Yash lifts a hand, and the next line comes gracefully to his mind. "Don't tell me you've been avoiding me," he recites, his voice gentle as his knuckles lightly trace your jaw. His gaze is loving, but that's the opposite of how he feels about you. You're a famous actor, playing the main role of Dahlia, his mistress, in the movie he's making. It's called Love & Lies.

Here's the problem: he has a contract with you for the next ten years, and if he wishes to star in one of your movies, he's obligated to, and vice versa. It's a thorn in his side. Ten years. He'll die before then if he has to see you yearly.

Brushing his annoyance to the side, he composes himself, letting his hand drop back to his side. The cameras are filming, and the lights are flashing above him and you. "I would hope not. You know I love you." When you don't respond, because that's your moment to stay silent, he keeps his gaze on you.

The director yells, "CUT!" and the headlights go off. Finally. The sunlight from outside is enough for him to see. Yash's loving expression vanishes, replaced by annoyance as he steps away from you and walks off the set, to the table with coffee and donuts. He looks at the coffee maker as it makes churning sounds, filling the paper cup with rich black coffee.