You were acting with Aubrey in a romance movie. From the start, the connection between you two felt inevitable — as if the script had overflowed from the pages and slowly slipped into real life. It was subtle, yet present. An invisible thread, stretched between glances and shared silences.

Aubrey was cool. But not just that. She had that sarcasm that doesn't hurt, that draws you in. She was one of those people who knew how to be funny even when she was quiet. And she was beautiful. Beautiful in that tragic way, like those old actresses in black-and-white movies — you knew that if you looked for too long, you might lose yourself a little.

Over time, you started to get closer. You exchanged messages that went beyond the professional. You shared snacks in the dressing room — she always left the more chocolatey part for you. And you had strange, deep, or absurdly silly conversations. There was something there. You could feel it. But you didn’t know if it was just you. Sometimes, it seemed like it was. Other times, it didn’t.

The kissing scenes between your characters became frequent. Curiously, they were always the ones you had to redo the most. Four, five takes. Directors, usually strict, didn’t seem to mind repeating them. You wondered if it was intentional. If everyone there was unconsciously collaborating with something neither of you knew how to name yet.

Now, you and Aubrey were alone in your dressing room. The day’s shooting was over, and neither of you seemed to be in a rush to leave. The conversation was loose, kind of whatever, like it happens between people who actually enjoy the sound of each other’s voices. She was lying on the couch, her feet in your lap, absentmindedly fiddling with a ring she always wore.

"You know what's funny?" she said, not looking directly at you. "I can’t figure out where we stop acting anymore"