The noise doesn't disappear.
It just settles… like dust after something breaks.
I wake up to a quieter kind of chaos now. No explosions. No viral spikes. Just steady speculation… headlines that feel unfinished, questions phrased like conclusions.
I don't open them.
Not because I'm scared.
Because I'm tired of other people narrating something I haven't even named yet.
My inbox is full.
PR requests. "Friendly check-ins." Calendar holds marked tentative.
Tentative feels worse than definite.
I sit at the edge of my bed for a long moment, hands resting in my lap, breathing slow and deliberate like I'm preparing to say something out loud.
Internal monologue:
It's not the rumors that scare me.
It's the waiting.
Matcha again. Same ritual. Same calm.
Hot… oatmilk… two pumps of vanilla.
The green blooms in the cup, glossy and smooth, and I watch it like it might offer clarity if I stare long enough.
It doesn't.
What it does offer is time.
Time to admit something quietly, without judgment.
I'm not afraid of losing him.
I'm afraid of losing the truth.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
Set feels more restrained today.
Not tense… just careful, like everyone learned a lesson and isn't sure what to do with it yet.
Jingyi and I move through the same spaces without gravitating the way we used to. Not avoidance. Not distance.
Restraint.
The kind that costs energy.
I feel it in the way my body keeps expecting his presence… the way my gaze keeps flicking up instinctively, then stopping itself.
We're protecting something.
I know that.
But part of me wonders… at what cost.
Crew members sense it too. The laughter is quieter. Conversations trail off when one of us enters.
It's like the air is holding a secret it's not allowed to say.
Internal monologue:
We're protecting something by keeping distance…
But we're also starving it.
I try to focus on work.
I really do.
But words blur on the page. Dialogue feels hollow when I read it back. Like I'm writing around something instead of through it.
At lunch, I overhear two staff members talking in low voices near the coffee machine.
"…PR wants a clear narrative."
"…containment is better than denial."
"…people need reassurance."
Containment.
Like whatever this is… needs to be boxed.
My chest tightens.
Internal monologue:
If this is just a misunderstanding… I need to know.
If it's more… I need to know even more.
I don't want to be reassured by strategy.
I want to be reassured by truth.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
It happens in the late afternoon… when the building feels quieter and the sky outside has shifted into that pale, tired blue.
I step into the stairwell to breathe.
Just for a second.
It smells like concrete and dust and the faint echo of footsteps that passed through earlier. The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the noise of the set.
I exhale slowly and rest my hand against the cool railing.
Then I hear the door open again.
I don't have to turn around to know it's him.
"Sian-Sian," Jingyi says softly.
I turn.
He stands a few steps down, one hand on the rail, posture relaxed but eyes searching.
No cameras.
No crew.
Just concrete walls and fluorescent light and the sound of the building breathing.
We stand there for a moment, not moving closer.
Not moving away.
"Are you holding up?" he asks.
The question is gentle.
It always is.
"I am," I say.
The words leave my mouth automatically.
This time… they feel thin.
He notices.
I see it in the way his gaze sharpens just slightly… not suspicious, just attentive.
We don't touch.
And the absence feels louder than the hand-holding ever did.
"I didn't mean to make things harder," I add quietly, because the silence presses on my chest.
He shakes his head immediately.
"You didn't," he says. "You didn't do anything wrong."
There it is again.
The certainty.
I swallow.
"Everything feels… delicate," I admit. "Like one wrong move and it becomes something we don't get to decide."
He nods slowly.
"It does," he agrees. "And I hate that."
I look up at him then… really look.
At the tired softness around his eyes. The restraint he's wearing like armor.
"I keep thinking…" I begin, then stop.
The words tangle.
I'm not ready to ask.
Not yet.
So I don't.
Instead, I say the safer thing.
"I don't want to disappear again."
His breath catches.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I notice.
"You're not," he says immediately. "I see you."
The words hit harder than they should.
Because they're everything I want… and not quite enough.
We stand there longer than necessary.
Too close to leave.
Too far to stay.
Eventually, footsteps echo faintly from below.
Reality knocks.
"I should go," I say softly.
He nods.
"Me too."
Neither of us moves right away.
Then I step past him, careful not to brush his arm.
The restraint aches.
As I push the door open, I hear him speak again… quieter.
"Su-bin."
I pause, turning back.
His expression is open… conflicted.
"If you ever feel like you're carrying this alone…" he says. "You don't have to."
I nod.
"I know."
I don't say I just don't know if I'm allowed to need you yet.
The door closes behind me.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
So-ah's presence grows louder without her saying much at all.
She laughs easily during interviews. Speaks about teamwork. Mentions professionalism like it's a virtue she invented.
She positions herself as uncomplicated.
Safe.
The kind of narrative people like when things get messy.
I hear it secondhand.
I don't confront it.
But it stings… not because I believe it.
Because silence gives it room to breathe.
That night, I sit at my desk with my laptop open and my phone in my hand.
I draft a message.
Delete it.
Draft another.
Delete that too.
I don't want to confess.
Not yet.
I don't want promises.
I just want clarity.
My fingers hover over the screen.
Internal monologue:
If I don't ask… the world will decide for us.
The thought settles heavy and real.
I type slowly this time.
Not dramatic.
Not needy.
Just honest.
Then I stop… reread it… and save it as a draft.
Not sent.
But shaped.
Ready.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, heart thudding softly against my ribs.
Internal monologue, steady and resolved:
I don't need certainty forever.
I just need to know if what I feel exists outside my chest.
Tomorrow, I think.
Tomorrow, I'll ask.