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There was a strange quiet in the makeup room that morning. Not silence exactly—but the kind of hush that lives in the spaces between whispers. Someone had paused a curling iron mid-air. Another assistant was scrolling on her phone with a smirk on her lips. And behind the curtain partition, two stylists spoke in low, rapid Tagalog, giggling too quietly to be casual.
Ashtine felt it before she heard it.
She was used to being watched—used to the flutter of attention that followed every casting post, every teaser drop—but this was different. This was the kind of attention that wrapped itself around you like threads, pulled tighter when you weren't looking.
She didn't ask. She just kept her chin up, eyes on her reflection as the stylist powdered the side of her cheek.
"Today's your library scene with Andres, right?" one of the crew asked from across the room.
Ashtine glanced at the girl through the mirror. "Yes."
A pause.
"Must be easy. You two have great chemistry."
The words were casual, friendly even. But Ashtine knew what was hidden beneath them. She'd heard it in the rehearsals too—in the way the boom mic operator would lean a little closer when it was just her and Andres on screen. In the way the production assistants would make eye contact behind the monitor and then immediately look away.
They weren't just reacting to good acting anymore.
They were starting to believe it.
Ashtine didn't answer. She let the moment pass like wind through an open window, and when the stylist tapped her shoulder to say she was done, she stood without another word.
---
The library set was dimly lit—golden hour spilling through frosted windows, casting long shadows on dusty bookshelves. It was the kind of space that didn't need dialogue to feel intimate.
The scene was simple.
Their characters had just fought. The hallway confrontation in the last episode had left them frayed and distant. Now, they were thrown together in a group study session—two people who didn't want to be near each other, forced to sit close, to exchange words they weren't ready for.
Ashtine sat on the left side of the table, pen in hand, notebook open.
Andres sat on the right, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out just far enough to almost touch hers.
When the cameras rolled, neither of them looked up.
That wasn't in the script. But it worked.
"So you're just going to pretend nothing happened?" she said, voice low and flat.
"I'm not pretending," he replied. "You said you didn't want to talk."
"Well, I lied."
He looked up then.
And something in his gaze dropped the air temperature in the room.
Ashtine held her breath.
"You think I didn't notice?" she continued, eyes hard. "You stopped walking with me. You stopped looking at me. You started acting like I was just... just someone you met in a hallway."
Andres leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"I didn't stop," he said. "I was trying to give you space."
Her voice broke on the next line, not because she planned it that way, but because she couldn't help it.
"I don't want space."
Silence.
He reached across the table then—barely—and his fingers brushed the edge of her notebook.
Just a second too long.
The director whispered, "Cut."
But neither of them moved.
"Ashtine?" the assistant called out.
She blinked, shaking herself out of it.
"Sorry," she said softly. "I got lost."
"Same here," Andres murmured beside her.
The director chuckled, but there was a knowing edge to his voice.
"No worries. It was good. Might've been the best take so far."
They reset. Tried it again. But something had shifted. The second take was cleaner, tighter, more controlled.
Less alive.
---
Later, when they returned to the dressing area, Ashtine caught Andres sitting on the edge of the couch near the hallway window, script balanced on one knee, tapping his pen against the margin.
She walked past without slowing down.
Then paused.
"You changed a line," she said.
He looked up.
"I changed the delivery."
"There's a difference?"
"I like saying things like I mean them," he said. "Even if someone else wrote it."
She hesitated, then sat down across from him.
"Do you ever think we're too good at this?" she asked, almost joking.
He tilted his head. "At acting?"
"At this," she repeated. "At pretending like it's just acting."
Andres was quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, "I don't think I'm pretending."
The silence stretched thin between them, and before she could say anything else, someone called her name from down the hallway.
She stood, hesitating.
"I'll see you on set," she said.
He nodded.
But as she walked away, she didn't see the way his eyes lingered on her retreating figure, or how he quietly highlighted a new line in the script, one from a scene they hadn't filmed yet:
"I didn't mean to fall for you. It just happened."
---
By nightfall, the cast group chat had come alive again—mostly jokes, memes, and random behind-the-scenes pictures.
But someone had sent a screenshot from Twitter.
A fan account had posted:
> "Just watched today's take. There's no way that scene in the library was acting. Not with the way he looked at her."
It already had five thousand likes.
Ashtine locked her phone and stared at the ceiling of her room, heart unsteady.
This was supposed to be just a story.
Just a role.
But something was beginning to bloom beneath the surface—unscripted, unplanned, and dangerously real.
---