The studio feels quieter the morning after everything explodes.
Not awkward quiet.
Not hostile quiet.
Respectful quiet.
People greet me normally now. Not carefully. Not with pity. Just… normally. Someone from lighting asks if the revised scene is locked. The assistant director nods at me like I belong exactly where I am.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, my chest aches with something small and sharp.
Because the one person I keep expecting to see is not beside me.
Jingyi is here. I know he is. I catch glimpses of him across the set… emerald jacket hanging loose over his shoulder, hair still a little wild, sunglasses pushed into his collar. He laughs once at something a camera operator says, low and warm.
But he does not come find me.
He does not hover near my table.
He does not invent reasons to stand too close.
And that hurts more than I expect.
I sip my matcha and pretend not to notice.
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He checks on me anyway.
Just… differently.
A bottle of water appears on my desk without comment. When I look up, he is already walking away. Later, when I have my head buried in my script, his voice drifts past me.
"Did you eat?"
"Yes," I lie.
He pauses, glances at my cup.
"Okay," he says.
He does not press.
That is the problem.
He is doing exactly what I asked for.
Respectful. Careful. Controlled.
Every boundary honored.
And now that the distance is here, it feels like a punishment I never meant to assign.
This is safer, I tell myself.
My heart answers quietly.
Then why does it hurt so much?
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The ache sneaks up on me in stupid, small ways.
I reach for my aqua pen during a rewrite and half expect him to comment on how tightly I am gripping it. He does not.
I hear his laugh from across the stage and my head turns before I can stop it. He does not look back.
I write a line of dialogue that sounds too much like him. I delete it immediately.
At lunch, I almost text him without thinking.
Did you eat?
I stare at the words, then delete them.
I am not allowed to want this much.
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Late afternoon, the director asks us to run a scene.
Just the two of us.
Of course.
The rehearsal room looks the same as it always does… whiteboard, table, chairs, faint hum of the lights. But when we sit down, he chooses the chair across from me.
Not beside.
Across.
The distance is intentional. I can tell by the way he places his script neatly in front of him, the way he folds his hands, the way he does not let his knee drift into my space.
I tell myself it is professional.
I tell myself it is good.
We start the scene.
The male lead's lines are about restraint. About wanting to reach for someone and choosing not to.
Jingyi delivers them softly. Carefully.
Too carefully.
It feels like he is pressing on a bruise I did not know I had.
My breath catches once. He notices immediately.
His eyes flick up from the page.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
Then he looks away.
The restraint is unbearable.
"Do you ever get tired of being careful?" I ask suddenly.
The words are out before I can stop them.
The room stills.
He looks at me slowly.
"Yes," he answers. Honest. Immediate.
"But I get more tired of hurting people."
Something twists low in my chest.
"Oh," I say lightly. "Right. Of course."
I drop my gaze to the script.
He is afraid of hurting me, I realize.
And the thought does something dangerous to my heart.
Because I am afraid he already has.
Someone knocks on the door. The moment breaks.
We finish the rehearsal quickly, professionally.
When we leave the room, there is space between us again.
I hate how much I feel it.
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That night, my apartment is too quiet.
I sit at my desk, script open, pen idle. The page blurs.
My phone lies face down beside my laptop.
I flip it over.
His name is there, exactly where it always is.
I type.
Are you okay?
Delete.
I type again.
Did I say something wrong earlier?
Delete.
I set the phone down.
If I reach out, everything changes.
If I do not… I might lose him anyway.
I press my palm to my sternum and breathe until the feeling passes.
Across the city, I imagine him doing the same thing.
Sitting somewhere quiet. Phone in hand. Hesitating.
Both of us choosing silence because we think it is kinder.
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The next morning, I see him in the hallway.
We slow at the same time.
He opens his mouth.
I hold my breath.
He closes it again.
We pass each other.
The space between almost stretches tight and thin, like a wire pulled too far.
And I know… I cannot stand here much longer.