The sun had already dipped past the horizon when they wrapped the last shoot of the day, but neither of them seemed to notice. The lights on set glowed dim and soft, casting a warm tint on everything. It was supposed to be a romantic rooftop scene—the kind of moment fans would replay endlessly. A near-kiss, a sharp breath, hearts racing.
But Ashtine was distracted.
Andres stood across from her, waiting for the cue. He had memorized every line, every beat, every glance. But tonight, there was something off. In her. In him. In everything.
"Ready?" the director called out. They both nodded.
"Action!"
They stepped into the scene. He moved closer. She lifted her eyes to his. Their characters were supposed to fall into each other—like it was inevitable.
But her eyes flicked away. Just for a second.
His jaw tensed.
The moment cracked.
"Cut!"
The crew muttered under their breath. The director sighed. "Reset. Let's do it again. This one has to feel real, okay?"
She looked away, brushing off a loose strand of hair. He stepped back to his mark in silence.
—
Ten minutes later, they tried again. This time, the moment came closer. He gently touched her waist. She leaned in.
Then she paused.
Just slightly.
He felt it.
The hesitation. The silence in her eyes.
Again.
"Cut!"
This time, it was louder. Sharper. More frustrated.
"Take five," the director muttered. "Fix whatever this is."
They stepped away from the rooftop set. The tension followed them like fog.
—
In the hallway, under the hum of low studio lights, he finally spoke.
"What's going on with you?"
She turned slowly. "Nothing."
"It doesn't feel like nothing."
"I'm just tired, Andres."
"You've been 'just tired' for a while now."
He wasn't shouting. But his voice had that quiet edge—the kind that hurt more.
She crossed her arms. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say what you're thinking. Because whatever it is, it's getting in the way."
She stared at him, her expression unreadable.
"Maybe that's the problem," she said after a moment. "We keep pretending everything's fine. Maybe it's not."
He blinked, once.
"You don't talk to me anymore," she added. "Not unless it's on set. Not unless someone else is watching."
He stepped forward. "That's not fair. You pull away first."
"Because I don't know what we are anymore."
There it was.
He felt like the floor shifted beneath him.
"Andres," she continued, "I'm not trying to hurt you. But lately... I feel like we're not even trying. We show up, we smile, we act. But outside of that—"
"I still care," he interrupted, voice low. "I don't know how to say it, but I do."
She hesitated. "Then why does it feel like we're further apart than ever?"
He didn't answer.
Because maybe she was right.
Maybe the silence between them had grown too loud. Maybe neither of them had the courage to name what they were.
Or what they were losing.
"I didn't even know if I should wish you happy birthday," he confessed. "I typed it out. Deleted it."
Her throat tightened. "I waited for it. All day."
They looked at each other for a long, aching moment.
Then she stepped away.
They returned to the set in silence.
This time, when the camera rolled, they got it right.
Almost.
They moved close. She touched his chest. He leaned in.
And at the last second, their lips stopped just shy of meeting.
He felt her breath. She blinked.
He pulled back.
"Cut!"
The director clapped. "Perfect. Use that take."
Everyone smiled.
But the moment stayed heavy.
Because behind the scenes, something had already broken.
And neither of them had the words to fix it.
---