I wake up with that same stone on my chest.
At this point, we might as well start paying rent together.
Sunlight sneaks between the blinds, bright and rude, landing on the aqua blouse hanging from my chair like nothing is wrong. Like yesterday did not exist. Like I did not watch Liu Jingyi walk away from me with my own words lodged in his back.
I stare at the blouse.
"Not today," I tell it.
I reach for a different one. White, looser, softer fabric that skims instead of tracing. It looks like something a person who does not want to be seen would wear.
Perfect.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I button it. Hair tied back at first, then down again because having it cascade around my face feels like armor: soft waves, curtain bangs, subtle makeup. If I blur my eyes, I look like someone who has her life together.
If I sharpen them, I see the puffiness around my eyes from crying into my pillow for exactly twenty-three minutes before forcing myself to stop.
"It's fine," I tell my reflection. "Yesterday is over. I am fine."
My reflection does not argue, but it also doesn't agree.
I make my matcha. Hot, two pumps of vanilla, oatmilk. My ritual of pretend stability. I take one sip. It tastes like… matcha. My taste buds seem to be on strike.
On the way out, I grab my bag, my script, my aqua pen, and my bravest face.
Maybe if I act like today is normal, it will believe me.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
The studio smells the same as always.
Coffee, cables, makeup, dust, lights warming up. People move like they have somewhere important to be. I cling to my bag like a life raft.
I step inside and feel my shoulders rise toward my ears. Habit. My body's way of asking, quietly: Are we safe?
I smooth the front of my loose blouse even though it does not need it. I tug the hem down. I adjust my hair around my face.
We are not spiraling.
We are functioning.
We are a professional woman with a job and a deadline and absolutely no emotional complications involving a six-foot something actor in an emerald jacket.
"Good morning."
His voice finds me before I find him.
Of course, I look up.
Jingyi is standing a few meters away, near the writer's corner. Already in a simple black tee and dark pants, hair styled just enough to look effortless, no jacket yet. There is something different in the way he stands.
Less leaned in. More… carefully placed.
"Morning," I say.
He walks closer, unhurried. His usual brightness is softened, like someone turned down the volume of his existence.
"Good morning… Su-bin," he says.
My name fits in his mouth the same way. It is everything around it that feels different.
Yesterday he said it like a promise.
Today he says it like a question.
I force a smile.
"Did you sleep," he asks.
"Some," I say. "You?"
"A bit."
Our eyes meet.
For a second it feels like the hallway yesterday, with the weight of all the things we did not say hanging between us.
Then he looks away first.
He has never been the one to look away first.
Something in my chest sinks quietly, like a stone sliding deeper into water.
"I will… get coffee," he says.
"You do that," I answer.
He gives a small nod and moves past me, keeping a respectful distance. The kind of distance strangers use when they are being polite.
I stand there, bag digging into my shoulder, watching him walk toward the craft table.
The distance between us feels bigger than the space on the floor.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
The crew is whispering more than usual.
They're never subtle on a good day. Today they might as well be using microphones.
Near the lighting rig:
"Are they fighting?"
"I don't know… they just look weird."
"He usually stands closer to her."
"She looks like she might cry or stab someone, hard to tell."
In the props corner:
"Maybe they were dating and broke up."
"They were never dating."
"Yet."
I pretend not to hear any of it.
Great. I am the gossip fresh from the printer's again, heat and rumor clinging to my skin while I stand here just trying to be a person.
I bury myself in my script at the writer's table. The words are there. I can see them. My brain refuses to attach meaning.
I press my aqua pen against the margin and write, neat and small:
Focus: pages, not people.
I underline it three times.
It helps for exactly eleven seconds.
Then my eyes drift up and find him across the stage by the monitors.
He is talking to the director. Nod, question, small smile. To anyone else he looks normal. To me, there is a tiny stiffness in his shoulders, a fraction of space he keeps around himself like an invisible bubble.
He is doing it on purpose.
Not to punish me, I know. I know him well enough to know that.
He is doing it because he thinks I want space.
The knowledge prickles under my skin like a rash.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
I am on my way to the costume corridor to check a continuity note when I hear it.
"Bin-bin."
That name should be illegal.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
I turn.
Hyun-woo is leaning against the wall near the wardrobe racks, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in his pockets, expression lazy.
"Don't call me that," I say instantly.
He raises an eyebrow.
"You used to like it," he says.
"I tolerated it," I correct. "There is a difference."
He chuckles and pushes off the wall, strolling toward me as if the hallway belongs to him.
"It suits you," he says. "You were always a little… round and soft. Bin-bin fits."
The words hit like someone flicking my old bruises.
I grit my teeth.
"I have work," I say. "Move."
He angles himself just enough that I would have to brush past him.
"You look better today," he adds, eyes sliding down and back up in a way that makes me want to disappear. "More rested. Yesterday you looked… stressed. Stress doesn't suit you. Makes you look softer."
His tone pretends it is a compliment.
It is not.
My throat closes.
I take a step back without thinking.
And bump into something solid and warm.
Strong fingers catch my elbow before I stumble.
"Sorry," I mumble automatically.
"It's okay."
Jingyi.
His hand stays around my elbow a fraction longer than necessary, steadying me. Not possessive. Just… there.
He lets go slowly, then steps forward.
Physically between me and Hyun-woo.
He does it so smoothly it could almost be accidental. It is not.
His voice is calm when he speaks.
"She said she does not want to be called that," he says.
Hyun-woo's gaze flicks over him, assessing.
"We are old friends," he says. "Nicknames happen."
"Old does not mean welcome," Jingyi replies.
There is no edge of anger in his tone. Just a quiet finality that makes the air feel heavier.
Hyun-woo smirks.
"Oh, I see," he says. "You are the reason she is so tense."
"No," I say quickly. "No, he is not."
I hear how it sounds the second it leaves my mouth.
He is not the problem.
You are.
I should have said that.
Hyun-woo looks amused. Of course.
Jingyi's jaw shifts.
He does not look at me, but I see something tighten in his eyes.
"Do you have somewhere to be?" he asks me gently.
"Yes," I say. "The director wanted to go over a scene."
"Then you should go," he says.
For a second, I think he will tell Hyun-woo to leave me alone. Confront him properly. Do something dramatic.
Instead, he steps back half a pace.
It feels like a cut.
"I will… see you on set," he says.
His tone is light, but his eyes are not.
I want to grab his sleeve and make him stay.
I do not.
I walk away, hyper-aware of both of their gazes on my back.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
Rehearsal should be simple.
It is just Scene Twelve, the coffee stand meet-cute. We have done it so many times that the lines almost say themselves now. The director just wants a cleaner timing before we shoot.
I stand on my mark, script in hand.
Across from me, Jingyi steps into his.
On the surface, nothing is wrong.
He smiles like his character, a touch of star-power and mischief. He holds the prop coffee cup, tilts his head just so, the light hitting him perfectly.
We run the scene.
He bumps into me, a fake collision. Coffee almost spills. I yelp. He apologizes, flustered, then flirts.
Except.
Everything feels half a beat off.
He looks at my eyes… then looks away a fraction too soon. His smile fades too quickly between lines. My reactions lag, like my body is buffering.
The director calls cut.
"Again," he says.
We try again.
I lean into the banter, try to find our usual rhythm, the way my sarcasm bounces off his easy charm. My mouth says the right words. My heart is somewhere else, stuck in the corridor with that look on his face when I said I was fine.
He stumbles on a line he has nailed flawlessly for weeks.
"Sorry," he mutters.
The director squints.
"Do you two need a break?" he asks. "You look… off."
"No," we both say at exactly the same time.
It is so synchronized the crew actually laughs.
The director sighs.
"Okay, again," he says. "But this time… remember, you are supposed to be falling in love, not breaking up."
Someone in the back coughs to cover their own laughter.
My ears burn.
We run it again.
We survive.
On playback, it looks fine.
On the inside, it feels like we are both acting underwater.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
I escape to a quiet corner for lunch.
There is a small nook near the stairwell where no one usually goes, a window with a view of a brick wall and a vending machine humming like it is tired of existing. I sit on the bench beneath the window, lunch container on my knees.
I open it. Close it again.
My stomach is a clenched fist.
I poke at one piece of kimbap with my chopsticks, drag it through the mustard sauce, then put it back.
"You should eat that."
His voice floats in from the side.
I look up.
Jingyi stands a few steps away, holding his own container and a bottle of water. He hesitates, then sits at the opposite end of the bench.
Not next to me the way he did on the smoking area bench. Not close enough for our thighs to brush. Just… safely distant.
He sets his food down.
"You will get a headache," he says. "If you don't eat."
"I already have a headache," I reply.
"Then food will help."
I stab a piece of rice like it personally offended me.
"I am just not hungry," I say.
He studies me for a moment.
"Was it something he said," he asks.
"No," I answer automatically.
"Something someone else said."
"No."
"Something I said."
My head jerks up.
"What? No. You did not…"
My voice trails off when I see his face.
He looks… hurt.
Not dramatically. Not pouting. Just a quiet dimming, like someone drew a thin curtain over his usual light.
He looks away first.
"I am just asking," he says. "Because you seem… different."
I grip my chopsticks until my knuckles ache.
"You're being weird today," I blurt.
Smooth, Yoon Su-bin. Very eloquent.
He huffs out a tiny breath, half laugh, half something else.
"I am trying not to misstep," he says.
My heart trips.
"…What?"
His eyes stay on his lunch container.
"After yesterday," he says softly, "I thought maybe I misread how close we were."
The words hit like a physical thing.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
He continues, voice careful.
"You said it was nothing… that he was nothing… that you were fine."
He shakes his head, just once.
"So I thought… maybe I am the only one who thought it was more," he says. "Maybe I was the only one… taking it seriously."
I feel my pulse in my throat.
"That is not… I did not mean it like that," I say. "I just… did not want him to think he mattered. I did not want you to think I am… messy."
"Messy," he repeats.
"Complicated," I correct weakly. "Emotional. Sensitive. All the things he likes to make me feel ashamed for."
He goes very still.
"He does not get to decide what you should be ashamed for," he says, each word precise.
"I know," I say quickly.
But do I really?
He looks at me finally, and there is something raw in his eyes.
"I do not think you are messy," he says. "I think you are… human. And stronger than you think."
My vision goes a little blurry.
I laugh, too bright.
"That is very inspirational," I say. "You should save it for a variety show."
His mouth tightens.
"See," he says softly. "This is why I am trying not to push."
"You are not pushing," I protest.
He shakes his head.
"I am," he says. "Even asking is pushing, if you do not want to answer."
He closes the lid of his container, untouched.
"I will give you space," he says, standing up.
Panic flares.
"Jingyi," I say. "You do not have to…"
He bows slightly.
"It is safer this way," he says. "For you."
Then he walks away, footsteps quiet.
I sit there with my uneaten lunch and my heart feeling like someone took a spoon and scraped out the soft parts.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
The rest of the day blurs.
We hit our marks.
We say our lines.
Crew members joke, adjust lights, move cameras. I laugh at the right times, nod when spoken to, answer questions.
I keep waiting for a chance to pull him aside and say, properly,
That is not what I meant.
You are not nothing.
You are… too much, if anything.
I am the one who is scared.
The chance never comes.
Or maybe I am too scared to take it.
Each time I look up, he is just out of reach.
By the monitor, listening to the director.
By the craft table, back turned as he stirs his coffee.
At the edge of the stage, talking to a staff member.
He does not hover near the writer's corner.
He does not come to read over my shoulder.
He does not tease me about my pen.
He is there.
Just not here.
The distance between us sits in my chest like a splinter I keep pressing on to check if it still hurts.
It does.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
By the time we wrap, the sky outside is an inky blue. The studio parking lot glows under tall lamps, everyone trickling out in little groups, laughter bouncing off concrete.
I sign off on the last set of script pages and step outside, script tucked against me, bag strap over my shoulder.
The air is cooler out here. My breath fogs faintly.
I spot him near the far end of the lot.
He stands beside a black van, hands in his pockets, head tipped slightly back as he looks up at the sky. His posture is relaxed and yet… not. There is a slope to his shoulders that looks wrong on him.
For a moment, he does not see me.
I could turn around.
I could walk the other way, pretend I did not notice, continue letting this distance grow until it becomes a wall too high to climb.
My feet move forward instead.
Halfway across the lot, he lowers his head.
Our eyes lock.
The world narrows.
He straightens, just a little. Takes one step toward me.
My heart pounds against my ribs, loud enough that I am convinced the security cameras can hear it.
He stops.
Something like war passes through his gaze.
He bows his head slightly.
"Goodnight, Writer Yoon," he says.
The title slices clean through me.
Writer Yoon.
I know he does that sometimes, for formality, on set.
But not out here, in this in-between space where we have talked about matcha and insomnia and the strange ache of loving stories that will not love you back.
I force my mouth to smile.
"Goodnight, Jingyi," I say.
No titles.
Just his name.
It feels like handing him something while he is already walking away.
He nods once, polite, distant, then turns and heads for his van.
The door slides open. His manager says something. He climbs in without looking back.
The van pulls away.
The red taillights blur as they disappear down the lot.
I stand there, fingers tightening around the edge of my script until the cardboard creases.
I have the absurd urge to run after the van and bang on the window, to say,
You misread it.
I am the one who misread everything.
You were never… nothing.
You are the only thing that feels real right now.
Instead, I stand in the parking lot and let the cold seep into my skin.
Why does it feel like I broke something I never got to touch?
Why does it hurt like this, this slow, quiet pulling apart?
Why am I so scared that he believed me when I said I was fine?
The stone on my chest is awake and heavier than ever.
I take a shaky breath, adjust the strap of my bag, and start walking toward the bus stop, feeling every empty inch of space where his warmth used to be.