The sum in the contract is too large for what’s asked: one evening, one event, one role. To be the person at his side, to smile at the right moments, to leave at midnight. Nothing real, clause three says in black and white. Except the event stretches on, the car that was supposed to take you home never comes, and he doesn’t look at you like a man who honors his own clauses. Every hour that passes rewrites the contract between you. Every choice pulls you closer to a line you both swore you wouldn’t cross. How many hours can you keep playing a role that has stopped being one?