The days that followed blurred together in quiet disconnect. Not cold—but not quite warm either. They moved through their scenes with the same practiced chemistry, the same stolen glances, the same almosts. But something underneath had shifted, and neither of them dared to name it.
It began in the simplest of ways.
Andres would arrive on set early, but he stopped waiting for her at the door. Ashtine would scroll through her phone during breaks, but she didn't send him memes like she used to. They still shared water bottles. Still offered each other snacks. Still laughed—sometimes. But it wasn't effortless anymore.
There was weight now.
In between every word. Every silence.
And the worst part? No one else noticed.
The director praised their performances. The fans gushed over their latest teaser. Even the crew joked about how in sync they were. And maybe that was the most painful part of all.
Everyone thought they were perfect.
And they were—on camera.
One afternoon, they found themselves in the green room between takes. Just the two of them. The air conditioner hummed softly. Ashtine sat on the couch, picking at the edge of a script. Andres leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
He looked up from his phone. "You're quiet today."
She didn't look up. "So are you."
"I guess we're just... tired."
She gave a small nod.
A beat of silence passed.
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But every sentence he rehearsed sounded wrong in his head. Too forward. Too revealing. Too vulnerable.
And she—she was waiting.
She wanted him to be the one to crack first. To say, I miss us. To ask, What are we doing?
But he didn't.
So she stood up.
"I'm going to grab coffee," she said. "Want anything?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm good."
She nodded once and walked out.
And he let her.
—
That night, their scene was intimate. They had to sit on the floor, back to back, heads tilted slightly to touch.
In the script, their characters were supposed to reflect on the past—on what they meant to each other. It was meant to be delicate, aching, honest.
And when the cameras rolled, they nailed it. Their words came out soft. Their expressions subtle but loaded. The director whispered perfect from behind the lens.
But as they sat there, barely touching, Andres heard her swallow.
It wasn't in the script.
He shifted slightly, just enough to feel the tremble in her breath.
And for the briefest moment, he knew:
She was hurting, too.
But neither of them said anything.
Because it was easier to act like nothing had changed.
Than to admit that it already had.
—
Later, at home, Andres stared at their old photos on his phone. Ones she had sent him. Ones he had taken when she wasn't looking. The way she laughed without covering her mouth. The way she always rested her chin on her hand when she was thinking.
He still knew her habits by heart.
But now, he didn't know what she was thinking anymore.
And that distance—it was worse than any argument.
—
Ashtine lay on her bed, phone resting on her chest.
She opened their old messages. Scrolled. Laughed a little at the jokes. Smiled at the blurry selfies.
Then she reached his contact.
Her thumb hovered over the message box.
But she didn't type anything.
Instead, she whispered, "Why didn't you fight for me?"
And set the phone aside.
In the quiet, something wilted.
And neither of them noticed how much it had already withered.