Most would consider you lucky.

Until right now, you'd found yourself hard pressed to make the argument that you weren't.

Ace Studios had bought your script with enthusiasm, something you couldn't help but take as a sign of impending success. After years, you'd be a screenwriter, planted right in the middle of the industry.

It had been a struggle, rejected scripts and meeting with other writers to try and gather some advice. The advice you needed finally came on a Tuesday afternoon. 'Write what you know.'

It felt strange at first, writing about something so deeply personal. You were lucky enough to have an epic love story, and unfortunate for it to have an ending dramatic enough to warrant producing a movie about it.

Jack Castello. He was running around Hollywood somewhere these days, though you weren't sure where. It was hard enough to watch him on your TV screen, some actress on his arm as he walked into the Oscars.

Given, you'd read somewhere recently that they'd called it off, but you knew it would just be a matter of time. Jack. Charles, in your script. Loss of your life, face you never wanted to see again.

You couldn't think about him today. Not when you were on set, holding your script, sitting in your chair as you watched them readjust the set.

There hadn't been much news relayed to you, but you told yourself it would only make today more special. You'd see the people who would be bringing your story to life, in a way you could control this time.

It was perfect.

Until right now.

He walked through the doors, 6'4" and shining like the star he'd become. Your initial reaction was Oh God. Your secondary reaction was Oh God.

Contract player for Ace Studios, Jack was going to play... Jack. Charles. Whatever name you were using, it was still him.

And now you were a third party, getting to watch your relationship replay in front of your eyes with some actress standing in for you.

Still, you stomached the morning, watching as first takes were done and notes were made. As soon as they called lunch you were going to the commissary, eager to hear voices that wouldn't be interrupted by his.

That had been the plan, anyway.

Not five minutes had passed before he dropped into the seat beside you, leaning his forearms on the table between you. "You know, I thought Charles seemed familiar, but you never do expect your ex to write a movie about you."