There are only three things on my desk:
My notebook.
My aqua pen.
His messages.
Everything else has quietly stopped existing.
Jingyi: Did I do something to make you uncomfortable today?
Five minutes later:
Jingyi: If so, tell me. I'll fix it.
I haven't moved in ten minutes. I'm just… staring at the screen like the answer might appear by osmosis.
My heart squeezes.
My brain panics.
Professional composure… intact.
Emotional composure… debatable.
Of course he noticed.
Of course he did.
I've seen him pick up on a cameraman's micro-expression from across a set and adjust a performance on the spot. He notices everything. Which is exactly the problem.
I type:
No, you didn't do anything wrong.
Stare at it.
Delete it.
I try again:
Sorry if I was weird today.
Delete.
Try:
It's not you, it's me.
Delete so fast my thumb blurs.
I toss my phone onto the desk and bury my face in my hands.
"Get a grip," I mutter. "He is a co-worker, not a crisis."
Deep breath.
I pick the phone back up.
Fine. Neutral. Professional. Pretend my heart is not auditioning for a drumline.
I type:
Su-Bin: You didn't do anything wrong. I was just tired today.
I read it back. It sounds… cold. Like I copy-pasted it from a customer service script.
Before I can overthink it into oblivion, I hit send.
Instant regret.
I stand up, walk three laps around my tiny living room, and am halfway through a fourth when my phone buzzes.
Jingyi: You sure? You seemed a little distant.
Oh no.
He noticed that too.
My heart: he cares
My brain: he's polite
Denial: nothing to see here, keep moving
I type:
Su-Bin: Long day. Nothing to worry about. Get some rest
I add a period. Delete it.
Add a smile emoji. Delete that too.
I send it with no punctuation at all, which somehow feels more vulnerable than a love letter.
He replies almost immediately.
Jingyi: Okay. If anything's bothering you… tell me tomorrow.
My chest feels… crowded.
Nobody says things like that to me. Not like that. Not with that gentle, steady tone that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a promise.
I lock my phone, turn it face-down, and pretend I can write.
My notebook disagrees.
I stare at the page. The sentence from last night stares back at me:
The moment that almost happened is the moment I can't forget.
I close the notebook.
Sleep is going to be a rumor tonight.
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Crew group chat is a mistake.
I know this.
I open it anyway.
It's a wall of chaos.
Someone has screen-capped the coffee truck selfie… the cafeteria matcha moment… a rehearsal still where he's looking at me and I'm very pointedly not looking at him.
They've added hearts. And glitter. And captions like:
"JUST DATE ALREADY"
"Writer-nim x Emerald Jacket"
"Chemistry Behind the Script >>>"
I turn off notifications before my soul leaves my body permanently.
"Great," I mumble to the ceiling. "I'm the gossip fresh from the sauna… and I haven't even showered."
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I arrive at the studio the next morning earlier than usual.
This is not because I am avoiding anyone.
This is because… I am… dedicated.
I've chosen the most neutral outfit possible. Soft ivory blouse, dark slacks. No aqua, no hearts, nothing that looks like I woke up thinking about anyone with a stage name.
My makeup is dangerously competent. The kind of "no-makeup makeup" that takes three times as long as actual makeup. My hair is tamed into loose waves that pretend they've always lived this way.
I look like I'm hiding. That's how I know I've overdone it.
"Writer-nim, you look so fresh today," a makeup assistant says as she passes. Then squints. "Like… suspiciously fresh. Are you hiding from someone?"
"…I'm not hiding," I say, a little too quickly.
She smiles in that "I'm not judging but I know everything" way and leaves me to my fate.
I duck into an empty side room to review pages before call time. Safe. Quiet. Jingyi-free.
For exactly thirty seconds.
"Knock knock," a familiar voice says from the doorway.
The universe hates me.
I look up. He's leaning against the frame, casual in a simple tee and jacket, hair not yet fully styled but already unfair. He's holding a paper cup with a green lid.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I answer, aiming for calm and landing somewhere around 'breathless squirrel'.
He steps inside, letting the door swing half-shut behind him.
"Are you…" his gaze scans my face carefully, "…avoiding me?"
My heart screams yes.
My mouth says, "No."
He laughs under his breath, not quite believing me but too kind to call it out.
"You didn't sleep much," he observes softly.
"How do you know that?" I blurt.
He lifts a shoulder. "You're blinking slower. And your eyes look tired."
I touch under my eyes automatically. "Wow. Brutal."
"Not in a bad way," he says quickly. "Just… I noticed."
That's the problem.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just… thinking."
"About what?"
I freeze.
You.
Us.
The rooftop.
Your text.
The way you said "Sian-Sian" like it belonged only to you.
"Work," I say instead.
He studies me for a beat. Then, without pushing, he steps closer and holds out the cup.
"Here," he says. "For you."
I take it. It's warm.
"Matcha?" I ask.
"Of course," he affirms gently. "Two pumps of vanilla. Oatmilk. The way you order it when you think no one's paying attention."
My fingers tighten around the cup.
I should not melt over someone knowing my drink order. I should be a composed, rational adult.
My heart did not get that memo.
"You didn't have to," I say.
"I wanted to," he replies simply. "I didn't want yesterday to feel weird."
There it is again. That word.
Weird.
"It wasn't weird," I say too fast. "It was just…"
He waits.
"Just… a long day."
He's quiet for a moment. Then nods once.
"Okay," he says. "If you ever want to talk about long days… I'll listen."
The line lodges behind my ribs.
I look away first, sipping the matcha to give my hands something to do. It tastes like comfort and bad decisions.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"You're welcome, Sian-Sian."
The nickname lands different in a small room with no witnesses. Warmer. Closer. A little dangerous.
I pretend it doesn't.
Professional composure… barely intact.
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On set, the air feels charged.
We're shooting an argument-turned-softness scene. The kind where the characters fight, then stand too close, then don't quite know what to do with their hands.
Art imitates life and then laughs about it.
"Let's take it from the emotional midpoint," the director says, clapping his hands. "Less anger, more… tension. That thing you two do."
I pretend I don't know what he means.
We take our marks. I'm off to the side, script in hand. Jingyi and So-ah stand in the center of the set.
"Action."
They move through the lines smoothly. Sparks, conflict, misread intentions. It's good. Too good. My chest feels tight for no logical reason.
In the last beat, his character turns toward my character, who technically isn't in the scene, but we're testing an alternate version.
"Can we try with Writer Yoon in the eyeline?" the director calls. "I want to see how it shifts the energy."
I step closer reluctantly, standing just outside the frame.
"Look at her instead," the director says to Jingyi.
He does.
The difference is immediate.
The room shrinks. Noise fades. It's just his gaze… steady… searching… like he's reading lines off my face instead of a page.
The assistant director whispers to the script supervisor, "Are they… dating?"
She snorts. "Not officially."
The scene ends on a held breath. The crew breaks into murmurs.
"That was perfect," the director says. "Exactly the chemistry I wanted."
Fantastic. I am now a special effect.
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At lunch, I make the mistake of visiting the break room.
Two set dressers are hunched over a phone, giggling like high schoolers.
They jump when I enter.
"Writer-nim," one says, cheeks flushing. "Hi."
"Hi," I say slowly.
On the phone screen, I catch a glimpse of my own face… next to a heart sticker… next to Jingyi's face with some overdramatic sparkles.
Overlaid text:
"WHEN WILL THEY REALIZE"
They fumble to hide it.
"We were just—"
"Work meme," the other says too loudly. "Nothing important."
"Uh-huh," I say.
As I head for the fridge, I hear:
"If they don't end up together, I will have no hope in romance ever again."
"Seriously. Do you see the way he looks at her?"
Heat crawls up my neck.
I grab my lunch and flee.
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Of course, So-ah finds me in the hallway.
She always has perfect timing.
"Writer-nim," she calls, heels clicking gracefully. "Do you have a minute?"
"Sure," I say, because my spine is made of politeness.
She smiles, all soft concern.
"I just wanted to say… you and Jingyi looked so natural together in that last rehearsal," she says. "No wonder the crew is gossiping."
I choke silently.
"Oh, they… noticed?" I manage.
She laughs lightly. "It's harmless. Everyone loves a behind-the-scenes romance. I just hope it doesn't make things uncomfortable for you."
"It's not like that," I say quickly.
"Of course," she says. "You're very confident. I can see why he feels relaxed with you. He seems to like… that type."
That type.
The words land strangely. Compliment-shaped. Edge-sharp.
I smile anyway. "We all just want the project to do well."
"Mm." She tilts her head. "Still… be careful. People talk. Especially when the chemistry is that obvious."
She pats my arm lightly and glides away, leaving a faint trail of expensive perfume and something else I can't name.
I exhale slowly.
Perfect. I am now the rumor with a warning label.
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By the time I get home, my brain feels like it's been left on simmer all day.
I shower. Change into soft clothes. Sit at my desk with damp hair and a fresh notebook page that deserves better than my spiraling thoughts.
My phone buzzes.
Liu Jingyi.
My pulse reacts before the rest of me can pretend not to care.
Jingyi: Did today feel better…? Or worse?
I stare at the question.
Better, because you brought me matcha and looked at me like I was the only person in every room. Worse, because I noticed and now I can't unknow it.
I type:
Su-Bin: Better. Thank you… for the matcha.
I add the ellipsis, then leave it. It looks like me. A little hesitant. A little too honest.
Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.
Jingyi: Anytime, Sian-Sian.
I put the phone down very gently, like it might explode.
My heart is beating too fast for someone who has insisted all week that nothing is happening.
Professional composure… not intact.
I twist my pen once—click… and stare at the blank page.
Then write:
You don't text someone like that if it's just friendliness…
I stare at the sentence, then scribble it out so hard the paper wrinkles.
Deny everything. Feel everything anyway.
I close the notebook.
Tomorrow, I'll be normal.
Tomorrow, I'll be composed.
Tomorrow, I'll pretend I didn't stay up rereading one word:
"Anytime."
And the way he said my name with it.
"Sian-Sian."
I turn off the light, but sleep doesn't come for a long time.
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