They said late-night rehearsals felt different. Ashtine didn't believe it—until tonight.
The studio was quiet, wrapped in shadows softened by amber overhead lights. Outside, Manila was already slowing down, traffic thinning and headlights stretching long into the night. But here, within these four walls, it felt like time had paused. Like only they existed.
Andres sat on the edge of the stage, a script in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He was reading lines softly to himself, under his breath, half-focused.
Ashtine stood near the director's notes, flipping through them just to give her hands something to do. Her fingers were jittery. She told herself it was the caffeine.
It wasn't.
When their eyes met again, there was no audience. No cast. No bright camera rig.
Just them.
"Want to run Scene 12?" he asked, voice calm but eyes searching.
She nodded, even though she wasn't sure she could trust her voice.
Scene 12 was a turning point. In the script, their characters—Luna and Raffy—had just gone through a fight, then found themselves alone under a broken streetlight. What started as confrontation slowly bled into apology, and then into something far more tender.
It ended with their characters standing so close that a kiss was possible.
But not written.
No one was here to yell "Cut."
Ashtine stepped onto the makeshift streetlight platform, shivering slightly as if preparing for a storm. Andres followed a beat later, his presence loud even in silence.
He read his lines low and slow. So did she.
Their voices danced, like waves just barely brushing the shore. Their tones shifted—less rehearsed, more real. They weren't acting anymore. They were peeling.
"You always do this," she said, as Luna.
"Do what?" he replied, as Raffy.
"Say things that sound like promises. Then leave before I can believe you."
Andres swallowed.
The line wasn't meant to cut.
But it did.
"I didn't mean to," he said.
That part wasn't in the script.
Ashtine looked up. Her eyes weren't playing the role. They were searching him.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"I didn't mean to."
They were close now. His hand brushed her wrist. Her breath caught.
There was no camera. No stage lights. Just him, and her, and the way the air stopped moving.
The line between rehearsal and real blurred completely.
He leaned forward, not yet touching her. Just… almost.
"You're too close," she murmured.
"Do you want me to move?"
"No."
Silence stretched.
Then she tilted her head, eyes heavy. "Are we still acting?"
"I don't know," he said.
Another beat passed.
And then she smiled, barely. "We're terrible at pretending."
He laughed—quiet, warm. And then whispered, "Your laugh really is my favorite sound."
They didn't kiss.
Not tonight.
But they both left the studio with something heavier in their chests. Not regret. Not tension.
Hope.
—
"Let's run it one more time."
Andres's voice broke the silence gently, his thumb tapping against the script's edge. Ashtine was pacing now, trying to shake off the tremble in her arms. Her emotions felt too loud, her skin still tingling from the moment before.
"I don't know if I can do it again," she whispered.
He tilted his head, watching her. "Why not?"
"Because that didn't feel like acting."
"It wasn't."
The answer came too easily. Too honest. It stopped her in place.
"Andres—"
"I know." He stepped closer. "I know this is complicated. We're co-leads, and people watch everything we do. But when you said that line, about promises... I felt it. Not as Raffy. As me."
Ashtine looked at him, no longer blinking. "Then what are we doing?"
He shrugged. "Maybe we're rehearsing real feelings through fake scenes."
She gave a bitter laugh. "That sounds dangerous."
"It is."
They tried Scene 12 again. This time slower. More measured. But the emotional residue from their first run lingered. When he touched her shoulder on cue, she flinched—not from fear, but from recognition. From the memory of how soft his hoodie felt against her cheek that morning not too long ago.
When the final line came, her voice broke slightly. Not enough to ruin the scene. Just enough to make it better.
"Don't promise me anything you can't keep."
Andres paused. Then stepped closer.
"I won't."
That line wasn't in the script either.
—
After rehearsal, they didn't go home immediately. They sat on the studio rooftop, breathing in the city air. The sky was a dull indigo, stars struggling to peek through smog and streetlight glare.
Ashtine leaned against the railing, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
"I don't want to confuse what's real and what's not," she said softly.
"You already know what's real."
She turned toward him. "Do you?"
He nodded slowly. "I know I don't want to stop looking at you like that. And I know I meant every word I said tonight, even the ones that weren't written."
She looked down, her throat tight.
"We're not ready," she murmured.
"Then let's not rush it."
He reached over and gently nudged her arm. "Let's just… rehearse it. Until we don't have to anymore."
And in that moment, under that sky, with only the hum of the city to keep them company, it no longer felt like pretending.
It felt like a beginning.
---