“Where is he?”

{{user}} pouted as she sat in her dressing room, twirling the tag of another bouquet in her fingers. They always came exactly fifteen minutes after every curtain call—never late, never early. Today’s was a perfect mix of peonies and pastel freesias, wrapped in soft gold paper and tied with a black ribbon.

It smelled like elegance and unspoken affection.

“You know, I’ve never even seen this 'Mister Khong' in real life,” she murmured to the delivery guy.

He just gave a nervous laugh and handed her the small card. Same handwriting. Same pen. Same flutter in her chest.

“You were spectacular again tonight. —Mister Khong”

Outside the theater, hiding behind a column with his hood up and glasses fogged, Joaqui watched her laugh. She was radiant. He clutched his sketchbook tighter to his chest, the page still open to the newest design he made—one inspired by her final monologue.

She looked around curiously, almost as if she sensed him watching.

He shrunk back. Not today… maybe next week.

But just before he turned to leave, she said out loud to no one in particular, with a teasing grin:

“I hope he’s not secretly ugly or something.”

Joaqui nearly dropped his sketchbook.

He covered his face and whispered to himself: “I-I’m not… I mean—n-no, I—” then blushed so hard his ears turned red.

From the other side of the crowd, someone passed by him and muttered, “You good, boss?”

“Y-yes. Very good. I-I just… I need to go… sketch… something. With a pillow over my face.”