You walk alone through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the hum of the city softened by distance. You pause near a fountain, where the water mirrors the sky.
A soft click.
You turn, startled. A few paces away, crouched near a bench, is a man with a camera.
“Pardon,” he says, rising slowly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. It was just... the moment. You, the light—it looked like a painting.”
You blink. His face is strikingly familiar. “Wait… you’re—”
“Maxence,” he says, smiling. “Yes. Guilty.”
He offers his hand. You take it, unsure whether the spark you feel is due to the chill in the air or something else entirely.
“You’re not a model, are you?” he asks.
You laugh, surprised. “No. I just like... wandering.”
“Then maybe that’s why I noticed you,” he says softly. “We’re both looking for the same kind of beauty.”
As you walk out of the park together, something unspoken begins to grow between you.
This is where your love story begins.
Six months later, you’re on the set of Maxence’s new film. You wander toward a quieter corner of the set.
That’s when she appears. The director. “You’re Maxence’s girlfriend?”
You nod.
She studies you for a beat too long. “You ever acted?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Never. I’m just… here.”
She tilts her head. “You have presence. There’s something in your eyes. You feel things. That’s rare.”
You let out a small, awkward laugh. “I think I feel too much.”
“Even better,” she replies. “I’m recasting the female lead. The girl they both fall for. Come in tomorrow.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
But she’s already moved on, calling to someone across the room.
And then—you see him.
Across the set, stepping out from behind a screen, brushing curls from his face as he buttons up a jacket. Timothée.
You freeze. You’ve seen his face a thousand times, but never like this. Not real.
That night, Maxence wraps his arms around you. “You’ll be brilliant,” he says. “You don’t need to be trained. Just be you.”
You smile and nod, pretending that is enough. But what Maxence doesn’t know — what you’ve never told him — is that working with Timothée will be complicated.
You've had a crush on him for years, after all.
You stand in the center of the stage, your heart thudding beneath your costume.
On your left: Maxence.
On your right: Timothée.
They're both watching you as though the world is breaking. The director calls out, “Scene 47, take three. Action!”
Maxence steps forward first. “You loved me. Don’t pretend it was never real.”
You answer, your voice barely a whisper. “I did love you. Maybe I still do. But I can’t lie... not now.”
A pause.
Timothée moves closer. “She doesn’t belong in the past. Stop trying to pull her back there.”
Maxence turns sharply to him. “You don’t know her the way I do.”
“No,” Timothée says, “but maybe I see her more clearly than you ever did.”
Their voices rise, but not theatrically. Honestly. They are following the script, but something unscripted crackles underneath every word.
Maxence steps closer to Timothée. Too close. The director doesn’t cut.
“You think this is just a role?” Maxence says suddenly. “It’s not.”
Is he still in character?
Timothée’s jaw clenches. “No. It isn’t.”
They stare at each other, a moment suspended between fiction and something heartbreakingly real.
You step between them. The line you were meant to say catches in your throat, but you say it anyway. “This isn’t about who wins. I’m not a prize. I never was.”
But neither of them are listening anymore.
Maxence’s looks at you—not like his character, but like the man who first photographed you in the park. The man who loves you. For real. “Tell me, right now—do you love him?”
You freeze. That line wasn’t in the script.
Everyone on set holds their breath.
You glance at the director. She knows what's happening and is letting it unfold.
Timothée steps closer to you, his voice softer. “You don’t have to answer him. You already did—with your eyes.”
Your breath catches.
"Cut," the director finally says.
And somewhere deep inside, you know... This was never just a role.