There is a line in my script that will not leave me alone.
It isn't even spoken in this episode. It just sits there on page thirty-two like a ghost.
Then I won't stop caring.
I wrote it for the male lead… and then Jingyi said it to me in a hallway.
Now it echoes in my head every time the studio door opens. Every time someone laughs. Every time I pick up my pen.
I sit at my folding table by the monitors, aqua pen between my fingers, pretending to review continuity notes. The words keep blurring into meaningless squiggles.
Focus.
Rewrite.
I press the pen to the margin and write:
note: rework apology beat
Then I do a period so hard it nearly pierces the paper.
Useless.
My brain refuses to cooperate. It keeps circling the same questions.
Does he say things like that to everyone…?
Was he just being kind…?
Did I imagine the way his voice softened…?
I know what kindness looks like. I also know what pity looks like.
I am terrified of both.
"Writer-nim?"
A PA leans in.
"Director-nim says we'll be behind wardrobe for the next setup," she says. "He wants you nearby in case we ad-lib."
"Okay," I say. "I'll be there."
I tuck my tablet under my arm and stand, smoothing my blouse. The aqua silk one won the war today. It feels like armor and a target at the same time.
As I walk toward the wardrobe corridor, I catch a glimpse of Jingyi across the soundstage, talking to the lighting team. He laughs at something, head tipping back, the curve of his mouth too soft for my peace of mind.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet.
For a heartbeat, everything goes quiet.
Then someone calls his name, and the moment breaks. He looks away. I look away faster.
Professional, I remind myself.
Acting.
Scripts.
Lines.
I keep walking.
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The wardrobe hallway is narrower than I remember. Racks of costumes line both sides, gowns and suits and jackets wrapped in plastic, colors muted under dim overhead lights. It smells like fabric steam and perfume that costs too much.
I find an empty bit of wall and lean against it, exhaling slowly.
Here, away from the cameras, the noise fades. Just the distant thud of footsteps and the faint hiss of a steamer.
I flip my tablet open, more for something to hold than anything else.
"You really do like hiding in quiet places."
The voice makes my shoulders stiffen.
I look up.
So-ah stands at the end of the row, one hand resting lightly on a rack. She's in costume already, a simple white blouse and navy skirt that somehow look like an advertisement. Her hair falls in glossy waves, makeup soft and perfect.
She walks toward me, smile sweet.
"Writer-nim," she says. "You are always working."
"That is what they pay me for," I answer.
She laughs once, light.
"Of course," she says. "I did not mean it as criticism."
She stops a comfortable distance away. Not close enough to be rude. Close enough that the air changes.
"They told me you might be back here," she goes on. "I wanted to ask about the emotional beat before we roll."
Emotional beat.
My specialty.
My curse.
"What about it?" I ask.
She clasps her hands in front of her, eyes wide and earnest.
"In the new version of the scene," she says, "the heroine forgives him slowly… she still keeps him at a distance, even though she clearly has feelings."
"That is the point," I say. "She is protecting herself."
"Mm," she hums. "It is realistic… but do you think the audience might get frustrated…? They like to see the girl surrender eventually."
Her voice wraps the word surrender in silk.
Something in me prickles.
"I think the audience likes to see her choose," I say quietly. "On her own terms."
Her smile barely shifts, but I feel the temperature drop.
"You are right, of course," she says. "I just worry for you."
"For me?" I repeat.
She nods, taking a tiny step closer.
"It must be hard," she says softly, "to be so close to everything… and still be the one behind the scenes. Watching other people receive the story you created."
I stare at her.
"That is the nature of writing," I say. "I knew that when I chose this job."
"Yes," she says. "But this story is very… romantic."
Her eyes sparkle.
"You have to see him every day," she adds, voice low. "Acting out all those feelings with me."
The words land exactly where she aims them.
I keep my expression neutral.
"That is my job," I say. "I separate fiction from reality."
"Of course," she says again. "You are very professional."
Her gaze is sharp, taking in my blouse, my pen, my face.
She tilts her head, sympathy painted perfectly over something harder.
"I only hope you can keep that in line," she murmurs. "It would be… sad, if people started thinking you were confused."
The back of my neck goes hot.
"What people think does not affect my work," I say.
She smiles, a tiny flick of her lips.
"This is a small industry, Writer-nim," she says. "Feelings on set spread fast… and fall apart faster."
She leans in, just enough that I can see her face a bit clearer.
"You do not want him to pity you," she whispers.
The word hits me like a slap I did not see coming.
Pity.
Not kind. Not gentle.
Pity.
My fingers tighten around my tablet.
For weeks, I have let her words slide past me. The side comments, the faux concern, the little digs wrapped in compliments. I told myself I was too old for pettiness. Too professional for it.
I feel something in my chest shift.
Slowly.
Quietly.
I close my tablet and set it down on top of a nearby crate, very carefully, as if it is made of glass.
So-ah straightens, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her blouse, satisfied.
"I am only looking out for you," she says. "It would be a shame if people misunderstood your… attachment."
She expects me to laugh it off. To smile, make a joke, shrink back like always.
I do not laugh.
I lift my head and look at her.
Really look.
Her eyes widen just a fraction when she sees my face.
"Han So-ah," I say softly.
Her name sounds different in my mouth.
She blinks.
"Yes, Writer-nim?" she asks.
I take one step forward.
The corridor feels narrower. The rows of clothes become witnesses.
I stop close enough that she has to tilt her chin up a little to keep eye contact.
I lower my voice.
"You know…" I say.
Her mascaraed lashes flutter.
"Yes?" she answers.
I let the words come out slowly, like I am choosing each one from a shelf.
"I drink green tea for breakfast," I say.
Silence.
She stares at me, confused for half a beat.
Then I see it.
Understanding clicks into place behind her eyes. The reference. The kind of girl people call green tea… sweet on the surface, bitter underneath.
I smile.
It is not a nice smile.
"So don't worry," I continue quietly. "I know how to handle bitterness."
The words land in the space between us like a dropped glass.
She goes very still.
The fake sweetness on her face doesn't disappear all at once. It cracks in tiny places, like paint over dry wood.
"You…" she starts.
I tip my head slightly.
"If you are concerned about my position on this set," I say, voice still soft, "you do not need to be. I know where I stand. I put myself there."
She swallows.
"And if you are concerned about… my feelings," I add, "you do not need to be, either. They are my responsibility… not yours."
There is no heat in my tone. No raised voice.
That seems to unsettle her more than if I had shouted.
"I would never want you to feel… excluded," she says, recovering, latching onto the safest excuse.
"I don't," I say simply.
Her brows pinch.
"You are very confident, Writer-nim," she says.
I straighten, step back half a pace, give her her space again.
"Thank you…" I add lightly. "For your concern, but again it's not necessary."
I turn, lift my tablet from the crate, and walk around her.
She doesn't move.
I feel her gaze on my back all the way down the corridor.
I do not look back.
My heart is pounding. My hands are surprisingly steady.
All the swallowed jabs, all the quiet taking it… it didn't explode.
It turned into this.
A clean line. A small, sharp truth.
It feels… good.
Strange and scary.
But good.
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I round the corner.
And stop short.
Jingyi is there.
Standing in the shadow of a stack of folded flats, half hidden by a rolling rack. He's in his scene outfit, shirt open at the collar, jacket draped over one shoulder, hair styled just so.
His expression is not styled.
His eyes are wide.
His jaw is slightly slack.
He looks like someone who just watched fireworks go off in a library.
My stomach drops.
"How much did you…" I start.
"All of it," he says quietly.
He steps closer, out of the shadow. The dim corridor light catches his face, the lines of it softened and sharp at the same time.
I want to melt into the floor.
"I didn't know anyone was there," I say. "It was private."
"I know," he says. "I didn't mean to… listen. I came to find you, and then I heard her talking, and…"
He trails off, eyes searching mine.
"And then you heard me," I finish.
His lips curve, not into his camera smile… into something smaller, honest.
"Yes," he says. "I heard you."
The air feels heavy.
I shift my tablet from one hand to the other.
"That was not my finest professional moment," I say.
His eyebrows lift.
"I disagree," he says.
I blink.
He takes one more step closer. Not crowding. Just… existing very firmly in my space.
"Sian-Sian," he says slowly, like he is tasting the name, "you… are incredible."
The way he says it makes my throat go tight.
"I am not…" I begin.
"You are," he says. "You just do not show it to everyone."
He glances past me, toward the back of the wardrobe hall where So-ah still lingers, pretending to check a hanger.
Then his gaze returns to my face.
"I knew you were strong," he says softly. "I just didn't realize…"
He hesitates, searching for words.
"Didn't realize what?" I ask, before I can stop myself.
He exhales, almost a laugh.
"How much fire you hide," he says. "You stood there… completely calm… and you made her back down without even raising your voice."
His eyes are shining with something that makes my chest ache.
"I was trying not to cause a scene," I say weakly.
"You didn't," he says. "At least not the kind she wanted."
He studies me like I am some script he missed a draft of.
"I didn't know you had that in you," he admits.
A strange mix of pride and embarrassment bubbles up inside me.
"Had what?" I ask.
He takes another breath, as if the next words are dangerous.
"Strength," he says quietly.
My cheeks heat.
"Fire," he adds, even softer.
I look away.
He falls silent for a heartbeat.
When he speaks again, his voice has dropped just enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"A way of standing up for yourself that scares me a little," he says.
I whip my head back toward him.
"Scares you?" I repeat.
He smiles, shaken but warm.
"In a good way," he says. "In a… I never want to be on the wrong side of that way."
I don't know what to do with my hands. My heart. My everything.
"You are exaggerating," I mutter.
"I'm not," he says. "I was standing there thinking… she has no idea how powerful she is."
He says it like a confession.
I forget how to breathe for a second.
"I was just… tired," I say. "I have been… letting things slide."
"And now you are not," he says. "I am proud of you."
The word proud hits something soft and sore inside me that I didn't know was there.
No one says that to me. Not like this. Not about me. Not about something that is not my work on a page, but my spine.
"I didn't do it for… you," I say, flustered.
His mouth twists.
"I know," he says. "That might be the part I like most."
Silence stretches.
From further down the corridor, someone shouts for him.
"Jingyi-ssi, on standby in five!"
He doesn't look away.
"Are you okay?" he asks, one more time.
I think of pity. Of kindness. Of bitter tea.
I think of the way his eyes looked when he said he wouldn't stop caring.
"I'm… better," I say.
He smiles.
"Good," he says. "If she says anything like that again…"
He trails off, jaw tightening.
"I can handle it," I say quickly.
His gaze softens.
"I know," he answers. "That might be the second thing I like most."
My heart is going to escape my body.
"You should go," I say. "They need you on set."
He nods slowly.
"Right," he says. "The job."
He starts to turn away, then hesitates, looking back over his shoulder.
"Sian-Sian," he says.
"Yes?" I ask.
He holds my eyes, something warm and steady in his.
"She really doesn't know, does she," he murmurs to himself.
I frown.
"Know what?" I ask.
He just smiles, that small, private smile that feels like it belongs to me alone.
"Nothing," he says. "Tell me if you need me."
Then he walks away, footsteps fading into the hum of the set.
I lean back against the wall, pulse thudding.
Somewhere down the aisle, gowns swish softly as someone moves a rack. Lights buzz overhead.
I lift my aqua pen and write in the margin of my script, hand shaking just a little.
not invisible: confirmed
I underline it once.
Then I underline it again… slowly.