PR lounges are just living rooms that learned how to lie.
Sofa plants that have never seen the sun… bottled water in glass that pretends to be champagne… beige rugs for calm, even when twenty people are answering three questions at once. The production team has arranged pastel flowers on a low table and there are two neat rows of iced coffee sweating into perfect circles. I'm holding a hot matcha like a person clinging to her personality… and sanity.
Wardrobe tried to put me in a sample-size blazer. I laughed, handed it back, and chose my own. Aqua silk blouse… soft drape… kind to me where I am soft too. I smooth it once and it settles just right. Breathing is fashionable, actually.
"Writer-nim," the PR manager says, tapping a clipboard, "you'll sit off-camera. If they ask about the script, we'll wave you in. Otherwise… just smile."
"Smile," I repeat. "My favorite sport."
She doesn't laugh, which is fair. The cameras are close, the lights are closer, and the host's hair has so much volume it might need a permit.
Jingyi walks in like the morning decided to be handsome. Sunglasses, dark emerald jacket with a clean line, gold chain flashing once when he turns to greet the crew. He looks bright but not loud… the kind of pretty that pretends it doesn't know any better.
"Morning, Writer-nim," he says as he passes me. The smirk is there, small and private. I refuse to acknowledge it, which is how I accidentally acknowledge it.
"Morning," I say, and tell my heart to use its inside voice.
So-ah is already on the sofa, crossing her legs with an elegance that makes fabric obey. She waves at me, sweet as always, and mouths, You look pretty. I mouth it back. No one can say we aren't a supportive bunch.
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The director cues the host. Lights bloom. Cameras blink red. We begin.
The questions start the way they always do. How does it feel to work together… What drew you to the project… Was there instant chemistry or did you build it… the kind of things everyone learns to answer like weather reports.
Jingyi is good at this. He makes the ordinary sparkle just enough. When they ask about our first table read, he smiles toward the off-camera shadow where I live.
"The writer keeps us honest," he says.
I take a quiet sip of matcha and pretend the cup isn't suddenly heavier.
The host turns to So-ah. "You two look very comfortable already."
"We trust the script," she says. "It's easy to step into feelings when the words are true."
Every PR manager in the room softens by two degrees. Someone gives me a thumbs-up from behind a fern.
We slide into a game. The host loves games. It's called Behind the Script, which feels targeted, but okay. They're given lines from the film and have to say whether it's the character or themselves who would say it in real life.
The first card: I don't ask for permission to feel.
So-ah smiles. "Character."
Jingyi tilts his head, thinking… then, "Both."
A laugh rolls through the room. The host gestures toward me. "Writer Yoon, quick vote?"
I almost shake my head… PR had said no… but the camera swings like it already knows.
I step into frame with the kind of walk that ignores the idea of shrinking. There's a softness in how I move and the silk follows, easy, unbothered. The host offers me a spare chair, too narrow, and I stand instead. Cameras add ten pounds… of confidence, if you let them.
"Both," I say. "But my character says it out loud."
"Because?" the host prompts.
"Because it's safer when it sounds like fiction."
Jingyi glances over. The sunglasses catch a light and for a second I can see myself reflected… small and aqua and not afraid.
"Next line," the host grins. I stopped acting the moment I met you.
So-ah laughs. "Character."
"Character," I agree.
Jingyi doesn't answer. Not right away. He's looking at the card like it's a mirror.
"Character," he says finally… then adds, "Working on the rest."
The room makes that collective sound people make when someone is charming on purpose. I take another sip of matcha to keep my mouth from trying anything.
The game moves on. It's easy. It's fun. It's also doing numbers on the livestream. I can feel the comments buzzing under our feet like electricity. PR passes me a card with a scribble: Trending. Keep it cute. As if I was planning to be ugly.
We're almost done when the host pivots. There's always a pivot. The questions that look soft and aren't.
"Jingyi-ssi," he says lightly, "you've worked all over Asia… your fans are curious about your background. Where is home for you… really?"
Tiny pause. Maybe half a breath. But I hear it because I'm listening for it.
He smiles. Not the crooked one. The safe one. "I've been lucky to feel at home wherever I work."
Beautiful answer. Practiced. A quilt you keep in your car just in case.
The host nudges. "Rumor says you grew up in Beijing?"
"I had training there," he says. "Lots of mentors. Good food."
Deflection… graceful… and true enough you can't argue. The camera eats it up. I write a note on my phone I'll never show anyone: He's way too good at lying nicely.
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The segment ends in soft applause. The lights dim… mics come off… PR exhales in human. We wave to the host and the flowers and the sofa that has never held a nap.
Backstage is narrower, warmer. Someone squeezes by with a light panel and I move to the side, my shoulder brushing the wall. I'm aware of my body the way you're aware of a favorite sweater… not self-conscious, just present. Comfortable in my own orbit.
"Water?" Jingyi says, appearing like he lives in doorways. He holds out a bottle. His jacket shifts and the gold chain catches a flicker. Up close he looks… tired in the eyes, awake everywhere else.
"Thank you." I take the bottle. Our fingers don't touch. The decision sounds like silence.
"You were good," he says.
"I said six words."
"Seven," he corrects. "and nodded twice."
"I do perform a strong nod," I admit.
The corner of his mouth threatens to misbehave. "The internet liked it."
"Good for them." I keep my tone light because the air feels delicate. "Try not to make me trend again. I have work."
His voice lowers into a playful growl. "Then stop giving me good dialogue."
I almost say something about how the best lines don't even make it onto paper… how sometimes they happen in the space between faces… but I don't. I twist my pen once—click… and tuck it into my notebook like a secret.
We make it halfway down the hall before the PR manager catches us. "Couple photos for socials," she chirps, already herding us toward a backdrop that looks like expensive toothpaste.
"Couple?" I echo.
"Of the project," she says, eyes already on composition. "Writer and lead. Fans love seeing craft together."
He stands beside me without being told. I set my shoulders. The photographer makes small hand gestures that translate to closer… and then closer again. I am careful with the space, but not stingy. Warmth is not a crime.
"Perfect," the photographer says. "Now a candid… like you're mid-joke."
We both try. Then we actually laugh. The candid part takes care of itself.
"Great. Last one," she adds. "Look at each other."
We do. Too easily. Something quiet settles. The room keeps moving around us but it feels like a glass of water set down on a table… the surface is very still.
The shutter flutters. We step apart in the same second, like we practiced it. Maybe we did.
"Lunch break," PR calls, saving us. "Fifteen minutes."
The crew floods toward catering. I hang back… matcha refill in one hand, script pages in the other. Jingyi lingers too, letting the tide pass. It's muscle memory for both of us… the urge to wait for quiet before saying anything that matters.
"Did I mess up?" he asks softly, eyes on the laminated schedule pinned to the wall.
"In the interview?"
He nods.
"No." I watch a curl of steam rise from a kettle like a good omen. "You answered beautifully."
"Hmm."
"That was not a question."
He looks over… the sunglasses have migrated to his hair, the real eyes on display. There's a shadow of something not-sleep, not-pain. I recognize it. People who carry stories wear them the same way.
"Do you ever wish people would ask a harder question?" he says. "So you could stop answering the easy ones."
All the air changes shape. I consider a hundred jokes and choose none. "Sometimes."
"What would you say," he asks, "if they did?"
"That depends on who's listening."
He smiles, slow. Not the practiced one. Not the crooked one. Something in between. "Fair."
We walk toward catering. The floor is a polite gray… the kind that forgives shoe prints. I take a plate, and choose foods with my usual logic: greens I'll ignore, rice that behaves, grilled chicken pretending not to be dry. I stand while I eat because chairs are for people who intend to stay, and I am always on the way to another scene.
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So-ah slips in beside me, the kind of friend who matches your pace without asking. "You sparkled," she says, nudging my elbow with hers. "The fans already adore you."
"They adored the blouse," I reply. "The blouse did most of the work."
"It did not," she says, kind enough to sound like she believes it. "But keep wearing it anyway."
We chew in companionable silence. She glances toward the hall. "He's quieter today."
"It's been a long week," I say, which is true… and not the answer she asked. She lets it be.
Back on set, the afternoon is all pickups and B-roll. I hover near a light stand, jotting tweaks… replacing a word here, shifting a comma there, like moving furniture in a small apartment to see if the room breathes better. I can feel the cameras on us in little glances. The internet will name it chemistry… PR will call it synergy… the director will say timing… I call it work and return to my notes.
At some point, a production assistant materializes with an extra mic and an apologetic smile. "Writer-nim, could you… sit near the end of the sofa for the closing shot? We want the creative team visible."
"Of course." I sit. The cushion dips around me, accepting the shape I bring. I straighten my blouse… it sits smooth… I sit smoother. The camera light blinks alive. A thought crosses my mind and leaves a footprint:
I don't need to be smaller to fit here.
We roll again. The host thanks the audience for watching, thanks the fans for their love, thanks the skies for this cast and crew. The sign lights go dead. Everyone claps like waking from a nap.
"Cut," the director says, relaxed all the way to his shoes. "That's a wrap."
The hall empties in soft waves. I stay to gather my pages. The flowers on the table are still pretending to be wild. My matcha cup a green ring on a coaster. I reach for my pen… pause… then write three words in the margin of Scene Twelve:
Keep it honest.
Footsteps approach. I know the cadence before I look up.
"Thank you," he says. Simple.
"For what?"
"For making the easy questions feel less… easy."
I shrug. "It's a skill."
He nods toward my notebook. "You write for me sometimes… don't you."
"Everyone thinks they deserve a custom pen," I say, light. "You just keep borrowing it."
His gaze drops to the aqua spark in my hand… the not-serious, very serious pen. The gem catches a tired gold from somewhere and throws it back as blue.
"One day," he says, like a thought escaped, "I should buy you a real one."
"Real… pen?"
"Real… everything."
It sounds like a joke until it doesn't. My heart tries to audition for percussion again. I nod, because words feel heavier than they should.
"Go home," I say, softening the order with a smile. "Pretend to rest."
"You—" He stops, the kind of interruption that belongs to things better saved. "See you tomorrow, Writer Yoon."
"See you, Actor Liu."
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He leaves. The room exhales. I twist the pen once—click… the sound neat and bright in the quiet.
On the way out, I catch my reflection in the glass. Aqua silk hugs curves as if carved from marble, calm dropped shoulders, hair losing the fight against the day in a pretty, natural glam way. Soft, wavy curls falling in all the right places. I look like someone who is the main character of her own story. It feels… new. Not dramatic. Just true.
Outside, the sky is the color of late afternoon… soft, dreamy, endless, but a little dishonest about rain. I walk to the curb with the steady rhythm of someone who's not in a hurry to fix what isn't broken. My phone pings… the group chat exploding with heart emojis and clip links. I ignore it for three steps, then two, then one.
Fine. I'll watch one clip. It's the candid… the almost-laugh… the look.
The comments scroll fast… chemistry… writer is adorable… emerald jacket supremacy… a small army of hearts marching across the screen. I feel warm… not from heat… from being looked at and not needing to flinch.
I slip the phone into my bag and let the city fold around me. Somewhere behind me, the set is already resetting itself for tomorrow. Scripts breathe when the room empties. People do too.
I think about his pause when the host asked about home… about the answer that wasn't wrong, just… incomplete. I don't know the rest yet. That's alright. Stories don't need all their secrets in Act One.
At the crosswalk, I whisper to the air, "Keep it honest." It sounds like a promise I might be ready to keep… to him… to me.
The light turns green. I go.
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