Ashtine hadn't meant to kiss him. That had never been the plan. She had gone to that rooftop full of fury, of old words curdled into bitterness. But somewhere in between the shouts and the accusations, the truth had carved its way out of her chest. And now, days later, she couldn't get the taste of regret off her lips.
Everything should've moved forward. The world kept spinning. Their filming schedule didn't pause just because her heart cracked. But every scene felt like she was walking through fog—blurry, too quiet, too distant.
Andres was always somewhere. In the hallway she passed. On the opposite end of the script reading table. In the background of Instagram stories she didn't dare tap into. But most of all, he was in her head.
Everywhere. All the time.
She stood in front of the mirror in the dressing room, gripping the sides of the sink as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. Her stylist spoke, but she barely registered the words. Just nods. Smiles that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her reflection stared back, mascara perfect, lips tinted softly—and yet, her eyes betrayed everything.
Behind her, the door creaked open. A quiet shuffle of footsteps. Her heart stuttered for a second. She didn't dare hope.
But it wasn't him.
It never was.
Across the building, Andres sat in the dimly lit lounge room, script in hand and nothing sinking in. Lines blurred together. Words faded. All he could hear was her voice, trembling and furious on that rooftop.
"I wanted you. The real you."
And then the kiss.
God, that kiss.
He'd relived it over and over, like some cruel punishment. The fire of her touch. The way her hands had clung to his shirt. The way her breath had trembled against his skin. And then—she was gone. Like she always was.
He pressed the script to his face and exhaled a curse.
Why was she still in his head? After everything? After the silence and the missed birthdays and the fights that gutted him?
Because she mattered.
And now she haunted him.
---
That afternoon, they saw each other again. Script reading. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade. Ashtine arrived first, seating herself quietly at the far left. She didn't expect him to be late—he never was.
When the door opened and he stepped in, her breath caught involuntarily.
He looked tired. Like sleep had abandoned him too. His eyes scanned the room and landed on her, just for a second. Long enough to burn.
Their eyes met.
Andres' throat bobbed with a swallow. Then, as if the weight of her stare was too much, he looked away.
Ashtine looked down at her script.
Neither spoke. Neither smiled.
And yet the air between them vibrated like static.
---
The fan edits were relentless. That rooftop kiss had been captured by someone—some assistant director who didn't know better, maybe. Or maybe the universe just wanted to make her misery public.
Clips of the kiss went viral.
Muted music. Slow motion. Captions like:
"He looked at her like she was still his." "She kissed him like she never stopped loving him." "This wasn't acting. Don't lie."
Ashtine watched one of them at 3AM, curled beneath her sheets with her phone illuminating the darkness. Her thumb hovered over the comment section. Thousands of fans.
**"Tell me they're still in love." "This kiss said everything they were too scared to." "They look like they belong to each other."
She locked her phone and stared at the ceiling, blinking back something sharp behind her eyes.
Across town, Andres sat in his car parked outside the studio long after rehearsals had ended. The same edit played on his phone, but he wasn't watching it.
He was watching her face.
The real one. Not the version seen through filters or cropped moments. The one that had looked at him with fire and fury and love, even when she was breaking.
Why did she still live in his mind?
Why did her name still feel like the end of a sentence he couldn't finish?
---
The next day, they passed each other in the hallway.
She was talking to a production assistant, laughing softly at something. For a brief moment, her smile seemed real.
Until she saw him.
They both stopped.
Time slowed.
He gave her the faintest nod. She returned it.
No words.
But their eyes lingered.
Long enough for the pain to surface again. Long enough for all the unsaid things to scream in silence.
She walked away first.
But he turned to watch her leave.
And he thought, She never really left my head, did she?
Just like the flower she once gave him on set, now dried and pressed between the pages of his old notebook.
Unspoken. Forgotten by the world.
But still there.