Max had rewritten the same line of dialogue twelve times and still hated it.
The fictional couple on his screen was breaking up for the third time in act two. Or maybe fourth. At this point, they were more inconsistent than his Wi-Fi.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the blinking cursor like it owed him money.
He was supposed to be working. Finishing this script. Meeting his deadline.
Instead, he was waiting for a text that might not come.
Or worse, hoping for one that did.
His phone buzzed.
Not a text. Just a calendar reminder: "Deadline: Tomorrow 9 AM."
Perfect. Just perfect.
He minimized the script window and opened his chat with Ellie. The last message was from her, a dumb, lovely joke about naming a child after a latte. His reply was still on the screen, and so was her laughter in text form, warm and messy.
He hadn't replied again. Not because he didn't want to. But because he wanted to too much.
Max wasn't great with feelings. Dialogue? Sure. Monologues? Great. But real stuff — the kind that lingered after the jokes faded?
Terrifying.
Ellie was… different.
She'd unraveled on him the other night. Just a little. And he'd listened, really listened. Not out of obligation, not to fix anything. Just to be there.
And now, somehow, the silence between them felt heavier than before.
He grabbed his phone. Typed: "Still naming that latte kid Macchiato Tenderheart?"
Paused. Deleted it.
Typed: "I think we're more like post-credit scenes. Chaotic, but kind of endearing."
Paused. Deleted that too.
He locked the screen. Then unlocked it. Then groaned and leaned his forehead against the desk.
Somewhere in the cluttered emotional mess that was his brain, a thought surfaced:
He wanted to hear her voice.
Not just the texts. Not just the emojis.
But her voice. Sarcastic, uncertain, alive.
Which, of course, was the worst possible idea.
Because that made it real.
And real meant risk.
Max exhaled, pushed away from his desk, and wandered into the kitchen. He stared into his fridge like it might offer a solution. Or a sign. Or at least a leftover slice of pizza.
Nothing.
Except a single croissant, in a takeout bag, from a bakery she'd once mentioned in passing.
He'd bought it on a whim.
Hadn't touched it.
He took it out, placed it on the counter, and stared at it.
"Get it together," he muttered.
The croissant said nothing.
He picked up his phone again. Hovered over the keyboard.
Then, finally, he typed:
Max: If we're the blooper reel, can we at least get a decent soundtrack?
And hit send.