It was never meant to be a place for confessions. The rooftop, with its peeling railings and forgotten potted plants, was supposed to be a quiet escape—a break from the sound of film sets, directors' voices, and the constant glare of studio lights. Yet somehow, that day, it became something else entirely.
Andres didn't plan on being there. He had wandered up during lunch, escaping the buzz of conversation below. A light breeze ruffled his shirt as he leaned against the railing, eyes closed, letting the sun warm his face. He hadn't expected her to follow.
"Ashtine?"
Her voice reached him before he even turned. She was at the top of the stairwell, squinting against the sunlight, a bottle of water in one hand and a folded jacket in the other.
"I thought I saw you head up here," she said.
"I just needed air."
"Me too."
She crossed the rooftop slowly, her steps echoing slightly, until she was beside him. For a moment, neither said anything. They stood there, shoulders close, gazing out over the studio lot where the sun hit the concrete in golden patches.
"I used to be scared of heights," she admitted, breaking the silence.
He glanced at her. "You're not anymore?"
"I still am," she said, with a quiet smile. "But I've learned that fear feels smaller when someone's standing next to you."
He looked away, pretending not to feel that sentence lodge itself somewhere deep in his ribs.
They were silent again, the kind that felt full instead of empty. He heard her exhale, soft and slow.
"Do you ever feel like…" she started, then paused. "Like we're living two lives?"
He tilted his head. "You mean, like on and off camera?"
She nodded. "Yeah. It's just—sometimes I don't know where my lines end and where we begin. Like… did you actually hold my hand tighter in that last take or was it just the scene?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Does it matter?" he asked finally.
"It does to me."
He turned to face her. Really looked at her.
"I held your hand tighter because I wanted to. Not because the script said to."
Her breath caught. It was the first time either of them had admitted something without a script between them.
"And this?" she asked, motioning between them.
"This isn't acting either."
Something in her eyes shimmered. The moment was fragile, held together by heartbeats and unsaid things.
A gust of wind blew past them, rustling her hair, making her shiver. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered. Her eyes didn't leave his.
"Andres…" she whispered, but it wasn't a warning.
It was an invitation.
He leaned in—not all the way, just close enough to feel the tension stretch thin like thread. She didn't pull away. If anything, she tilted her face upward.
Their foreheads touched. Just barely.
And then a door slammed open below. Voices called their names.
The spell broke. She stepped back first, cheeks flushed. He cleared his throat, looking down.
"We should—"
"Yeah," she said quickly. "They're waiting."
As they walked back down, not quite touching, something hung between them.
The rooftop didn't mean to witness that moment. But it did. And no one—not even them—could pretend it didn't happen.
That night, she dreamt of him again.
Only this time, she wasn't startled.
She stayed.
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