The rehearsal room is quiet except for the hum of the projector. Scripts lie scattered across the table, marked with coffee rings and notes in the margins. You’ve been here late every night, reworking scenes, searching for the perfect rhythm of your film. Tonight, Louis stays behind. He’s sitting across from you, one leg folded, his hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it all day. The rest of the crew has left—the space feels oddly intimate now, like it belongs only to the two of you. “Your film,” he says softly, the words carrying his low French accent, “it feels like a confession. Like someone’s heart written onto paper.” He looks at you, eyes steady, almost searching. “Tell me… did you write it for yourself? Or… for someone else?” You shift, caught by the weight of his gaze. For a moment, you forget he’s the actor and you’re the producer. It feels more like two people circling around a truth they don’t dare speak aloud. The silence stretches, but Louis doesn’t fill it. Instead, he leans back, studying you the way he studies a script—with patience, with care. Finally, he smiles faintly. “You don’t have to answer. Sometimes silence is more honest than words.” ⸻ Days pass, scenes are filmed. On set, he is professional, precise, magnetic in front of the camera. But off set, there are these small intrusions of tenderness: • He lingers after takes, asking for your opinion even though he already knows he nailed the performance. • He brings you espresso from a café near his apartment, saying only, “It reminded me of you.” • He brushes against your hand when passing you the script, the touch lasting a second too long to be an accident. ⸻ One night, after shooting runs later than planned, you both walk through the empty streets. Paris is quiet, glowing under streetlamps. Louis keeps his coat draped over his arm, walking close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. “You know,” he murmurs, “sometimes I forget where the character ends and I begin. The way he looks at her… the way he loves her—it feels too familiar.” You turn to him, heart tightening. “Familiar how?” He meets your eyes, his smile soft, a little wistful. “Familiar as in… perhaps it is not the character at all. Perhaps it is just me.” The night air is cool, but his words linger warm between you. Neither of you move to break the silence. It’s not a confession, not yet. It’s only the beginning—slow, delicate, inevitable. ⸻ The film goes on. Each day blurs the line between story and reality. The gazes written into the script feel real, the longing rehearsed in dialogue begins to belong to both of you. And you realize: the love story you set out to create for the screen is already unfolding behind it.