silk pajamas, and she seems so focused on the script in front of her that I'm worried she'd bite me if I suggested she take a breather.

It seems like a break would be good for her, though. This week has been even worse than the one prior. Day in and day out, she's done nothing but sit, awkwardly folded in that chair, as she toils over Mauro's apparently lacking script. The most I've seen of her has been when she's opened her office door and called out for more coffee, or—my favorite—when she's marched out into the living room in her tattered pajamas/greasy bun combo and shoved the printed copy of the script in my face, jabbing angrily at some section with her index finger. She typed so hard that, at one point, she literally broke that nail. I didn't know that was even possible.

Honestly? I think Catalina's right. She's going a little crazy.

When I came in here to clean, I'd started with the office's half-bath, because I'd wanted to stay out of Roz's way. Nearly half an hour later, and I'm close to done with cleaning the entirety of her office. The only thing left to do is the desk. And, since I value my safety, I plan on leaving that alone.

Roz's desk is full of disorderly piles of papers—the notes I gave her for It May Take Two; edits she printed out from Catalina; several different versions of Mauro's script as he continues to send along revision after revision, based on Roz's biting critiques. Because I know what it's like to have your entire life be precariously organized chaos, I refuse to touch it. Further disordering her mess feels like a nightmare waiting to happen.

She's been so preoccupied with Mauro's script that I've been scared to ask her for new tasks. I've done my typical chores of keeping her inbox in-check and calming down an occasionally over-zealous, over-involved Catalina, who is becoming increasingly convinced that Roz is going to run herself into the ground and/or starve to death.

I've also been making sure I have everything together for next Saturday's formal banquet—a congratulatory soirée, jointly thrown by Roz's publisher and the studio. I've spent the past two weeks making sure it's all coordinated, from the limo (Catalina's insistence), to the stylists (Catalina's treat), to the food (Catalina's suggestion). With how startlingly last minute making arrangements has felt, Catalina has been hugely helpful—telling me which people and companies to contact, where to haggle, what prices are fair—without taking complete control. It fills me with this weird sense of longing that I can't quite explain. She came with me and Roz to our dress fittings, which was an entirely surreal experience. I can't believe I'm working with my dream agent to plan a pre-party.

I just hope the gaggle of famous creatives Roz (Catalina) invited to get ready here like carrots and Cheez-Its.

I spent all of yesterday deep-cleaning the main rooms of the apartment and doing a massive load of Roz's laundry, which I dutifully folded and put away—minus the panties, of course, because I'm never sure which are hers and which are accidental souvenirs, abandoned here by the steadily increasing tally of random women Roz has spending the night, only to kick out in the morning.

It should be noted: the amount of mind-bogglingly gorgeous women I've seen either stepping out of the elevator or into it is crazy to me. Like, I knew Roz was stupidly famous, and it's obvious that she's stupidly gorgeous, but holy shit. These are, like, models. Not just regular models. Super ones. She's pulling more than fucking Austin Powers. I think I've seen other pretty famous people too. Famous people who are in the closet, evidently.

However, to be fair: if I was remotely curious about women and was beautiful enough to sleep with Rosalind Lindbergh, heavens knows I'd fucking go for it.

I was a bit weirded out at first. Now, I'm simply impressed. Also, I appreciate the fact that Roz is getting better with remembering when my shift starts. She always has her one-night-stands cleared out in time. Whenever I get here, she's pretty much always in her office, already working—and already begging for a fresh cup of coffee. The only indication that she had any guests the night before is always the two wine glasses in the sink, one of them always stained with that stark red lip of hers.

For example, this morning when I got here, some younger, taller Florence Welch knock-off stepped into the elevator as I stepped out. She gave me a side-eye from up above, which I met with an awkward Franklin the Turtle smile. I've seen her a few times already—although today was the first day with the glare.

I think she's probably just a bit of a weirdo. But, completely harmless otherwise.

I wonder if she'll be coming to the party. I've seen her here more times than the other women, after all. Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Although, really, it's none of my business. Obsessing over who Roz sleeps with—letting thoughts of how she relieves her stress torment me—isn't part of my job description.

I put the last freshly-dusted award back on the shelf and glance at my phone. 11:59. I should ask her what she wants to order for lunch, but I'm quite averse to interrupting Roz while she writes. I think she's getting to the point where she'll be liable to rip my head off.

Maaaan, I don't wanna do this. But I can hear Catalina's stern voice in the back of my head, instructing me to keep Roz from destroying herself. And/or starve to death, because she forgets to leave her office and take care of herself when she's writing. As if she hears me from across the city, my phone buzzes with a text.

Catalina: Hi babes, make sure Roz eats while you're there! Also tell me if she's still alive. And tell her to text me back ty xx <3

Time to earn my keep. However reluctantly. "Hey, Roz—"

"Oh my god, do you see this?" she says, flicking the script in front of her. "Mauro. Mauro. He's trying to have Mary make out with one of the football players before she drowns him."

"I'm sorry, he's what?"

There's no instance of Mary drowning anyone in the book. She goes to a party to get close to one of the guys who killed her sister, faking extreme drunkenness to get him alone before guilting him into confessing everything about what they did to Mary's sister, Rachel. He's the first of the guys to die—he's so guilty about what he participated in and what he was willing to do to a seemingly blacked-out Mary that he drinks himself into a stupor and accidentally falls into the lake where they'd tried to stash Rachel's body.

"Thank you!" She shoves herself away from the desk, then tosses her hands up in the air. "This isn't Riverdale, Mauro. You can't defile my deaths with shirtless, sweaty kissing!"

"Yeah, for sure, for sure." I stand behind her, nodding even though she can't see it. I love seeing her get worked up about her books like this. Like, she has absolutely zero chill. I think it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen. She gets sucked in. The hand-waving, the stomping about the penthouse, the whacking the thick slab of script against the kitchen counter as she rants in a voice so high-pitched and tense that her voice cracks at least twice every minute—it's cute.

I hate that my thoughts about Roz have become less about the way she looks and more so about the way she acts. Somehow, it feels like an even bigger violation. And it's difficult to ignore.

"Oh, oh, and, and!" Roz says, awkwardly shoving at the desk to turn her chair around to face me. Her expression is scrunched up; her hair is a mess around her head; her legs are still drawn up to her chest. "He tried to write in a love interest for Mary. He said that people would think she was more relatable if she had a boyfriend."

"What?" I frown. "That's ... weird."

"Thank you! Like, you know who wouldn't relate to her if she had a boyfriend? Me. I almost want to tell him that she's canonically lesbian."

"Is she?"

"No." Roz sniffs. "She's straight. But there's no way that she'd be trying to balance revenge for her sister with dating some guy. She's focused. She's a motherfucking machine."

"Makes sense."

"Thank you!" A lot of Roz's rants involve me agreeing with everything she says and her thanking me. I agree with everything she's said in her rants, which is convenient, because I'm a terrible liar. "I just feel like he doesn't understand Mary as a person. Y'know?"

"Yeah, for sure." I hesitate a moment, then decide to try a third time. "Hey, Roz—"

"Oh! And also—"

"Wait, Roz, Roz. I'm really sorry to interrupt, but really quick, what were you thinking for lunch?" If I don't get her to tell me now, there'll be no stopping her. And Catalina will murder me.

Roz looks surprised. And then she deflates, her shoulders sagging and her mouth pulling into a gentle, barely traceable frown. "Oh. Right. Lunch."

"I'm so sorry, Catalina has been on me about it, because—"

"I'm fine." She waves me off with her hand. "I have to get back to work after I tell you about this, so I'll just have a big dinner. Anyways, did I tell you? Stupid, evil Mauro thought we should maybe have Mary hook up with one of her professors. For no reason! This isn't Sex in the City, Mauro, this is 'I'm on a murderous revenge rampage and am heavily repulsed by all men at the moment ... city.'"

"Absolute zinger. But, seriously Roz, you need to eat." I cross my arms. "I haven't seen you eat lunch or breakfast all week."

"I've been eating a big dinner," she says measuredly, quirking one eyebrow in that way she always does when she's practically daring someone to challenge her. "I'm fine. I'm busy."

"You and I both know that you're not taking care of yourself," I say, equally as measured. I'm pretty sure I'm anxiously squeezing my buttcheeks so hard, they're going to suck themselves inside me and go completely concave. "And I get it. You're in the zone right now. I get like that, too. Which—"

"You get like that too?" Her tone sharpens. "Perfect. Then you get it. I'm fine."

"Which is precisely why I'm telling you that you need to at least stop and have lunch, Roz. You need to take a break, or you're going to burn yourself out."

Her expression loosens. There's something new in her eyes—something tired, something worn. Her smile, on the other hand, winds tighter. "I'm fine, Marcella. I'm having a friend over tonight. And then there's that party next weekend. That's more than enough of a break for me."

I shake my head. Choosing to ignore the having a friend over comment, I say, "Roz, that party counts as work. You're celebrating your new project, and you're networking."

"I just"—her voice cracks, and she glances away quickly, back to her keyboard—"I don't even want to go. I hate those events. And I need to get this done. We're almost finished with casting. I can't let—She's going to—Just, no. I have to get this script perfect."

"It'll be okay," I promise her, taking a step closer to her desk. "Maybe we should just step away from this for a moment, okay? We can go out for lunch, and you can breathe in some fresh air, and then, when we come back, you can—"

"Marcella." Her voice is sharp. A warning. "I'm not leaving. Order whatever you want for lunch. I'm not hungry."

She turns back to her keyboard and flips to the next page of Mauro's script. My face feels red-hot, but I can't stop myself. "What did you eat for dinner last night?"

"What?" When she looks up at me, her eyes seem tired. Her skin is still clear, minus the odd acne scar, but it's dull. There's no flush in her cheeks. She looks haggard. "I had some sushi with a friend." A friend.

"You're not going to be happy until you starve to death," I tell her. I guess Catalina was right to be worried. "We're going out, and you're eating a real meal. You can obsess over this script after you eat."

"Last I checked, I'm in charge here."

I take a deep breath. "Have you stopped to consider that maybe your productivity has slowed down because you haven't been eating?"

She drops her gaze.

"Wine, sushi, and girls aren't a sustainable diet, Roz," I tell her. I'm panicking. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I force myself to keep going. "You're going to burn yourself out if you don't take a break. Should I even ask how much sleep you've been getting?"

She shrugs, helplessly. Her response is a mumble: "Like, four hours, maybe?"

I set my hand on the edge of her desk and lean against the wood as I peer down at her, standing between her and Mauro's script. She looks back up at me; there's something different in her expression. Unreadable.

"That's not enough sleep, Roz," I tell her quietly. "Come on. Let's go get something to eat, and you can tell me all about how Mauro's been botching the revisions you gave him."

Her frown turns into a sad, reluctant smile. "Alright, okay, you win. I do enjoy ranting about Mauro's revisions. And I hate the idea of Cat harassing you because I'm not eating."

"See?" She moves to stand, scooching her chair back as I continue to lean against her desk. "Where do you want to—"

She stands, and suddenly, our faces are inches apart.

Roz looks up at me with her big, dark eyes. My knees go weak as my grip on the edge of the desk tightens. She bites her lip. My stomach twists, my thighs involuntarily squeeze together.

Then she blinks. I blink. And we both take a quick step backwards.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry, I was, um, kind of close there."

"No, no." I try to lean against her desk again, but my clammy palm slips against the slick, dark wood, and my arm flies out from underneath me. I tip at an angle—although "tipping" isn't really accurate, as it's more of a "cannonballing"—and ram my shoulder into her desk, sending the whole thing scooting back along the floor rug.

Roz gasps. At least one of her stacks of papers soars off the edge of the desk. I don't see it—I barely manage to catch myself before face planting on the ground. When I glance up, she's leaning precariously across her desk, her hands gripping her thin, wobbly computer monitor.

We make eye contact. I stand, rubbing my already-sore shoulder. "Roz, I—" I glance at the floor and blanch.

I knocked off all the papers. Every. Single. One.

The only one that escaped my wrath was Mauro's script, which is currently held to the desk by Roz's hip as she attempts to support her monitor.

"I'll pick them up," I promise. "I'll pick them all up. Roz, I'm so, so sor—"

"Don't worry about it." Her voice is firm, but her eyes are shiny, her smile tight. I am a terrible person. "Just ... give me a minute to get ready, and we can go and get something to eat."

"Do you want me to pick all this up?" Please, please, please let me do it. Let me do something to make this better.

"No, no, it's—I've got a system. It's okay." She releases her monitor, and there's a distinct shakiness in her fingers. Her sigh is just as uneven. She steps back and massages her forehead, staring at the paper carnage. "I'll get it when we come back. I can't be bothered right now."

"Okay." My voice sounds about as confident as I feel. Perhaps even less so. "No worries."

I'm numb as I slink out of Roz's office, still rubbing my shoulder. I head to the kitchen to pretend to clean, just to have something to occupy myself with. As I wipe down the counters for the second time today, I think I might hear sniffles from the door of Roz's office. It's quickly followed by her soft steps scuffling along the hallway, punctuated by the closing of her bathroom door.

I slump against the kitchen island, shakily dragging my fingers through my hair. I'm the worst. Literally, the worst. Sure, accidents happen, but at what point will enough be enough? How much of a fuckup will Roz be willing to tolerate?

If I was Roz, I'd have fired me already.