There was a time when apologies came easy.
Back in those lighthearted, messy rehearsals when she'd spill coffee on his script or he'd step on her line and she'd glare at him across the stage—there was always laughter, always forgiveness.
But now?
There was no laughter left. And forgiveness felt like a mountain neither knew how to climb.
—
A week passed since the industry event.
Ashtine didn't reach out.
Neither did Andres.
But the shift was undeniable. That hi had cracked something open. And as much as they tried to keep moving like nothing had changed, the ache of almost-speaking again lingered like a bruise.
They were both cast in a promotional shoot for their old drama's anniversary—something no one had told them about in advance. It was a sudden merge of schedules, and by the time they both showed up on set, it was too late to protest.
Andres saw her from the makeup station. She looked tired. Her eyes flicked toward him only once, and then she looked down.
He took a deep breath.
And stayed.
—
The photo shoot started. The photographer was trying to recreate old memories—poses from their rooftop scenes, moments from their laugh-filled promo tours. But the energy wasn't the same.
They didn't joke around this time.
They didn't poke fun at each other's bad angles.
They just… did what they were told.
Pose. Smile. Pretend.
It was working—at least, for the cameras.
But Ashtine could feel the distance in every breath. Andres wasn't touching her shoulder like he used to. He didn't lean in naturally anymore. When they stood beside each other, their arms hovered awkwardly, like they were afraid of even brushing skin.
Still, he stayed.
He didn't walk off set. He didn't roll his eyes or fake an emergency phone call. He stayed, even when the silence between takes turned unbearable.
—
"Okay, one more shot. Andres, can you just turn a bit closer to Ashtine?" the photographer said.
He obeyed. Slightly.
But not enough.
"Ashtine, lean your head a little toward him—perfect. Now look at each other."
They did.
The world went quiet again.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because it hurt.
Because this wasn't the first time they'd stared at each other with too much left unsaid.
She swallowed.
He opened his mouth like he might say something.
But the photographer snapped the photo.
And it was over.
—
Later, when the lights dimmed and the crew packed up, Ashtine grabbed her coat and quietly left the studio.
She didn't expect him to follow.
But he did.
She heard his footsteps before she turned.
She looked back, startled. "You're still here?"
He nodded.
"You didn't say goodbye," he said.
She blinked.
"You haven't said a lot either," she replied.
Silence.
The kind that threatened to drown them both.
"I didn't know how to," he finally said.
"Then don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't say anything unless you mean it."
He nodded again. "Okay."
He didn't say sorry.
He didn't explain why he stopped texting. Why he didn't message her on her birthday. Why he avoided her for months.
He didn't say a word about the pain he caused.
But he stayed.
There, in the parking lot, under a flickering lamp post, Andres stayed. Not touching. Not fixing. Not pleading.
Just… stayed.
And for some reason?
That broke her a little more than any apology ever could.