No one warns me.
That's the problem.
If someone had sent an email, or a memo, or a flaming sky banner that said "By the way, we're rehearsing the almost-kiss scene today" I could have prepared.
Emotionally. Mentally. Medicationally.
Instead, the director just claps his hands at morning call time and says, "We're blocking the reconciliation scene after lunch."
Reconciliation scene.
My stomach drops.
I scroll through the script on my tablet until I find it.
There it is.
Interior set, late night, post-argument. He corners her gently, apologizes, confesses without saying the word love. She cracks, just a little. They lean in, almost kiss, don't.
On the page, it's clean. Elegant. Barely two paragraphs.
On set, it will be dangerous.
I read it twice, pretending my heart is not speeding.
"Writer Yoon," the director calls. "You got the new reference clips I sent you?"
"Yes," I say, even though I did not open them because I knew they would feature slow motion and tragic ballads and noses brushing.
"Good, good," he says. "We want that… tension. The intention, you know? It's all in the eyes."
He looks delighted.
I feel sick.
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By the time lunch is over, my body has decided anxiety is its full-time job.
I linger by the craft table longer than necessary, stirring my matcha like it contains answers.
"Writer-nim."
The voice behind me is sugar-coated and familiar.
I turn.
So-ah stands there, pristine in a soft cream blouse and jeans that probably cost more than my rent. She smiles, all doe eyes and polite warmth.
"Did you see we're rehearsing the reconciliation today?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
"I watched a few dramas last night for reference," she says brightly. "The ones where the leads fight, then the man pushes her against the wall to show his passion… you know?"
She laughs lightly.
I do, in fact, know. The wall trope. A staple.
"It looks good on camera," she adds, tilting her head. "Don't you think?"
"I think it depends on the story," I answer.
Her gaze flicks to my tablet.
"Well, I trust your judgment, Writer-nim," she says. "If you think the scene needs more… heat, I support it."
She pats my arm like we're on the same team.
Then glides away.
I stare at my matcha.
If I drink it fast enough, maybe I'll drown.
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The stage is half-lit when we gather for blocking.
The reconciliation scene is set in the small library corner of the drama couple's shared apartment. Bookshelves, a worn couch, a table littered with fake scripts and coffee cups.
It looks suspiciously like my internal organs.
"Alright," the director says, rubbing his hands together. "We'll start with the emotional beats, then add the physical blocking."
He turns to me.
"Writer Yoon, did you adjust any lines?" he asks.
"Only small tweaks," I say. "Cadence, not content."
"Perfect," he says. "We'll keep the almost-kiss exactly as written."
He says it so casually I almost drop my pen.
So-ah raises her hand with a shy smile.
"Director-nim," she says, "I had one thought… only if it doesn't bother Writer-nim, of course."
He nods. "Go ahead."
"I was thinking…" she begins, "when he goes to apologize, maybe he could… push her gently back, you know? Not rough, just… more physical. Up against the bookshelf, maybe. It would show how desperate he is."
Her eyes widen innocently.
It's a good suggestion technically. Visually.
I hate it.
The director hums, imagining it.
"It is… dramatic," he says.
He looks to me.
"What do you think, Writer Yoon?" he asks.
I keep my tone even.
"We could try it," I say. "But we have to make sure it doesn't change his character into someone who doesn't respect boundaries."
"That's true," he says.
I look at Jingyi.
He's quiet, watching me, not So-ah.
"I think the intensity should come from the dialogue and the eyes," I add. "If we add too much force, it risks feeling like he's cornering her instead of opening up to her."
There is a beat of silence.
Then Jingyi speaks.
"I agree," he says simply.
The director nods.
"Alright," he says. "No wall. But we still want to feel the closeness. The tension. We'll keep it… nearly touching."
He looks at me again.
"Writer Yoon, can you step in for blocking?" he asks. "Just for eyeline reference."
"Step… in?" I repeat, like I am just learning what those two words mean.
"Yes, yes," he says. "Stand where the female lead stands so he can find the right distance. It's easier if we solve spacing before cameras."
My brain short-circuits.
"So I will… pretend to be the heroine," I say slowly.
"Just for marks," he says. "Professional, nothing emotional."
Someone snorts softly near the lights and then pretends they didn't.
I inhale.
Exhale.
"Okay," I say. "For blocking."
Professional.
Nothing emotional.
Lies.
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We reset for the scene.
I stand with my back to the prop bookshelf, script in hand. The books smell like dust and glue, even though the set was built last month.
The director positions me by gently nudging my shoulders.
"Here," he says. "We want the camera to catch the profile."
I nod, trying to keep my breathing even.
"Jingyi," he calls. "You start here."
I hear footsteps.
Then he's there.
He moves into my peripheral vision, tall and solid and impossibly close even though there's still a respectable amount of air between us.
"We'll walk it slowly first," the director says. "No lines, just movement. Ready?"
Jingyi looks at me.
It's not his character looking.
It's him.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"I am a professional," I mutter, more telling myself than answering him.
He smiles… small, soft.
"I know," he says. "I'm still asking."
I swallow.
"I'm fine," I lie.
He shifts his weight closer.
"Action," the director says.
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He steps toward me.
One… two… three small steps, each one measured.
The bookshelf is behind my shoulders. The floor is steady under my feet.
My heart is not steady.
He stops less than an arm's length away.
"Closer," the director says.
Jingyi obeys.
He steps closer…
Then closer…
Then too close.
When he closes the gap, I can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of his cologne, something clean and warm with a hint of citrus and something I can't name.
My back is not actually against the shelf yet, but it feels like the room has shrunk.
"Your hand," the director says. "Next to her. Support her head if needed."
Jingyi lifts his right hand and plants it on the bookshelf by my head.
Something in my chest does a quiet backflip. My breath stumbles.
He notices. His expression softens.
"Relax… I've got you."
The position is technically a normal K-drama frame. Arm over the shoulder, body close but not touching except maybe at the knees if one of us breathes wrong.
Relax?
RELAX? In what universe—
It feels like standing in the eye of a storm.
"Good," the director murmurs. "Now… we add intention."
He steps a little closer to us to see the angles.
The crew subtly shifts.
A boom operator leans in, adjusting the mic.
A lighting tech pretends to check a filter and ends up three steps closer.
Two PAs hover behind a C-stand, wide-eyed.
"Okay, okay," the director says. "Let's do it with lines this time. Low volume, we're just checking the emotional flow. Ready?"
Jingyi's eyes meet mine.
There's a question in them.
I give the tiniest nod.
"Action," the director says.
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He drops his gaze, shoulders softening as he slips into character.
"I was wrong," he says quietly.
The line lands somewhere under my ribs.
"You always think you're right," I answer, the way I wrote it, sharper than I feel.
His fingers curl against the shelf by my head.
"I thought walking away would protect you," he says.
My heart flutters.
The words are fictional. The feeling isn't.
"But it hurt you instead," he adds, voice low. "I see that now."
I look up at him, throat tight.
"You don't get to come back just because you regret it," I say.
His eyes deepen, some combination of character and real regret flickering there.
"I'm not asking to be forgiven," he says. "I'm asking for a chance to try… properly."
The air between us thickens.
Even knowing each line, each beat, it feels like I'm hearing it for the first time.
"Cut, good," the director says. "Now at the last line, we bring in the almost kiss."
Of course.
He moves even closer.
We reset at the final exchange.
"You can't keep making promises," I say, softer now, per the script. "You're not the only one who breaks when you fail."
His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up.
"I'm not promising," he says. "I'm choosing you."
My lungs forget every job they ever had.
The director steps closer to watch.
"Alright," he says. "Now lean in… slowly… I want to see the intention. Stop before you would actually kiss."
He leans toward us, hands on his knees, squinting like a nature photographer waiting for birds to touch beaks.
As soon as he does…
Half the crew leans in too.
A lighting tech freezes mid-step, gel frame in hand.
A stylist stops brushing an extra's hair and stares openly.
Two PAs peek from behind a pillar, gripping each other's sleeves.
The soundstage goes silent.
Not work-silent.
The specific silence of people holding their breath so they don't miss what's about to happen.
Jingyi shifts his weight, closing the small space between us.
His hand stays braced against the shelf. His other hand lifts as if to steady my shoulder, then hesitates, hovering just above my arm.
His face is inches from mine.
My pulse is in my throat, my wrists, the tips of my fingers.
"Let's try lifting her chin a little, Jingyi."
He obeys, tilting my face up.
It brings me closer to him.
His fingers brush my jaw.
My knees nearly fold.
He senses it, and lowers his voice instinctively.
"It's okay. I'm right here."
I forget English, Korean, and every writing degree I've ever earned.
Even the director goes quiet for a moment, watching the energy between us.
Jingyi's gaze flickers down to my mouth again, then up to my eyes.
The world narrows to the space between us.
"You okay?" he whispers, barely sound.
"I'm fine," I lie.
It feels like if I move at all, I'll brush his lips.
"Noses almost touching," the director says quietly. "We want to feel that… almost moment."
Jingyi leans in.
Our noses graze.
A shock runs through me.
Somewhere behind us, someone whispers, "Oh my god… oh my god… oh my g—"
They are immediately shushed.
I can't hear my own breathing, but I can hear his.
The scene calls for tension. I wrote it that way.
I did not write the way my fingers twitch like they want to curl into his shirt. Or the way my heart aches with something that feels a lot like wanting.
His pupils are blown wide.
For a second, his lips part like he's about to say something that is not in the script.
We hover there, breath mixing, one tilt away from rewriting everything.
"Cut— cut, cut!" the director shouts suddenly. "Cut!"
Everyone jolts like they've been caught doing something illegal.
Jingyi steps back too fast, almost knocking a book off the shelf.
I straighten, pretending my knees are stable.
The crew explodes into pretend-business.
The lighting tech abruptly decides the gel frame needed urgent repositioning.
The stylists resume brushing with violent enthusiasm.
The PAs stare at their clipboards upside down.
No one looks at us directly.
Everyone is absolutely looking.
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"Good work," the director says, clapping his hands. "We'll lock that in. Tomorrow, same thing, just with the main camera setup. Take five!"
He wanders off to talk to the DOP.
I stand there, catching my breath.
My skin feels too tight. My heart feels too loud.
I need air. Water. A reset button.
"Sian-Sian."
His voice finds me before I can escape.
I turn.
Jingyi is watching me, expression gentler than I've ever seen it.
He walks toward me slowly, as if he's afraid I'll bolt.
"You okay?" he asks again.
There it is. The question that sounds harmless and feels like a confession.
"I'm fine," I say, straightening my script pages. "It was just… blocking."
He searches my face.
"That wasn't just blocking," he says softly.
My throat goes dry.
"It's acting," I insist. "We did our jobs. That's all."
He studies me for a long moment.
Then he smiles… but it's small, a little sad.
"If that's what you want to call it," he says.
Danger.
I look away, the pages in my hand rustling.
"I need to update a few notes before tomorrow," I blurt. "I'll send the locked pages tonight."
"Su-bin," he begins.
"I should go now," I say, too quickly. "Deadlines."
I walk off before he can say anything else.
He doesn't follow.
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Around the corner, in the shadow of a storage rack, I stop and press my back against the cool wall.
My heart is still racing.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
On the script, the stage directions are simple:
He leans in. She almost lets him.
In real life, I almost did.
No cameras. No director. No character names.
Just me and him and one tilted universe.
Stupid.
So stupid.
I lift my pen and scribble in the margin next to the scene:
professional distance: malfunctioning
I underline it.
Twice.
It doesn't help.
Later, as the crew packs up, I pass by the edge of the stage.
He's there, talking to the DOP. Laughing at something. He looks normal. Relaxed.
Then his hand lifts unconsciously, fingertips brushing his own lower lip, like he's checking if something is still there.
My chest tightens.
He glances around, eyes scanning the room, and when they find me, his smile softens.
I look away before my traitor of a heart decides to start writing a confessional in my chest.
As I head toward the exit, I hear him murmur under his breath, voice too low for anyone but the nearest mic stand to catch.
"I wasn't acting… Sian-Sian."
I pretend I didn't hear it.
My heart, unfortunately, does not.