You were nobody. No family name. No godfather. No industry contacts. Just a girl who’d given half her life to audition rooms and rejection emails. He was Ahaan Kapoor. Star kid. Magazine covers even before his debut. You’d promised yourself you’d never say his name again, not after the way things ended two years ago.

You weren’t supposed to meet him again. Certainly not like this—standing side by side as the director announced, “Our leads: Ahaan Kapoor and {{user}}.”

His eyes met yours across the room, surprise flickering into something sharper. You couldn’t tell if it was anger or regret. Probably both.

The first day was hell.

You’d broken up in anger back then, harsh words thrown, accusations neither of you fully meant. The worst part? You never got to explain. He never asked. And now every scene with him felt like standing barefoot on glass.

“Cut!” the director yelled, grinning. “God, the tension is electric. Keep it. Perfect chemistry!”

You wanted to laugh. Chemistry? No. It was just years of unresolved hurt burning on camera.

He was professional when the camera rolled, but off-screen every word was sharp. “You’re late again.” “You missed the mark.” “Still stubborn, I see.”

You shot back one day, shoving past him. His jaw clenched. “You used to love that about me.” Your chest tightened. You didn’t reply.

Somehow, you made it. No murders, no walkouts. The movie wrapped, the director hugged you both, and the crew applauded. Everyone was convinced you were the next great onscreen pair.

You couldn’t wait to be done with him.

Until the promotions started.

You had to smile, laugh at his jokes, sit close on couches like best friends. Every interview dragged memories back—the way he used to whisper things to make you laugh during takes, how his hand used to linger on your back.

One night, after a long day of interviews, the cast gathered for a house party. Music. Drinks. Laughter. Somewhere between your third and fourth drink, you realized everyone else had either passed out or left.

It was just you and him. Again.

You were both sitting on the floor now, backs against the couch, a half-empty bottle between you. The room was dim, the world strangely quiet.

He turned to you, his face unreadable. “You left without letting me explain. You didn’t even look at me.”