In a moment when Agnes is reeling from a "something" that has altered her sense of self, she anxiously, awkwardly approaches her neighbor and asks for lighter fluid. She's clearly holding back a wave of emotion, ready to torch something—maybe anything, maybe something specific. When the neighbor innocently asks what it's for, she improvises:

"My friends and I are gonna make hot dogs."

His eyes widen, and he smiles.

"Ooh, hot dogs sound good."

Suddenly realizing she doesn't want to stoke an invitation, Agnes backpedals:

"Oh, I'm sorry. We only bought two hot dogs."

He pauses, then offers:

"That's no problem. I have dinner plans with my mom."

A long, awkward silence follows as he sits with those words—and then quietly amends:

"That's not true. I'm sorry. I just wanted to close myself off from the possibility of being rejected."

Eva Victor writes, directs, and stars as Agnes in Sorry, Baby, a film that mines humor, honesty, and humanity from the aftermath of a trauma—one that is all too common. Agnes lives in a state of dissonance, where a single, life-altering event has left her fundamentally changed while the world around her remains eerily the same. She now inhabits a version of reality that feels crueler—not because it has suddenly become so, but because now she knows it can be.

For a film that touches so directly on trauma, Victor handles the material with remarkable precision. The inciting incident isn't ignored—it carries emotional weight—but the film resists fixating on it or sensationalizing it. Instead, the film focuses mainly on the relationship between Agnes and Lydia (Naomi Ackie). Tender, loving, and accepting of each other in every capacity, their relationship allows them a precious amount of vulnerability. But even in this safest of spaces, the words—rape, sexual assault—remain unspoken. As if to name the thing would solidify it, make it irrevocably real, and confirm to Agnes that this is a world where bad somethings happen--and that they can happen to me. Sorry, Baby is a sharply observed portrait of innocence lost, and the quiet, painful process of learning how to live in a world that no longer feels "safe"—and maybe never was.