The director rewrote two entire scenes last night.
Two. Entire. Scenes.
My desk looks like a war zone.
Pages everywhere.
Pen scratches everywhere.
Coffee stains somehow on the ceiling.
I'm hunched over the script, muttering to myself like a woman who's been possessed by deadlines.
I underline a phrase aggressively and write, in all caps:
PROFESSIONAL COMPOSURE: INTACT
It's a lie. But it comforts me.
Someone knocks lightly on the doorframe before I can scribble another note into oblivion.
"Writer-nim," a passing PA says, sliding something onto my desk without stopping. "From… someone."
I look down.
Matcha.
Two pumps vanilla.
Oatmilk.
The lid is green.
A sticky note is stuck to the side.
Don't die. —Not Jingyi
I stare at the note.
Then at the drink.
Then at the ceiling like God needs to answer for this immediately.
He is not subtle.
He is also not "not Jingyi."
I shove the matcha aside like it's evidence.
Focus.
Rewrite.
Make scene better.
Ignore actor.
Professional. Working. Breathing. Responsible adult—
Another knock.
This one soft, familiar.
I freeze.
"Are you busy?" he calls gently.
Oh great.
It actually is him.
I consider hiding under my desk.
Not professional. Probably obvious.
Instead, I sit up straighter.
The door opens a crack.
He peeks inside.
His hair is half-styled.
He looks unfairly handsome for someone who isn't even camera-ready.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
"No," I say immediately.
He comes in anyway.
"Thought so," he replies with a soft smile.
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He walks toward the mess that used to be my desk.
"That's a lot of red ink," he says.
"It's pink," I correct automatically.
He leans in. "Looks like blood."
"My enemies," I say deadpan.
He laughs quietly.
Then picks up one of the pages.
"You're rewriting again?"
"Yes," I sigh. "The director wants to shift the emotional beat."
He reads the dialogue.
And something shifts in his expression.
He's thinking… really thinking.
"Can I say something?" he asks.
"No."
"I'll say it anyway."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why ask then?"
"Professional courtesy."
His tone is so earnest I have to bite back a smile.
He points to a line. "If he hesitates here, it should be because he's afraid she'll leave… not because he's unsure."
I blink.
"That's… actually a good note."
He shrugs one shoulder. "I read ahead last night. The scene needs weight."
My heart stutters.
"You read… ahead?"
He looks suddenly shy. "Well… yeah. I like your writing."
I look away before my lungs forget how to function.
"This doesn't mean you get to rewrite my script," I say.
"I wasn't trying," he says, voice warm. "I just… wanted to help."
Then he asks, and it feels like gravity turns toward me:
"You trust me, right?"
Everything freezes.
I trust your acting.
I trust your professionalism.
I trust your… whatever this is.
But instead I say:
"I trust your acting."
His smile says he heard everything else.
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Rehearsal is torture.
Not because of the work, but because the director insists he and So-ah "practice more emotional proximity."
Which translates to:
Su-Bin, stand here and watch while he acts like he's in love with someone else.
But he's not acting like he's in love with someone else.
He keeps looking at me.
Every time the scene hits a charged moment, his eyes flick toward the monitor where I stand.
The director squints.
"Writer Yoon… could you come closer? I want your presence in his eyeline."
That sounds like a threat.
I step closer anyway.
Jingyi's gaze softens immediately.
The director claps once. "YES. Whatever THAT is — keep it."
I am going to walk into the ocean.
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Lunch break + Second floor hallway = Peace.
Until So-ah materializes like a well-perfumed ghost.
"Writer-nim," she says, smile bright. "Do you have a minute?"
"Is it about the script?" I ask.
"No… just a small concern."
Here we go. Internally, I sigh and roll my eyes.
She twirls a strand of hair, looking concerned.
"I overheard some stylists talking," she says sweetly. "About how close you and Jingyi looked during rehearsal."
My chest tightens. "Oh?"
"I hope it doesn't bother you. Dating rumors can be… difficult. Especially for him. He gets so much hate."
Bother me? More like stab me in the chest with a heart-shaped pink glittery pen.
"I wasn't aware people were talking," I say coolly.
She smiles sympathetically. "Don't worry. I'm sure it'll blow over… as long as nothing else happens."
I nod politely. Because that's all I can do without getting arrested.
"Of course," I say. "There's nothing to misunderstand."
Was that defensive? Yes.
Did Jingyi hear it? Also yes.
He appears behind us, silent as a judgmental cat.
"So-ah," he says, voice calm. "We need you for makeup."
"Coming!" she chirps, and floats away.
He waits until she's out of earshot, then turns to me.
"Don't listen to her," he says softly.
My throat tightens. "It's fine."
"It's not," he counters. "You didn't do anything wrong."
I stare at the floor. "People are talking."
He steps closer.
"Let them," he murmurs.
My breath stumbles.
I look up.
His expression is open. Honest. Too honest.
"I don't want you feeling small because of me," he says.
Something warm and painful twists inside me.
I swallow.
"It's not you," I say.
And that's the problem.
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Later, behind set walls, I'm gathering my scattered sanity.
He appears again.
This time quieter.
"When I lived in China…" he begins, then falters.
My head lifts instantly.
He never talks about this.
"…the gossip was worse," he finishes softly. "People made stories out of nothing. It… affected things."
My heart squeezes.
But before I can ask, before I can say anything… he gives me a tiny smile and changes the subject.
As if he saw the question forming in my eyes and wanted to spare me.
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We wrap early.
I gather my notes, tuck the pink editing pen behind my ear, and try to forget that the man I'm absolutely not thinking about is standing three feet behind me.
"Writer-nim," he calls gently.
I turn.
He's standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted, watching me like I'm something delicate.
"You look better in aqua than anyone I've ever met," he says.
I blink.
"That's… oddly specific."
"It's true," he says.
I scoff lightly. "You say things like that to everyone."
He steps in, slowly, carefully… until he's close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
"No," he says quietly. "I don't."
My heart does a full gymnastics routine.
I grab my bag before it betrays me with a backflip.
"See you tomorrow," I say, voice too bright.
"See you, Sian-Sian."
I escape before my knees give out.
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That night, I lie in bed staring at the dark ceiling.
Aqua pen on my nightstand.
Matcha in my fridge.
His voice in my head.
No.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
Professional composure… absolutely in tattered ruins.
I groan and cover my face.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I will be normal.
I don't believe myself, even a little.
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