Since that moment, I never spoke to him. I never looked him in the eyes.
Even when we were in the same room, I acted as if Hugo didn't exist. It wasn't as if I was trying to play childish games. No—I was just tired. Tired of being the only one who kept trying to hold a conversation, tired of being the only one who kept reaching out.
At breakfast, I sat at the far end of the table, staring blankly at my food. I could feel his gaze, lingering like a weight on my shoulders, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Not even a glance.
During filming, when the director asked us to stand next to each other, I kept the distance as far as the camera would allow. My body was physically there, but my heart was miles away. Hugo didn't push. He just followed me silently, like a shadow that had lost its place.
