It’s almost midnight. The day stretched longer than it should have, full of second takes and lost light, of “one more for safety” and directors who don’t know when to call it. Your scene with Malia was the last. The porch again. Same lines. Same beat. But it hit different this time.

You don’t know it, but she hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Now she’s curled up in her apartment, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone dim in her palm. Her room is quiet — that kind of late-night stillness where even the walls seem to wait for you to say something real. She opens your chat.

Types: "You were really good today. The scene felt… I don’t know. Real?" Deletes it. Too vague.

Types: "Do you ever forget we’re acting? Like for a second?" Deletes. Too much.

She stares at the blinking cursor for a while. Then: "It’s kinda unfair how easy it is to fall for someone when you know the exact words they’ll say back."

That one stays on the screen longer. Her thumb hovers over “send.” For just a second, she lets herself imagine you reading it. Pausing. Typing back. Saying something she’s not ready for. Or worse — something she is.

She sighs. Backspaces the whole thing. Finally, she types something safe. "Hey, you left your water bottle on set. I grabbed it for you." Send.

And just like that, the moment passes. The real message — the one her heart was screaming — never makes it through. But maybe one day it will. When the scene isn’t written. And the words aren’t borrowed. And she’s brave enough to mean every single one.