The strange thing about pretending is that it always starts out simple. It's a costume. A script. A laugh. A way to brush off the heavy things. It makes everything easier—until it doesn't.
Ashtine sat on the floor of the dressing room, knees pulled to her chest, a sweatshirt draped over her shoulders that wasn't hers. It was his. She didn't ask for it, didn't even notice when Andres slipped it around her after they wrapped. He hadn't said a word. He just saw the look in her eyes, the one she thought she'd hidden well.
She wasn't okay. And somehow, he knew.
The shoot had run late. The set was unusually chaotic. Her scene had to be redone twice. The director's notes weren't landing right. And someone made a comment—a careless joke, maybe harmless to anyone else—but it hit too close to something tender inside her.
She didn't cry. Not on set. Not in front of the cameras. She'd learned how to swallow it whole.
But when she finally got to the dressing room, alone for once, it caught up to her. The noise, the pressure, the endless blur between performance and person. It was too much.
She didn't hear the door open.
"I brought water," Andres said quietly.
She looked up, startled, quickly wiping beneath her eyes. "I'm okay."
"You're not."
He set the bottle down, then crouched beside her—not too close, just enough. He didn't push. Didn't ask.
Silence stretched.
"I hate when I mess up," she whispered. "Even if no one says it. I still feel it."
He nodded slowly. "You didn't mess up."
"They had to reshoot it twice."
"Because the camera angle sucked. Not because of you."
She tried to smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You know when I'm not okay," she said, more to herself than him.
"Of course I do."
She looked at him. Really looked. He was still in costume, hair a little messy from the humid air, eyes soft, tired, but focused entirely on her. Like she was the only thing in the room.
"When did you start noticing?" she asked.
"The first time you said you were fine, but twisted your ring three times in a row."
Her breath caught. She hadn't realized anyone noticed that.
"And the day you laughed too loud on set? Your eyes didn't join in."
She blinked, stunned into silence.
"I pay attention to you," he added. "Even when you don't think I am."
Her throat tightened. "That's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because I might start depending on you."
He didn't hesitate. "Then do."
The words settled in her chest like warmth seeping through cold.
"Come here," he said gently.
She hesitated only for a moment before leaning into him. His arms came around her instinctively, pulling her close, protective without pressure. Her head found his shoulder, and for the first time all day, she breathed freely.
He didn't try to fix her silence. He just stayed.
And that, more than anything, told her he understood.
They stayed there for what felt like hours, the dressing room forgotten, the world quiet. No cameras. No lines. No audience.
Just her. Just him.
When she finally pulled back, she gave a small smile—fragile, but real.
"Thank you," she said.
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Anytime."
They didn't say goodbye. He left quietly, only glancing back once, and in that glance was every unspoken promise neither of them dared to voice yet.
Later that night, she posted a story. A photo of the hoodie sleeve in her hand, captioned with a single line:
"You know when I'm not okay."
And he reposted it.
With three words:
"I always do."
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