The set was bright—blinding, even. Soft pinks and golds filled the stage of the popular morning talk show, one of the highest-rated live broadcasts in the country. There was a small couch at the center where Ashtine and Andres sat, their bodies angled toward the cheerful hostess. Cameras circled them quietly, capturing every smile, every twitch, every breath.
They had done dozens of these by now. Promotional tours, fan Q&As, press junkets. The two of them had become masters of on-screen affection, careful touches, perfect timing. Even in silence, they were adored.
Today, however, felt different.
The air was too still.
And Ashtine's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
The segment began with light banter. The hostess was kind and playful, teasing them about their roles in the on-going series, rehashing fan-favorite bloopers from set. Andres kept his answers short but charming. Ashtine nodded along, even offering a small laugh once or twice.
They sat close, as instructed. Shoulders nearly touching.
But their hands were firmly in their own laps.
The fans noticed. Social media buzzed within minutes of the broadcast.
"Why do they look so stiff?" "No stolen glances today?" "Is it me or does something feel off with Ashdres?"
Then came the final segment: the fan-submitted questions.
And that was when it happened.
The hostess, still cheerful, still professional, smiled and said, "Okay, we have a very popular question here from the fans. They say—and I quote—'We've been noticing that you two are being quite distant in off-screen moments. If you don't mind, could you tell us the reason behind that?'"
A beat.
That one second of stillness was louder than any gasp.
Andres blinked. Shifted slightly in his seat. His throat moved, like he was about to speak, but no words came.
Ashtine's breath hitched.
She tried to laugh it off. Tried to smile. But her hands started to tremble. Her shoulders drew in, subtly, like she was folding inward to shield herself.
The hostess noticed. "Of course—if it's too personal—"
But it was already too late.
A tear slipped from Ashtine's left eye. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand, looking down, shaking her head slightly. Her lips quivered. Her throat clenched.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Then she stood up.
Without another word, without looking at Andres or the cameras, she walked off the stage.
The broadcast froze for a moment. The audience—both in the studio and at home—watched, stunned. The hostess looked at Andres, then at the exit curtain where Ashtine had disappeared.
"I... think we'll take a short break," she said awkwardly, trying to maintain composure.
The cameras cut.
But it was already viral.
—
Clips of Ashtine's tears were posted within minutes. Twitter trended with #Ashdres. Fans began compiling edits—old clips of them laughing, hugging, rehearsing together—overlaid with the raw footage of her silent breakdown. Sad music. Slow transitions.
"She's not acting this time." "You could see the moment her heart cracked." "They were so real. What happened to them?"
Backstage, Andres sat alone.
He hadn't gone after her.
Not because he didn't care. But because he didn't know if he still had the right.
His jaw was clenched. Hands gripping his knees. That question—the one the hostess had asked—rang louder in his ears than anything else.
"We've been noticing that you two are being quite distant."
They had tried so hard to pretend. To keep their private unraveling from spilling onto the screen. But it hadn't worked.
Ashtine's tears proved what they were both too proud—and too hurt—to admit.
They weren't okay.
And now, everyone knew.
—
Later that night, Andres sat in his car outside her condo.
He didn't go in.
He just stared up at her window.
Lights off.
Phone silent.
And all he could think about was that look in her eyes—the way she flinched at the question, the way she tried to smile through the pain.
She had looked at him like she wanted him to fix it.
And he hadn't even moved.
He looked away again.
And this time, it broke her in front of everyone.