The conference room smells like burnt espresso, paper, and nerves.
Which is how you know it's officially read-through day in the film industry.
Producers hovering in their neutral suits. Assistants trip over cables and apologies. Actors check their reflections in anything shiny. Everyone's smiling too wide, laughing too loud.
And me? I'm at the far end of the table, the quiet corner where the writer sits. Invisible, by design.
In front of me, my script, a half-drained cup of matcha, and a pen that doesn't belong in a room like this.
It's aqua blue—clear barrel filled with tiny diamond-cut crystals that sparkle when I move. The top is crowned with a faceted gem the size of a marble, utterly impractical. It's the only thing I own that feels playful, like I forgot to grow up for five minutes.
Everything else about me says thirty, polished, capable. The pen says something else… that I still like beautiful, unnecessary things.
I twist it once. The soft click cuts through the chatter like punctuation.
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"Let's begin with introductions," the director says.
Cue the parade: producers first, then the actors — each one hitting the same script of humble charm and manufactured gratitude. By the time they reach the door, it opens.
He's late. Of course he is.
Liu Jingyí.
The country's golden boy, actor, singer, professional heart hazard. Sunglasses indoors, hair slightly tousled like the wind personally styled it for him, confidence that walks two steps ahead of him.
Every head turns. Phones half-rise. Someone giggles. People light up, like someone turned the saturation up in the room.
I don't look.
At least, not until he decides to sit beside me.
There are empty chairs closer to the director, ones labeled with his name tag in gold. He ignores them and drops into the seat next to mine like it's the most obvious choice in the world.
"Mind if I take this seat?" His voice is low, smooth, slightly amused.
"I heard this side of the table has better lighting."
I click my pen once. "That depends. Are you planning to read, or pose for the poster shoot early?"
He laughs.
The kind that makes people like him more, would earn him a million retweets. I jot something in the margin of my script that isn't a note, just a line to pretend I'm busy.
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When the reading starts, the air shifts.
Jingyí's voice slides into the dialogue like he wrote it himself. Confident, textured, natural, and… annoyingly good. He doesn't just deliver lines… he breathes between them, pausing in places I didn't expect. Tiny edits through tone. Subtle, instinctive.
Halfway through, he reaches one of the confessional monologues… one I spent three nights rewriting, it was meant to sound sincere but safe.
"I never meant to fall for you. I just forgot to stop pretending."
The room stills. He's performing my dialogue better than I imagined it. Which is infuriating.
He says it slowly, the words curling somewhere between warmth and warning. And when he looks up, his eyes flick sideways, straight at me.
It's one second. Maybe two.
But in that moment, the room disappears.
I grip my pen tighter and look down before anyone notices.
Professional composure: intact.
I write the word intact across the corner of my script and underline it once.
Then again.
Then again.
Heartbeat: none of anyone's business.
I nod once, firmly, and give myself a quick smile. Focus. Back to the words.
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Lunch break comes like mercy. I escape to the corridor for quiet, before anyone corners me about "notes."
The elevator dings open and there he is, holding two drinks.
"I didn't see your name on the coffee list," he says.
"That's because I don't drink coffee."
He blinks, feigning scandal. "You work in film and don't live on caffeine?"
"Matcha," I correct. "Hot, with two pumps of vanilla and oat milk."
He glances at the cup in his left hand, then holds it out.
"Lucky guess."
I take it, suspicious. There's handwriting on the sleeve… mine.
A note from an old script: Scene 12 — rewrite kiss tension.
"You stole my notes," I say.
He grins. "I borrowed inspiration."
I should hand the cup back.
I don't.
The warmth seeps through the cardboard, and maybe that's why I don't move, it slips through my fingers, to a small part of my chest that hasn't thawed in years.
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At afternoon rehearsal, the director wants an impromptu re-read of Scene 27, the emotional midpoint.
Perfect. The universe hates me.
Jingyí finds his mark, glances once at the script, then his eyes meet mine.
"I stopped acting the moment I met you."
The air shifts.
Every sound in the room muffles.
My pen slips from my fingers and hits the table with a bright, traitorous clink.
He bends to pick it up before I can, turning it slowly between his hands.
The gem catches the light… emitting tiny blue sparkles across my notebook.
"This color suits you," he says softly. "Not too loud, but impossible to miss."
I hold out my hand, palm up. I whisper, "Give it here… before HR writes a subplot."
A crooked smirk appears, lazy, precise, and absolutely illegal. He places the pen in my hand.
The brush of his fingertips barely grazes mine.
And suddenly, every sound in the room feels amplified — the paper shuffle, the hum of the AC, the pulse in my wrist.
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Everyone packs up when we finish. I stay. Rewriting lines is easier than thinking. The overhead lights hum like they're keeping me company.
I'm halfway through a mid sentence revision when I hear the door.
"You don't believe in going home?" he asks.
"Someone has to make your dialogue sound human."
He chuckles. "Then I owe you more than just a matcha."
"Please don't start a tab," I reply without looking up.
He lingers at the door.
"Tomorrow's rehearsal—should I play it the way you wrote it, or the way I feel it?"
I meet his eyes. "Play it like you're not trying to get re-cast."
That crooked smile again.
"Then I'll have to ignore half the script."
He leaves before I can respond.
"You—"
The silence folds around me, familiar and safe.
I twist the pen once—click.
The blue gem catches the fluorescent light, scattering tiny reflections across the page.
I underline the same word again:
Intact.
Then, softer, almost to myself:
"Keep the line clean."
I tell myself I mean the script.
But the truth… is already blurring.
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