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The studio was quiet that afternoon. No cameras, no scripts, no forced scenes. Just the echo of their footsteps against the hallway tiles and the low hum of air-conditioning filtering through vents above.
It was the kind of silence people usually filled with small talk. The kind of silence most would try to cover up.
But not them.
Not anymore.
They walked side by side, not touching, not talking, but somehow still in sync — as if the rhythm of their breaths had started to match since the last chapter of whatever they'd been writing without words.
Ashtine paused near the storage room they sometimes used as a green room. Her hand rested on the chipped doorknob, but she didn't push it open yet. "We're early," she murmured, as if she needed to explain why they had stopped.
Andres leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but focused — not in the distracted, polite way actors usually looked at each other during downtime. This was different.
He was watching her.
He had been watching her for a long time.
"You ever think about how all of this started?" he asked suddenly.
She raised a brow, still holding the door. "You mean this project?"
"No," he said. "I mean… us."
The word us tasted different in the air now. Like a name neither of them wanted to say too loudly, afraid it might break whatever delicate thread was holding everything together.
Ashtine let the doorknob go and turned fully toward him, folding her arms. "We started with a script. With an audition. You forgot?"
"I didn't forget," he said. "I just remember something else."
She narrowed her eyes, curious. "What?"
He pushed off the wall, standing straighter. "Do you remember the talent workshop Viva held two years ago?"
Her brows furrowed. "Vaguely."
"There were a lot of us. Too many to know everyone by name. But you stood out."
She tilted her head, smile unsure. "Because I tripped during the monologue segment?"
"No," he said quietly. "Because of what happened before that."
She blinked.
He took a slow step forward, not to intimidate, just to shorten the space in case his words got lost in the distance between them.
"You were sitting in the back corner," he said. "Wearing a green hoodie — sleeves pulled over your hands. Everyone else was talking, introducing themselves. You didn't."
"I was nervous."
"I know," he nodded. "But then one of the mentors asked for a volunteer. Nobody moved. Not a single person raised their hand."
She frowned, trying to recall.
"But you did," he said.
"I did?"
"You did," he confirmed. "Your hand was shaking. I don't think anyone noticed except me. But you went up there and did your scene. You weren't loud. You weren't polished. But you had this... clarity. Like you weren't pretending. Like it wasn't a scene."
She stayed quiet.
"I remember thinking," he continued, "that if they didn't cast you in something, they were blind."
The air around them shifted.
It wasn't flattery. It wasn't admiration. It was remembrance. Real and rooted.
Ashtine's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "I forgot all about that day."
"I didn't."
"Why?"
He hesitated, then said, "Because that's when I started paying attention."
Something in her chest twisted. A knot. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"You never said anything," she whispered.
"I didn't even know your name," he said. "And after the workshop, you disappeared. I figured you'd dropped out."
"I almost did," she admitted. "I thought I didn't belong there."
He stepped closer again. His voice was quiet, careful. "I'm glad you didn't."
She looked at him now — really looked. At the way his eyes didn't flinch, the way his shoulders stayed firm even as his voice trembled.
"Why are you telling me this now?" she asked.
"Because I think you need to know," he said. "You've been doubting yourself a lot lately. I see it — how you second-guess your lines, how you hesitate before stepping into frame. I remember the version of you who walked into a silent room and still raised her hand. I want you to remember her, too."
Ashtine felt something warm welling up in her throat. Not tears, exactly — just a wave of something heavy and deep that had no name but knew where it belonged.
"You remember everything," she said, almost in disbelief.
"I do," he replied.
"And I forgot all of it."
"It's okay," he said, and this time, his voice was softer. "I'll remember for both of us."
She blinked rapidly, willing herself not to cry. Not here. Not now.
But something had opened. Something tender.
Without thinking, she reached for his hand.
He let her take it.
His fingers wrapped around hers like they'd always meant to.
No cameras.
No lines.
Just her hand in his, and the sound of her breathing deepening to match his.
They stood like that for a long moment — two young actors in a too-quiet hallway, holding hands like the whole world had paused just for them.
Then the assistant director poked his head around the corner. "They're ready on set."
Andres didn't let go right away.
Neither did she.
But eventually, reality called, and they walked together toward the lighted doorway.
Still not quite a couple.
Still not just coworkers.
Something in between.
Something blooming.
---
That night, Ashtine sat on her bed, phone in hand, staring at a blank text box.
She wanted to tell him something. She didn't know what.
She typed.
> You make things easier to remember.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
> Thank you for remembering when I couldn't.
Deleted again.
Finally, she settled on one thing.
> I remember now.
Sent.
His reply came thirty seconds later.
> That's all I needed.
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