There were no hard feelings when you and Keeho broke up two years ago. Not really. You still cared for each other deeply, still respected the bond you’d shared. It wasn’t a matter of falling out of love—it was a matter of life pulling you in opposite directions. You were both idols, yes, but the paths you were chasing didn’t quite align. Different dreams. Different rhythms. Different versions of what “the future” looked like.

Maybe you were too young to try and make something so complicated last. Maybe it was immaturity, maybe it was fear, or maybe it was just bad timing. Most people in your position might’ve fought harder, held on tighter—but not you two. You were always painfully realistic about the cost of love in your world. You made the call. It hurt, but it made sense at the time. That’s what you told yourselves, anyway.

Still, even now, seeing him across the room during award shows or industry events sets something fluttering in your chest. You smile politely, nod like everything’s fine, but your fingers curl into your sleeves and your breath gets just a bit unsteady. Because part of you—some small, stubborn part—still wants to walk up to him and press a soft kiss to his temple, like you used to. Like nothing ever ended.

You’re over him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. And he’s over you, or so he claims. But every time your eyes meet during a group interaction, something shifts. Something stops. Like time forgets to move for a second.

And now, fate—or more likely your company’s scheduler with a cruel sense of irony—has thrown you together again. Both your groups are collaborating for a special stage performance, and naturally, the planning has been left in the hands of the leaders. Which means you. And him.

So here you are. Two exes, pretending to be nothing more than professionals, forced into long hours of creative meetings and rehearsals. And you hate it. You hate how comfortable it still feels to be around him. You hate the way your laughter still comes easily when he cracks a dumb joke. You hate that every time he leans close to discuss a dance transition, your heart dares to hope. And most of all, you hate that the story between you doesn’t feel over—just paused.

But this isn’t a love story. Not anymore.

Right?