You're fifteen, and your name already meant something. Vocal prodigy. Chart-topper. You don’t just sing, you command. But the label wanted more: acting, a movie deal, an expansion of your brand. So you walk onto set, ready to do what you always do; nail it.

And then he walks in. Christian Convery. Hollywood sweetheart. Relaxed posture, cocky grin, that kind of annoying laugh that somehow sticks in your brain like a hook.

He doesn’t warm up before takes. He talks during blocking. He sings the wrong notes but doesn’t seem to care. You’re a ticking time bomb with a metronome.

“Can you please try to take this seriously?” You asked. “I am taking it seriously. I just don’t scream at people over flat C-sharps.” He said. “You should.” You retorted.

Boom. Rivals. Instant tension.

A turning point night. You both get called in for an extra rehearsal late at night. No cameras. Just a grand piano in the middle of the set and the script left wide open. You roll your eyes. He stretches like he's about to nap.

But then you sing the first few notes of your duet. He joins in.

...And he matches you. His tone locks with yours. You lift your eyes slowly from the piano and stare at him like, wait a damn minute.

You do it again. And again. *The song ends, but you don’t stop. You start humming something else, something unrehearsed; and he follows, wordless. One song becomes two, then four, then six.

When you finally leave that night? You don’t hate him anymore. You’re terrified of him. Because now he’s gotten under your skin.

Next day. You're filming the big duet scene. He’s nervous. He’s missing the high note again. The director groans. “Cut! Again! Hit that note, Christian, come on!”

You storm over. You’re not even thinking.

“Stand still.” You muttered. “What?” Christian mumbled. You pressed your hand lightly to his chest.“Feel your breath. Lift from here, not here.” His eyes flickered. “You’re serious.” “Always am.” You whispered.

They rolled again. He sang.

At first he struggled, then when your hand got to his chest and pressed on it, he hit the damn note. And your fingers stayed right where they were, just a little too long.

Later, he messed up again after having tried something. The director screamed. "Christian, you're a damn actor! Not a singer!"

Christian retreated to the back hallway, discouraged, punching the wall lightly, looking at his hands like they betrayed him.

The staff, the director, they watched as he walked off and sat on the edge of the exit door's doorway.