I sleep, technically.
My body lies down. My eyes close. My brain, however, continues playing a highlight reel titled:
Things Liu Jingyi Should Not Have Said If He Wanted Me To Function As A Normal Human Being At Work.
-You deserve someone who sees you now.
-I hate that someone like him was your before.
-I don't ever want you thinking his version of you is real.
It is not relaxing.
By morning, I have made a firm decision.
New rule:
- No thinking about the hallway.
- No replaying.
- No analyzing.
- No wondering what he almost said next.
Professional composure: full reboot.
I pour it into my matcha like it is a supplement.
"Cactus mode: Initiated!" I tell my reflection as I fix my hair. "Dry. Spiky. Emotionless. We are a desert."
My reflection looks unconvinced.
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The studio feels too bright when I walk in.
I keep my eyes on my cup, my script, the floor, the universe. Anything that is not six feet two in emerald green.
The problem is that my body now has a built-in Liu Jingyi radar.
I barely make it past the props table when my senses go off.
He's here.
I do not look.
"Morning," he says.
Of course he does. I slowly groan into my defenses.
His voice is close. Soft. Carefully warm.
I bow at a perfect thirty degrees, the way you bow to a senior you vaguely respect but do not want to talk to at all.
"Good morning," I say briskly. "Busy. Rewrite. Must go."
I leave before my heart can trip over itself.
It feels like running away.
It also feels necessary.
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A few minutes later, in the writer's corner, I pretend my script is a medical file and I am responsible for someone's life.
I am not.
I am responsible for fictional people who are currently handling their emotional baggage better than I am.
I reread a scene description three times.
None of the words register.
Across the stage, I hear someone whisper.
"Did they fight yesterday?"
"I don't think so."
"But did you see his face when she walked away earlier…"
"He looked like a kicked puppy."
"He really cared in that hallway. You could see it."
I choke on air.
The assistant next to me pats my back.
"Careful, Writer-nim," she says. "Words are not supposed to attack you."
"Tell that to reality," I wheeze.
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I am halfway to the coffee station to refill my cup when I almost collide with him.
Because why not, the universe loves its little tricks.
He is just standing there, in front of the tiny fridge, staring at the milk like it has personally offended him.
We both stop.
"Ah," I say.
"Hi," he says.
He steps back to give me space.
Too much space.
Too polite.
Wrong.
I move to the side, and pretend to be fascinated by the sugar packets.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I'm time-managing," I say.
"That is not an answer."
"I am very busy," I insist. "Lots of scenes. Many lines. Words everywhere," I say, with an overzealous flourish of my hand.
He looks at me like he is trying to solve a puzzle.
"You don't have to avoid me," he says quietly.
"I'm not," I reply.
He glances at the route I clearly took to walk the longest distance between two points.
His mouth twitches.
"Is this… also time management," he asks.
"Yes," I say defensively. "Efficient cardio."
He lets out a soft laugh.
It is unfair how much my chest responds to that sound.
Before he can say anything else, the director calls his name.
He gives me one last searching look, then goes.
The moment stretches out behind him like a rubber band.
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The crew is absolutely enjoying themselves.
Our lives are apparently their new favorite drama.
Near the lighting rig, two techs are whispering.
"Do you think they broke up?"
"They were never together."
"Not officially."
"Should we start a betting pool?"
"No, that's rude."
A pause.
"…But if we did, I'd put money on him confessing first."
I press my script harder against my chest.
Professional composure: cracked.
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So-ah floats across the soundstage like a perfume commercial.
She looks perfect, as always. Hair in soft waves, makeup glowy, white blouse tucked into tailored trousers.
She takes one look at me hiding behind a stack of storyboards, then at Jingyi standing by the monitor, and her eyes sharpen.
She glides over to him.
"Jingyi-ssi," she says softly. "You look tired. Did you sleep?"
"A bit," he answers politely, his gaze still on the screen.
"You should rest," she continues. "It's not good to push yourself so much."
He gives her a small, automatic smile.
"I'm fine," he says.
His tone is kind.
His eyes are somewhere else.
Specifically, they are on the reflection of me in the dark monitor.
So-ah notices.
Her smile tightens for half a second before she smooths it out. "Interesting."
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I do a decent job of playing avoidance ninja until mid-morning, when fate betrays me.
"Writer Yoon! Jingyi!" the director calls. "Scene twenty six. Let's adjust it together."
I go completely still.
Across the room, Jingyi looks up.
For some reason, he smiles, just barely.
Traitor.
We end up at a folding table again. One tablet. Two pens. Too many feelings.
I sit on the far side. He sits on the other.
There is enough space for a third person between us.
The director, mercifully, does not join.
"Work it out and bring it to me," he says. "We're fixing the build-up before the rooftop. That confession hint."
Fantastic.
I click my aqua pen and focus on the page.
Professional. Calm. Empty of hallway memories.
He leans in to read the screen.
Slowly. Carefully. Watching me like I might bolt.
Our shoulders do not touch at first.
Then I shift the tablet so he can see better.
And… there.
The lightest brush of fabric against fabric.
It should mean nothing.
My pulse disagrees.
"Here," I say, tapping the line in question. "He says he'll stop bothering her. I think it's too harsh now. The audience knows he doesn't mean it."
He nods.
"Maybe he admits he can't help it instead," he suggests quietly. "That he keeps showing up without planning to."
"Something like… I keep ending up where you are," I say slowly, testing it on my tongue.
He looks at me.
"Yes," he says. "Exactly like that."
Our eyes meet for a moment too long.
I break it first, writing.
I twist the pen once—click.
Professional composure: intact, I scrawl in the margin and aggressively underline it three times.
I feel his gaze flick down to the words.
He huffs a very soft laugh.
"Interesting note," he says.
"Research," I reply.
"For what," he asks.
"How to not get fired for… existing," I mutter.
He smiles, head tilted.
"You're not going to get fired for existing," he says gently.
"Tell that to my anxiety," I say.
He watches me in that too-seeing way that makes my skin feel transparent.
"You really are avoiding me," he says quietly.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
"I told you, I'm time-managing…" I repeat.
He leans just a little closer.
"Then manage some time to breathe," he says. "You've been holding your breath since yesterday."
My lungs prove him right by forgetting how to function.
I click the pen again for something to do.
"Focus on the characters," I say. "They are safer."
His smile fades to something more serious.
"You know they're just reacting to what we give them," he says.
"Exactly," I reply. "We give them logic. Not… hallway scenes."
He looks like he wants to argue.
The director appears out of nowhere.
"Got something," he asks.
We both sit up straighter in unison.
"Yes," I say quickly, spinning the tablet around.
Jingyi hides a smile behind his hand.
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Later, near the makeup station, I'm checking continuity notes when a camera assistant walks by and jokes,
"Careful, Writer-nim. You look so stressed your forehead might crease. Wrinkles are expensive in this industry."
He says it lightly. Not cruel. Funny to him, probably.
To me, it lands like a stone in still water.
I forget how to function properly.
Old echoes stir.
You should be careful how you look.
People in this industry are visual.
You don't want to stand out the wrong way.
My fingers tighten around my notes.
Before I can decide whether to laugh it off or disappear, another voice cuts in.
"She looks fine," Jingyi says.
He's standing just behind us, hands in his pockets, expression calm but firm.
The assistant blinks.
Jingyi continues, tone still gentle.
"She stresses because she cares about the story more than anyone here," he says. "That is something we should be grateful for, not teasing."
The assistant's face flushes.
"S… sorry, Writer-nim," he stammers. "I didn't mean anything."
"It's fine," I say automatically.
It is not fine.
But I am too busy trying to process the warm burst in my chest.
Jingyi glances at me.
He isn't smug. There is no see what I did in his eyes.
Just a quiet 'Are you okay' hiding in their depths.
I look away first.
"Thank you," I say, very softly.
He dips his head.
"Anytime," he replies.
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By late afternoon, the universe decides to test my balance again.
We're switching sets, everyone moving equipment and props between stages.
I'm walking past the prop table when my aqua pen jumps out of my pocket like it has a personal vendetta against my dignity.
It hits the floor, rolls in a perfect arc.
I sigh and reach down.
A hand beats me to it.
He straightens up, pen between his fingers, the blue gems catching the stage light.
"You keep dropping this," he says, lips giving a small quirk.
I hold out my hand.
"Gravity hates me," I say. "We have history."
Instead of placing it straight into my palm, he holds it for a second.
His thumb rests near the large blue stone.
"You okay," he asks quietly.
The question is simple.
It does not feel simple.
"I'm fine," I say.
He searches my face.
"Really," he asks.
"…Yes," I whisper.
He finally sets the pen in my hand.
His fingertips graze my palm.
Not an accident this time.
My heart forgets its own name.
"Then why won't you look at me," he asks, voice barely more than breath.
My head snaps up.
He is close. Not physically inappropriate close. Just emotionally close enough that I want to step backward and forward at the same time.
"I look at you," I say weakly.
"Not the same way," he answers.
There is something raw in his eyes that I am not prepared to see.
Panic flares.
"We… should go," I blurt. "Call time. Work. Script. Things."
I step back so quickly I nearly trip over a coil of cable.
He reaches out instinctively, hand hovering near my arm, then drops it, letting me stabilize myself.
"Su-bin," he says.
The way he says my name could almost be a plea.
I pretend I don't hear it.
"I'll send the updated lines tonight," I say, as if that mattered more than anything else that has passed between us.
He watches me walk away, expression caught between frustration and something that looks too much like hurt.
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The writer's room is quiet at the end of the day.
Just me, my script, and the hum of the fluorescent lights.
I sit at the table, pen idly spinning between my fingers, and stare at the same line for five minutes without reading it.
On the nearest script page, in the margin, my handwriting stares back at me.
Professional composure: intact.
The ink is dark and underlined three times.
A joke.
A lie.
A goal.
I press the tip of the pen against the paper and add one more line underneath.
Heartbeat: none of anyone's business.
I nod once, firmly, and smile to myself.
It feels childish.
It feels like armor.
Outside, I can hear footsteps, voices saying goodnight.
Somewhere in this building, he is also packing up.
I should not be able to feel that.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
I am not ready for this.
I am not ready for what it means to let myself believe him.
To believe that he sees me the way he says he does.
To believe that his version of me could overwrite the one Hyun-woo carved into my bones.
Because if I misread this…
If I fall…
If he doesn't mean it…
I will break.
But underneath all the fear, a different thought whispers stubbornly.
He meant what he said in that hallway. He meant every word.
And no matter how much I try to avoid him, avoid myself, avoid this…
Whatever sits between us now, stretching tighter with every day on set…
It is too close.
Too much.
Too real.