It was the kind of scene they'd done a dozen times before. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just two people sitting in a quiet room, looking at each other like the world had paused.
But it felt different now.
There were too many things unsaid.
The set was silent except for the distant hum of a fan. The director had stepped out for a quick phone call, leaving just the two of them in that empty studio space. They were still in costume—barefoot, casual clothes, hair slightly tousled from the last take.
Andres sat on the edge of the table, hands clasped between his knees.
Ashtine leaned against the far wall, arms folded, eyes locked on him.
It started as a glance.
But it didn't end.
Their eyes held, neither of them looking away. Not for a second. It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't playful. It was deeper than that—like they were searching for something in the other's gaze. Something honest. Something they couldn't name aloud.
Seconds ticked by.
Longer.
A minute passed.
Still staring.
The air between them grew heavier, like it remembered every laugh, every almost-touch, every line that blurred between acting and feeling. The weight of their silence was different now—closer to truth than any scene they'd rehearsed.
Ashtine's eyes didn't waver. She wasn't blinking as much anymore. Like she was afraid to miss something. Like if she held her gaze long enough, he'd finally say what she needed to hear.
But then—
Andres blinked.
He looked down.
Broke the moment.
And everything inside her cracked.
The air shifted sharply. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough to sting.
She took a step forward. Just one.
"Andres," she said softly.
He looked up again, but not fully. Not like before.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't cry. Her question came out almost like breath—fragile and burning.
"Why did you look away?"
He froze.
There were so many ways to answer. So many things to say.
"Because I'm scared. Because I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Because when I look at you too long, I remember everything we're not saying."
But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, he just swallowed and said, "I didn't mean to."
She laughed, but there was no joy in it. "You always mean to. You always look away first."
That hurt more than she expected it to.
"I just... I didn't want to ruin the scene," he said quickly, trying to recover. "I thought the moment was done."
"No," she replied, voice steadier now. "You ended it."
He stepped forward, hesitant. "Ashtine—"
But she was already shaking her head. "Forget it. We're called in five."
She walked past him, brushing his arm just barely. The contact was fleeting, but it burned like truth.
And as she left the room, she didn't look back.
He stood alone, with a script in his hand and a thousand words stuck in his throat.
And in that silence, he realized something:
He looked away not because he didn't care.
But because looking at her made it impossible to pretend he didn't.