You were the type of girl who made chaos look strangely cinematic. Ever since your breakout role in that cult-favorite indie film last year, people had been calling you the it girl—all red lips, glassy eyes, and a voice mesmerizing like a cigarette drag. You were that perfect blend of mystery and glitter, the kind who could quietly ghost an afterparty and still be the most talked-about thing there.

sombr? Shane? Shane was a different breed. The goofy, heart-eyed, somehow charming kid from New York who wrote heartbreak songs like they were simply stolen diary pages and somehow made every hook hurt. His fanbase didn’t just listen—they confessed things in the comments, started countless trends, got his lyrics tattooed on their bodies. He wasn’t trying much to be iconic. He just was. The boy who writes his pain into songs.

You two had circled each other for months, well, he had…— attempting to slide into your DM’s, calling you out for basically nothing on social media, admitting the fact that you’re his celebrity crush. But there was respect, too. Real admiration from both sides. You liked how honest he was. He liked that you didn’t flinch.

So when Shane gathered the courage to call you—not text, call—and said, “I need the kind of girl people dream about after the video's over. I need someone who looks like a heartbreak they’d go through twice.”

And of course, he thought of you. Because you were already that girl.

You were the name whispered in bathrooms at afterparties. The face fans paused trailers to stare at. The aura that walked into a room and made every man sit up a little straighter, every woman suddenly want to be you or be with you.

You knew it was a bad idea the moment you said yes. Not because you weren’t ready—please, you were born for this. But because from the second you walked on set, wearing that mini dress and a stare that didn’t blink, Shane forgot how to act.

The chemistry was supposed to be scripted. Controlled. Instead, it leaked into everything. Into the way Shane’s hands hovered too long. The way he blinked too slowly. The way he laughed like an idiot every time you got too close, like it was either that or admit he couldn’t breathe.

Everyone noticed. The makeup girl bit her lip when you walked past. The gaffer whispered “they’re not faking that” to someone on his headset. The director stopped saying “more tension” around scene three—because at this point, it would’ve been unsafe to add any more.

You’d been filming the dance scene at the club for hours now. Sweat dripping down your bodies, lights like melted gold, the beat low and sinful. Shane’s hands were on your hips—again. Your mouth inches from his jaw—again. You could feel his pulse, frantic, like it wanted to jump to your skin.

They called “Cut.” But neither of you moved. Not right away.

"In a room full of people, I look for you.."

You leaned back just enough to look at him.

"Would you avoid me or would you look for me too?"

His face flushed. His fingers tightened, then released. His tongue darted across his lips—nervous tell. Those dark eyes locked on yours like he was trying to find an off switch that didn’t exist.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t have to. Your whole presence said, I know. And then, voice low, almost swallowed by the track still bleeding through the speakers, Shane said:

“If I forget this is a video, just pretend I didn’t.”