Under the Skin - part 1

“You have to give in, Monica. Don’t fight it.”

The director’s words echoed in her head, even though it had happened days ago.

Days in which she could still taste the bile in her throat, feel the goosebumps on her skin, and the paralysis a single touch could trigger.

Days in which Monica watched herself fall apart little by little, unable to stop the tears that choked her chest and losing herself in the effort to avoid the pressure-laden stares of her film crew.

It wasn’t as if this was new — nude scenes, sex scenes, scenes of surrender. She had done them before. She had stood naked in front of cameras, actors, lighting technicians. It had never been easy. But she had always managed. Always found a way to dissociate, to let the character take over.

Not this time. This time, Ellara didn’t come to save her.

It was as if her body itself rejected the scene, as if it screamed: “No.”

She didn’t know why.

She only knew that when the actor’s hand slid along her waist and he whispered the line meant to lead into the scene — a line she had rehearsed dozens of times — the ground vanished.

Tears. Shortness of breath. A silent panic taking form as everyone around her stared like she was the problem.

“You have to give in, Monica.”

Sleep was no longer part of the equation. Monica had grown used to sleepless nights, to her burning eyes at dawn and a body begging for rest she wouldn’t allow. She spent more and more time in the makeup chair, silently watching them try to mask the deep shadows under her eyes, now seemingly a permanent feature. None of the makeup artists commented — but their silence said more than any words of sympathy ever could.

Everyone on set knew. And pretended not to.

So did she.

But the truth was, no matter how much she avoided it, the scene hadn’t been cut. Just postponed. And the time to go back to the studio and try again had arrived.

The costume was already waiting for her, hanging on its hanger, its light, nearly transparent fabric swaying in the air-conditioned breeze. The set — the Duke’s lavish chamber — had been rebuilt in even more cruel detail than she remembered. Candles. Cushions. A bed draped in deep red. A metaphor of sacrifice masked as seduction.

Behind the curtain, the crew moved with an efficiency that bordered on indifference. Directors, assistants, sound, light — all returned to their posts as if this were just another scene.

But Monica knew it wasn’t.

And so did her body.

She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the flowing dress on her skin as if it burned. Let the crew adjust the final details — the costume jewelry, her hair — all the while keeping her eyes fixed on some random point, as if trying to stay somewhere else.

“All set?” The director’s voice sliced through the air, deep and impatient.

Monica nodded.

The actor was already in position, dressed in heavy robes that made him seem even more imposing. He cast her a brief glance, meant to be comforting. She didn’t respond.

The cameras rolled.

The first touch came gently, as scripted: he took her hand, pulled her closer. A caress on the shoulder, a whisper. The same line as before. The line that now awakened silent terror inside her.

“You have to give in, Ellara.”

Monica’s breath caught. It was as if the line opened up an invisible wound inside her. Her stomach turned. Her hands began to tremble. Still, she tried.

She tried.

She moved as if she really were in Ellara’s body, letting herself be carried away for a second. Just one. But when his fingers slid along her nape and reached the ties holding her dress — when her exposed skin began to accumulate, inch by inch — the sound of the cameras disappeared.

Everything went silent.

Her heart raced so hard she thought she would faint.

“Cut!” someone shouted, but the voice seemed distant.

Monica stepped back. Then again. Eyes filling with tears before she could stop them. She looked at no one. Rushed off the set, nearly tripping over her own clothes.

The set bathroom felt like a hiding place, even with the bright lights and the smell of disinfectant. Monica leaned against the door, her knees giving way under the weight her body could no longer bear. Her breathing came in sharp bursts, her chest heaving like there was no more room for air, like she would explode.

Her makeup was already running down her face — not the film’s, but her own. The one she tried to hold together on the way there, the one that couldn’t hide the goosebumps, the distant gaze, the shame.

She sat on the cold floor, hugging her knees. Cried in silence for a few seconds before the sobs found sound. One. Then another. Then it all came out.

“I can’t…” she whispered, over and over. “I can’t…”

That line. That damned line. The touch. The weight of the body on hers. The actor’s eyes, the director’s eyes, the tension in the crew. It had all pierced her like invisible thorns, throbbing, burning, suffocating.

For a few minutes, Monica wasn’t an actress, wasn’t a professional. She was just raw flesh, trembling on white tile.

Later that same day, Monica stayed isolated for a long time, until the head of wardrobe came to her dressing room with a gentle knock.

“Margot’s waiting for you in the lounge. Said she wants to talk. No rush.”

Monica nodded, taking a deep breath like she was bracing for a speech. She had imagined Margot would come sooner or later. The veteran of the cast, respected by all, was the kind of actress who knew exactly when the performance ended and the body began to collapse. She had been there. More than once, maybe.

When Monica entered the makeshift actors’ lounge, Margot sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing a red robe and holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers — more out of habit than addiction. She looked up, a gentle half-smile forming on her lips.

“I figured I’d find you hiding behind the makeup station again,” she said lightly.

Monica forced a smile and sat across from her. Tried to appear relaxed, but her hands twisted together in her lap betrayed her.

“Everyone’s worried about you, you know?”

“I’m fine,” she replied too quickly.

Margot simply nodded, clearly unconvinced, but unwilling to push.

“You know… this isn’t the first time this movie has swallowed someone whole.” She crossed her legs. “The script is heavy. Ellara is intense. There’s a kind of pain in her you feel in your bones. And you’ve been carrying all of it alone.”

Monica swallowed hard. The character’s name felt more intimate than it should.

“I just wasn’t having a good day,” she lied.

Margot looked at her with compassion — the kind of look that recognized a lie not with judgment, but from having used the same one herself.

“I saw today’s scene,” she said, softer now. “The way you froze… that’s not something a ‘bad day’ explains. And I’m not saying this to make you feel worse, but because when we don’t talk about certain things, they grow louder in here,” she pointed to her chest.

Monica looked away, eyes welling up again. But she took a deep breath and held it in.

“You managed to do your scene, right? The one with the general and…” her voice faltered. “How did you do it?”

Margot took her time before answering. Her eyes drifted to some distant memory.

“I lied to myself for too long. Pretended I was okay. I did the scene, cried for three days, thought about quitting everything… Then I started listening to my body. It already knew. I just wasn’t listening.”

Silence.

“No one expects you to be made of steel, Monica. But you have to understand something: the set won’t stop to wait for you if you keep pretending you can handle it.”

The words hit deep. But Monica didn’t yet know what to do with them.

Margot smiled, stood, and lightly touched the younger woman’s shoulder.

“When you really want to talk, I’m here. Out of character. Just me.”

Monica nodded, unable to respond. She still needed to understand that maybe, for the first time, she couldn’t step out of the character… because somehow, Ellara had always been her.

Margot hesitated for a second, then added:

“There’s a therapist I’ve been seeing for a while. Specializes in sexuality. Discreet, sharp. She’s the one who helped me not let a character swallow me whole.”

She wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it over.

“I’m not saying you need it. But… it might help.”

Monica held the paper like it was something hot. She didn’t know if she wanted it — but just knowing the option existed already felt like a kind of relief.

At night, lying on the couch with her phone in hand, Monica opened a social media app without thinking. She wanted distraction, to pretend everything was okay. The feed scrolled past her eyes until an image made her finger stop.

The film’s title was in the caption: The Ivory Rose.

And the image… was her.

Sitting on the shower floor, naked, crying. Her head down, hair stuck to her face, body curled up. The pain on her face laid bare.

Raw. Defenseless.

Someone had taken that picture without her knowing. Someone thought it was a good idea to expose that moment. To sell it as behind-the-scenes drama.

“Actress Monica Ivanova gets emotional during tense scene in new drama The Ivory Rose.”

She tried to breathe, but no air came.

The comments.

“Cheap marketing.”

“Too much drama for a five-minute scene.”

“She’s getting paid for this.”

Her face was burning. Her hands were trembling.

She threw up before she could delete the app.

And still, the image remained.

Etched.

Inside her.