Mornings are my favorite lie.
They always look peaceful, sunlight, soft music, matcha foam catching the light just right, but underneath, it's chaos with good manners.
I've got a cat that doesn't listen, a potted plant that definitely hates me, and exactly thirteen minutes to finish rewriting Scene 12 before I pretend to be a functional adult on set.
The kettle whistles.
My pen clicks.
And somewhere between the two, I forget I'm supposed to breathe.
I stir the matcha… two pumps of vanilla, oat milk, perfectly whisked… and I tell myself that yesterday's table read was fine. Totally fine. Perfection even.
I am not thinking about Liu Jingyí's lopsided smirk.
Or the way he said my line like it was meant for me.
Or the part where his fingers brushed mine when he handed back my pen.
I am definitely not thinking about that.
I sip the matcha. It's too sweet. Figures.
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My apartment looks like it belongs to someone with their life together, minimalist, organized, emotionally beige. There's a single framed quote on the wall that says "Write what you can't say." I keep it there to remind myself that irony is alive and well.
The only thing out of place is my pen. It's lying across my notebook like it fell asleep mid-thought, tiny blue diamonds catching the sun. Everyone else in the office carries black or gold pens, something expensive and discreet. Mine looks like it fell out of a teenage girl's dream journal.
It's ridiculous. It sparkles. It's perfect.
I should probably stop using it for official meetings… but then again, it's the only thing that still feels like me.
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My phone buzzes… the production chat.
Forty-seven unread messages.
Someone's arguing about catering, someone else is panicking about continuity, and buried in the middle is a photo from Jingyí.
He's holding a cup of coffee and grinning like it's a perfume ad.
Caption: "See you all at 9. Don't be late — especially the writer."
I scroll past it so fast I almost drop my phone.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a second too long.
Then I lock it and shove it into my bag.
"Nooo," I tell my reflection. "We're not doing this." Waving a finger in the air.
My reflection doesn't answer, which is rude but fair.
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Traffic hums outside as I slide into the back seat of the production van. The driver plays morning radio, some upbeat love song that sounds like it's mocking me.
I open my notebook to review notes, and there it is… a faint smudge of blue on the margin from where he'd held the pen yesterday.
I stare at it longer than I should. Then I swipe it clean with my sleeve.
Clean page. Clean conscience… mostly.
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The studio lot looks different in the morning, quieter, sunlight slipping through scaffolding, coffee cups instead of energy drinks.
Everyone's scattered across-set, prepping lights and props. The director waves when he sees me. "Morning, Writer-nim! We're blocking for Scene 8 today."
Blocking. Which means proximity. Which means him.
"Great," I say with a smile that feels 60% caffeine and 40% panic.
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He walks in five minutes later, early this time.
Gray hoodie, black sweats, front of his hair tied loosely in a ponytail, like he's not even trying.
This man has no right to look like that at 9 a.m.
"Morning, Writer-nim," he says, voice teasing but gentle.
I glance up from my notes. "You're early. Did the universe glitch?"
He smirks. "Didn't want to miss my cue this time."
"It's rehearsal, not destiny."
"Same thing when you write it."
I blink, caught off guard. "That was dangerously poetic for before breakfast."
He shrugs. "Maybe I'm picking it up from you."
Oh, absolutely not. We are not doing mutual influence this early in production.
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The director claps his hands. "Alright, positions! Scene 8 — emotional distance, physical closeness."
I pretend not to hear that combination of words.
Jingyí moves to his mark, scripts scattered across his chair.
He glances over. "You're watching?"
"I'm here for quality control."
"Of course," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Wouldn't want to ruin your masterpiece."
I roll my eyes. "Please, my masterpiece is breakfast. This is just chaos that happens to have lighting."
He laughs… low, warm, unhurried. It hits lower in my chest than it should.
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The assistant director counts them in. Jingyí takes his partner's hand for the rehearsal, but his eyes flick toward me for just a second.
The timing is perfect, a little too perfect.
He's in character. I tell myself… this is all part of the job.
Still… my pulse disagrees.
When the scene ends, the director praises him for "emotional realism." Of course he does.
I scribble a note in my script: Stop reacting to charisma like an amateur.
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By the time we wrap the morning rehearsal, my head's full of dialogue revisions and unwanted thoughts.
As everyone starts clearing props, Jingyí stops beside me.
"Matcha girl," he says softly.
I look up. "You know my name."
"I know your drink order. That's basically the same thing."
He grins, lazy and confident, then adds, "Next time, I'll buy you one that doesn't taste like liquid grass."
"You'd ruin it," I say.
He nods, thoughtful. "Probably. But you'd write it better afterward."
He leaves before I can roll my eyes properly.
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I stare at nothing in particular, as I fiddle with my pen.
Twist. Click. Twist. Click.
The little diamonds catch the light and scatter it over my notebook.
Day two.
Same script, same people.
But somehow… everything already feels rewritten.
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