The studio cafeteria feels… wrong.
Not "we lost the cameras" wrong. Not "the director rewrote the ending overnight" wrong.
More like… every person in the room suddenly remembered I exist.
I step inside with my usual morning setup… hot matcha, notebook tucked to my chest, carefully selected outfit that says I am fine, I am neutral, I definitely did not almost kiss anyone on a rooftop last night.
The room falls suspiciously quiet for half a second. Then everyone starts talking again… louder.
I get in line for breakfast. Out of the corner of my eye I see a makeup assistant elbow a lighting tech and whisper something that includes my name, his name, and the words "last night."
That's fine. That's normal. Probably.
I touch my face automatically.
Do I have something on it…?
I check my reflection in the stainless steel counter. Aqua blouse… soft drape… hair in loose waves that refused to fully straighten, cheeks a little too awake. I look… normal. Maybe slightly more main-character-y than usual, but nothing on my face except makeup and mild panic.
"Good morning, Writer-nim," the line server says, smiling a little too brightly.
"Morning," I mumble. "Uh… same as usual, please."
She piles rice, egg, and some side dishes onto my tray, then adds an extra dumpling. I blink.
"Thank you," I say.
She winks. "Fighting." Her hands raised to cheer me on.
Okay. Definitely weird.
I carry my tray to an empty table. Halfway there, a sound designer stands up, takes my tray from me with a flourish, and sets it down for me.
"Here you go, Writer-nim."
"…Thanks?"
He looks like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it and retreats. Two of his friends immediately pounce on him in hushed tones. I catch exactly three words:
"Confess… rooftop… obvious."
I stare at my soup.
I'm starting to suspect I died at some point last night and this is an oddly specific afterlife.
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I'm halfway through my matcha when I hear it.
"Morning."
That voice.
I look up.
Liu Jingyi walks into the cafeteria and the atmosphere shifts like someone adjusted the temperature manually. Conversations spike, then dip. Phones appear on tables like mushrooms after rain.
He scans the room once… then walks directly toward me.
Of course he does.
"Did you eat?" he asks.
"Yes," I lie. My tray is basically untouched.
He glances at my food. "So that's… imaginary, then."
"I'm… pacing myself."
He hums. "Can I sit?"
As if there is any universe where I say no.
"Sure," I say, carefully casual. "It's free real estate… in the cafeteria."
He sits across from me. I can feel at least twelve pairs of eyes burning holes through my back. Someone near the window mutters "oh my god" under their breath.
I drink my matcha. He watches me drink my matcha. We are both pretending this is not weird.
"Oh," he says suddenly. "You forgot the cream."
He reaches over, plucks a tiny creamer from his tray, opens it, and pours it into my cup… then takes my stirrer and swirls it in three slow circles.
The movement is… ridiculously gentle. Like he's stirring a spell.
"That's the right color now," he says.
I stare at him.
Objectively, this is an intimate gesture. A little domestic. The crew probably sees it as some sort of K-drama boyfriend moment.
My brain, however, has chosen violence.
"Wow," I say lightly, "you're really committed to PR fanservice."
His smile falters half a millimeter. "Fanservice," he repeats.
"Yeah. You know… playing up the nice oppa image. 'Look how sweet I am to the writer, please love the movie.' That sort of thing."
For a second, his gaze dips to my hands around the cup. Then back to my face. "Sure," he says. "Fanservice."
The word sounds heavier when he says it.
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A shadow falls over the table.
"Can I join?"
Han So-ah, perfectly styled in a soft cream sweater and delicate earrings, is looking down at me with the kind of smile that belongs in advertisements.
"Of course," I say. Because what else do you say to the lead actress when you are socially incompetent and haven't finished your breakfast.
She sits beside Jingyi, facing me. Her perfume is gentle and expensive, like flowers that charge consulting fees.
"Writer-nim, your lipstick is so pretty today," she says. "It's so brave to wear that shade. I always worry bold colors draw attention to… areas I don't want filmed."
I blink.
"Thank you," I say slowly. "I like… color."
She smiles like I've proven her point. "It suits you so well. Very… memorable."
Memorable. Brave. Areas. Interesting word choices.
I take a large sip of matcha to keep my mouth from saying anything impulsive.
Jingyi's eyes flick between us. His expression does something strange… like confusion with a layer of mild disapproval. It disappears when So-ah turns to him.
"Oppa, did you sleep?" she coos. "You look tired."
"Long day yesterday," he says simply.
She reaches like she might touch his shoulder. He casually leans forward to grab his chopsticks, just out of reach.
If I were paying attention… I might catch the pattern by now.
I am not paying attention.
I'm too busy silently replaying the rooftop in my head.
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At the table behind us, two lighting techs are whispering loud enough for the next drama over to hear.
"I'm telling you, it's canon," one says.
"The writer and the lead?" the other hisses. "What if it's just good acting?"
"Have you seen them act?"
They both laugh.
"Episode twelve," the first declares. "That's when they'll go official."
"In the story?"
"In real life."
I mentally note to check what show they're obsessed with later. Must be good.
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On the way out of the cafeteria, a production assistant nearly collides with me, then panics.
"S-sorry, Writer-nim!"
"It's okay," I say. "I'm very… bumpable."
He makes a strangled sound. "We were… we were just talking about you."
"Ah." My stomach dips. "Because of the coffee truck photo?"
He blinks. "Because of what…?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "Enjoy your breakfast."
I keep walking.
Behind me, I hear:
"I told you she has no idea."
"Should we tell her?"
"Are you insane?!"
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Rehearsal is no better.
I stand by the monitor, scribbling notes in the margin of my script. My pen glides… click… smooth blue ink underlining a line I want to tweak later.
Jingyi finishes a take, steps down from his mark… and walks straight to me.
"Was that okay?" he asks quietly.
"It was good," I reply.
"Just good?" His eyes are soft. Too soft. He tilts his head like he's asking for honesty, not compliments.
I consider. "It was… very good. You could… hold the pause half a beat longer before the last line. Let it hurt a little."
"Show me," he says.
I blink. "Show… you?"
"How it feels," he says. "Not on camera. Just here."
How it feels.
Not the words.
The feeling.
My brain queues up a thousand rooftop flashbacks. I shove them back into the archive.
"It's when he realizes she might actually walk away," I say slowly. "So he's… hesitating. Not because he doesn't want to say it… but because after he says it… there's no going back."
He watches me while I talk. Not like how people listen politely. Like he's memorizing every syllable.
"Okay," he says softly. "I get it."
"Good," I mumble, looking down at my notebook so I don't drown in eye contact.
He shifts closer… just a fraction… enough that I feel his presence, not his touch.
"Thank you," he says.
"Sure," I say. "That's my job."
He doesn't move away immediately. And I don't step back.
Someone coughs loudly from across the set. We both blink and snap back into our respective personal spaces.
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Later, on a break, I'm walking down the hallway when I pass two assistants huddled by the water cooler.
"I heard they were soaked… completely drenched…" one whispers.
"Alone… for like twenty minutes…" the other hisses back.
"And he called her that nickname… Sian-Sian…"
My brain stops at soaked… alone… nickname.
Oh no.
They're talking about the sprinklers.
Great. I'm gossip fresh from the sauna.
My soul leaves my body briefly, does a lap around the ceiling, then returns.
I speed-walk away before I hear anything else.
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I retreat to the break room, where the vending machines hum and the fluorescent lights hum louder. I tell myself I am here for chips. I am actually here to breathe.
I'm digging for coins in my pocket when two set dressers slip in and stop dead upon seeing me.
"Oh… hi, Writer-nim," one says, going pink.
"Hi," I reply. "I'm… buying snacks."
"Of course you are," the other says, as if this proves a long-standing point.
They exchange a look, then a sigh.
"If they don't date," one mutters, "I will sue the universe."
"Seriously," the other whispers. "Do you see the way he looks at her?"
"…Who," I say slowly, "are we suing the universe about."
They freeze. Both turn toward me like I've spoken in tongues.
"You… and Liu Jingyi-ssi," one blurts. "Obviously."
My whole nervous system does a Windows error noise.
"W-What?" I splutter. "Why would you… why would anyone… that's… we're not… he's not… I'm not… what?!"
My vocabulary abandons me entirely.
They stare, then share the most synchronized expression of pity I have ever seen.
"Writer-nim…" one says gently. "It's really obvious."
"Is it," I say. More statement than question.
They nod.
I drop my coins. They clatter on the floor.
"Excuse me," I mumble, crouching to gather what's left of my dignity.
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I make it through the rest of the day on autopilot.
Notes… calls… adjustments… nodding when people talk to me… writing words that are technically words, but my brain is in a constant split-screen:
Left side: "They think we're… what?"
Right side: "He called you Sian-Sian in that voice, remember?"
By the time I get home, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with feelings I refuse to admit exist.
My apartment is quiet. I put my bag down. Hang my cardigan. Kick off my shoes and miss the rack entirely. I sit at my desk with my notebook and my pen and the noble intention of rewriting Scene Ten.
I stare at the blank page.
Then write:
The moment that almost happened is the moment I can't forget.
I blink.
That is not a scene heading.
I stare at the sentence for a long time.
Then twist my pen once—click.
"…Traitor," I whisper to it.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
It's not the group chat.
Not a spam call.
Liu Jingyi.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine.
I open the message.
Jingyi: Did I do something to make you uncomfortable today?
My heart lodges in my throat.
Another bubble appears before I can react.
Jingyi: If so, tell me. I'll fix it.
I read it twice. Three times.
The words blur slightly at the edges.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode. Lean back. Stare at the ceiling.
"Everyone knows," I murmur, "except me."
That's not true though.
Not anymore.
I pick up my pen.
Click.
On the page, under the sentence about the moment I can't forget, I write one more line:
Maybe… I don't want to.
I don't answer his text.
Not yet.
But my fingers hover over the keyboard for a long time.
And for the first time… I let myself wonder what my life would look like if I stopped pretending I couldn't see what everyone else apparently does.
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