The clip doesn't die overnight.
It multiplies.
I learn this before I'm fully awake, face pressed into my pillow, phone buzzing on my nightstand like it has somewhere important to be.
I reach for it with one eye open and immediately regret it.
Notifications.
Tags.
Messages from people I haven't spoken to in years… like my privacy is a group project now.
I open one link… just one… because my brain insists I need to know how bad it is.
The screen fills with a blurred thumbnail of my own laughter.
A caption that makes my stomach twist.
Speculation dressed up as certainty.
Comments that aren't even cruel… just entitled.
Like they're watching a scene and demanding a director's cut.
Internal monologue:
They're not asking if it's real.
They're asking what it costs.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the bed like it offended me personally.
Matcha.
I need matcha.
Hot… oatmilk… two pumps of vanilla.
The routine steadies my hands while my mind tries to sprint in circles.
As the kettle heats, I stare at my reflection in the kitchen window.
Not the mirror.
The window… a softer version of me, slightly blurred, like the world is being kind for once.
My shoulders are tense.
My jaw is set.
But there's something else under it.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Resolve.
Internal monologue:
I didn't do anything wrong.
I repeat it like an affirmation I'm trying to believe.
I didn't kiss him in the hallway.
I didn't announce anything.
I laughed.
I leaned into someone who makes me feel safe.
He moved a strand of hair out of my eyes like it was normal.
Because it was.
My matcha tastes the same as always… but the day tastes different.
I get dressed slowly, choosing each piece like it matters.
Not defensive.
Not provocative.
Just… intentional.
A clean outfit, polished and soft.
Something that says I'm still myself.
Something that says I'm not shrinking.
I grab the aqua pen and script folder even though it's an off-set day in my head and a battlefield day in reality.
Click… twist… click.
A small sound.
A small anchor.
Then I step outside.
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The studio feels like it's holding its breath.
People are still moving… still working… still laughing at stupid jokes.
But there's an undercurrent today.
A hum.
A current that keeps brushing against my skin.
The first thing I notice is how many people pretend not to notice me.
The second thing I notice is how many people do.
Phones in hands. Eyes flicking. Quick glances that linger too long.
Not malicious.
Just… hungry.
I walk through it with my chin slightly lifted and my shoulders squared.
Professional composure… intact.
Or at least… weaponized.
A production assistant rushes by, calling out schedule changes.
The director is already in a meeting, voice raised in that half-frustrated, half-excited tone that always means we're behind and pretending we're not.
Then someone announces it.
"We're entering the final stretch," the director says to the room, clapping his hands once. "Last phase. Let's keep the momentum."
The crew cheers weakly.
Relief mixed with exhaustion.
Final stretch means wrap parties and goodbye hugs and everyone pretending they're not going to miss each other.
It also means promos.
Interviews.
Behind-the-scenes footage.
More cameras… exactly when the last thing I want is more cameras.
My stomach tightens.
Internal monologue:
Of course.
Across the room, I catch a glimpse of Jingyi.
Not because I'm looking.
Because my body is still tuned to where he is.
Emerald jacket today. Hair slightly messy. Face calm.
He looks up like he felt my gaze.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't flirt.
He just holds the look for a beat… steady, grounding… then nods once.
A quiet promise.
I'm here.
My chest loosens.
I look away before I make it obvious.
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We keep distance today.
Not cold.
Not punishing.
Just careful… in a way that's almost painful.
I feel it in the micro-moments.
The way he doesn't drift toward me automatically.
The way he chooses routes through the studio that keep our paths from intersecting too often.
The way I do the same without realizing it.
It isn't fear.
It's respect.
It's understanding that the world is watching now, and it's not watching kindly.
Crew whispers ripple around me like insects.
"PR probably stepped in."
"They told them to keep distance."
"They're being smart."
Smart.
Like affection is a mistake to correct.
My fingers curl around my script folder.
Internal monologue:
We didn't pull away because we were scared.
We pulled back because we respect what this means.
That thought steadies me.
It also makes me sad in a quiet way.
Because holding someone's hand felt like oxygen… and today I'm breathing shallow on purpose.
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So-ah arrives like she's stepping onto a red carpet.
White blouse. Perfect hair. Perfect smile.
She moves through the room with the ease of someone who's never been forced to doubt whether she belongs.
Her gaze lands on me briefly.
A flicker.
Then it slides away like I'm furniture.
She goes straight to Jingyi.
Of course she does.
It's subtle enough to be deniable.
A laugh too bright.
A hand lingering a fraction too long on his sleeve as she speaks.
Her voice carries… not loud, but strategically audible.
"I'm glad we're doing promo together," she says sweetly. "People love us."
People love us.
Like it's already true.
Jingyi's posture doesn't change.
He's polite… the kind of polite that has a locked door behind it.
He nods once, says something brief, then steps back slightly… not rude, just unmistakably not leaning in.
So-ah's smile stays fixed.
But something tightens at the corner of her mouth.
I watch from a distance, pretending I'm focused on notes.
Internal monologue:
His warmth doesn't reach her.
The realization lands like relief.
Not jealousy.
Not insecurity.
Just… confirmation.
Whatever So-ah is trying to sell, Jingyi is not buying.
And the calm boundary he holds with her… without cruelty… without drama… tells me more than any reassurance text ever could.
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The promo filming starts in the afternoon.
Behind-the-scenes cameras appear like ghosts… floating, hovering, always hungry.
A stylist fusses over Jingyi's collar.
A makeup artist powders So-ah's nose like she's porcelain.
Someone adjusts lighting and asks the leads to stand closer for framing.
"Closer," the cameraman says. "A little more."
So-ah glides in immediately, shoulder angling toward Jingyi.
Jingyi complies.
He stands where they need him.
But his body language stays neutral… controlled, professional.
There's no softening.
No instinct.
No unconscious gravitation.
Just… distance held inside closeness.
I watch from behind the monitor, my face carefully blank.
I wait for jealousy.
It doesn't come.
What comes instead is something I didn't expect.
Trust.
Internal monologue:
He is not playing both sides.
He isn't performing intimacy for the camera.
He isn't feeding rumors.
He is simply doing his job… and keeping his line clear.
The director laughs at something, and the staff relaxes slightly.
The camera keeps rolling.
The world keeps watching.
And I find myself thinking…
Even if the world doesn't understand… I do.
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During a short break, I slip away toward the hallway… needing air.
Not because I'm about to cry.
Because my chest feels too tight and I refuse to let that become a spectacle.
I'm halfway down the corridor when a shadow moves beside me.
Jingyi passes… not stopping, not turning.
His voice is low, barely audible.
"You okay?"
I keep walking, eyes forward.
For once, my answer doesn't come from instinct.
It comes from truth.
"I am," I say quietly.
It's not a full statement.
I'm not okay about the internet.
I'm not okay about the cameras.
I'm not okay about being talked about like a character.
But I am okay in the only place that matters.
Inside the line between us.
He doesn't respond… but his pace matches mine for two steps.
A silent acknowledgment.
Then he keeps going.
My breath steadies.
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At the end of the day, the studio lights dim gradually, like the building is tired too.
People pack up equipment. Assistants call out tomorrow's schedule. Someone mentions a PR call in the morning and the air changes again.
Decisions are coming.
The kind that don't care about feelings.
The kind that turn private things into strategy.
I linger for a moment near the edge of the set, watching crew members move like shadows under warm lighting.
I think about how many scenes I've written where love survives pressure.
How easy it is on paper.
How hard it is when your name is attached.
Internal monologue:
Whatever happens next… we won't be able to stay undefined.
My phone buzzes again, face-down in my bag.
I don't check it.
Not yet.
I reach for my aqua pen instead.
Twist… click.
The sound is small.
But it reminds me of something.
The world caught a moment.
It didn't catch the whole truth.
It didn't catch the way his eyes soften when he thinks no one is watching.
It didn't catch the steadiness of his hand around mine.
It didn't catch the way he asks if I'm okay like the answer matters more than the headlines.
It only caught what cameras always catch…
A fragment.
A suggestion.
Something that looks like us.
I exhale slowly, gaze drifting across the darkening set.
Internal monologue, quiet and certain:
The world caught a moment…
But the choice hasn't been made yet.