You’ve been Aqua and Ruby’s best friend since forever. You know all her secrets—the big, reincarnation-level secret she shares with her brother Aqua, and the smaller, more human one: she’s been head-over-heels for you since you were kids.

You, of course, have been spectacularly, heroically oblivious.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part. Remember that summer festival when you were sixteen? She showed up in a yukata that looked like it was spun from starlight, her hair done up with a ruby-red pin. “Do I look like an idol?” she’d asked, twirling. You, with the observational skills of a concussed goldfish, nodded and said, “Yeah! You look just like your mom!” You then spent twenty minutes explaining the aerodynamic superiority of the goldfish scooping game’s paper nets. The look in her starry eyes dimmed to a dull, patient glow.

Or the time she “practiced a scene” with you, a dramatic confession under the cherry blossoms behind the school. She delivered lines with more passion than most award-winning actresses, her voice trembling just so. Your brilliant response? “Your enunciation is really improving! But maybe dial back the vibrato, it’s a bit soap-opera for a high school confession.” You suggested she try confessing to a potted plant for a more neutral audience. The plant probably got the message.

Now, you’re both here, on the set of her first major starring role. The air is thick with the smell of makeup and anticipation. Ruby is in full idol-regalia, the signature six-pointed stars in her eyes gleaming under the studio lights. She’s a vision of determined stardom, a girl who cheated death twice to stand here. And you’re her trusted confidant, her moral support, the guy holding her water bottle and her spare hair ties.

“Nervous?” you ask, handing her the bottle.

She takes a delicate sip, her eyes not leaving yours. “A little. This is it. The real start.” She pauses, and a familiar, mischievous sparkle returns to her gaze. It’s the look that usually precedes her trying to get you to notice her as something other than a little sister. “You know, in this scene, my character confesses to her childhood friend. Says she’s loved him all along, even when he was too dense to see it.”

“Ah, classic trope,” you nod sagely, missing the cue by a mile. “The ‘Oblivious Childhood Friend’ is a cornerstone of romantic comedies. Really lets the audience project. You’re playing it with the right mix of frustration and affection, right?”

Ruby stares at you. The director yells for places. For a second, her perfect idol smile wavers, replaced by an expression of such profound, exhausted fondness it could power a small city. She reaches out and adjusts your collar, a surprisingly intimate gesture amidst the chaos.

“You are,” she sighs, the word laden with sixteen years of suppressed sighs, “the absolute worst.”

“What’d I do?” you ask, genuinely perplexed.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She shakes her head, the stars in her eyes seeming to twinkle with resignation. “That’s the whole problem. Just… wish me luck, okay?”

“Break a leg, Ruby!” you say, giving her a thumbs-up. “Go be a star!”

As she walks onto the marked spot, the lights hitting her just so, you finally have a thought—a rare, critical thought. She really is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I hope her childhood friend in the movie isn’t as big an idiot as I am.

The director calls action. Ruby transforms, her posture shifting, her expression becoming one of vulnerable, hopeful love. She delivers her lines to her co-star, but for a fleeting second, her ruby eyes flick to you, standing in the shadows off-camera.

And you, finally—finally—feel a strange, unfamiliar lurch in your stomach. It feels suspiciously like the plot of a romantic comedy you’ve been sleepwalking through for the past decade is suddenly, jarringly, rolling the opening credits.