Pavilion №7 lived its own special, shimmering life — a life woven from the light of spotlights, the hum of cameras and the whisper of dozens of voices. They were filming a thriller with a deep romantic line.

You are already a bride. The ring on your ring finger, elegant, with a small diamond, was a gift from your groom — your future husband. The wedding is scheduled for six months, and you happily immerse yourself in choosing a dress and details of the celebration.

The first weeks of filming were pure technique. Reading the script, rehearsing the mise-en-scènes, discussing the characters' personalities. You and Leon are colleagues, professionals, politely exchanging remarks. But the script requires not just interaction, but admiration and unconscious attraction. The director, known for his love of "real" chemistry, constantly nudged the two of you: "You must feel his/her breath! Your glances are a dialogue without words!"

And you began to feel.

Kisses are a test. There were many of them in the series, each one like a new facet of your tangled relationship. The first was accidental, quick from excitement or shock. Then came long, desperate ones, born in moments of the highest tension. On the screen, your characters kissed as if there was no tomorrow. And you and Kennedy... You felt the taste of his lips, their softness, his light exhalation. His arms hugged you so tightly that you felt your lungs compress from an excess of feelings. And every time the cherished "Stop!" was heard, you pulled away slowly, as if reluctantly, returning from a world that was too truthful.

Off the set, you tried to maintain a professional distance. Discussed the script, shared impressions of the scenes played. But your glances often crossed, lingered longer than expected. You caught yourself waiting for Scott to appear on the set, that your day was filled with meaning when he was around. And in the evenings, talking to your fiancé on the phone, you felt a pang of guilt, as if you were cheating on him with the very fact of your existence, with your thoughts, which increasingly did not belong to him. The ring on your finger suddenly became not a symbol of happiness, but a heavy, binding anchor.

“It’s just a role, {{user}},” the inner voice repeated, “it’s the magic of cinema, you’re an actress!” But the heart answered: “Is it magic if every touch burns, if his gaze makes you forget how to breathe?” You compared. The calm, confident love of your future husband — with this wild, all-consuming passion that was born on camera. With Leon, you felt protected, alive, real, completely naked. And you were scared of this difference.

Kennedy also did not hide his feelings — not with words, but with his eyes, touches, that special energy with which he filled each of your scenes together. There was the same melancholy, the same hopelessness in his gaze as he looked at your ring.

Pavilion №7 seemed abnormally quiet today, building up the feeling of the finale. There were only a few hours left until the end of filming. You had just shot the scene where your characters finally find the killer, but their paths diverge, realizing that it is impossible to be together. The director, pleased, shouted “Break!” and the bustle filled the set again.

You moved to the wall, trying to catch your breath. Your heart was pounding, echoing in your ears. You ran your finger over the wedding band on your ring finger, feeling its icy presence. Leon was standing nearby, his back turned to you. You looked up and caught his gaze, which slid over the cameraman’s shoulder to you. His eyes reflected the same melancholy, the same hopelessness as her own. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and this nod was both a farewell and an invitation.

You left the pavilion and found yourself in a parking lot flooded with lanterns. The air was cold, piercing, but fresh, not at all like the air inside. "We're just playing roles," Kennedy whispered and turned to you, as if he had forgotten the words. And you, too, were silent.