Time passed. Just enough to make it uncomfortable. Not enough to make it disappear.
Since the reshoot incident—the scene that cracked everything open—Andres and Ashtine hadn't spoken. Not in passing. Not in messages. Not in anything.
But absence doesn't mean forgetting.
It means you look harder.
—
Ashtine sat in the back of a transport van on the way to a press event. Her co-star from a separate drama was talking beside her, showing her memes on his phone, but her eyes wandered outside the window.
The streets blurred.
So did her thoughts.
She hadn't deleted their messages.
She hadn't dared look at them either.
But sometimes—when her thumb hovered over his name in her contacts, she imagined the way he used to reply with voice notes. Slightly breathless. Like he was always mid-laugh or mid-thought.
And sometimes, she'd hear a crew member speak and swear it was his voice in the distance.
But it wasn't.
It was never him.
—
Andres stood in the company gym, towel around his neck, earbuds in. His playlist had shuffled to something they both used to listen to while rehearsing.
He didn't skip it.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered her singing off-key, dancing while brushing her teeth, teasing him when he took lyrics too seriously.
He exhaled sharply and turned the music off.
There were too many moments that still clung to him. Things that should've faded. But hadn't.
He opened Instagram. No new posts. No new stories from her. But she had liked a post by one of their mutual friends—a behind-the-scenes photo from their old set.
She was in it.
So was he.
He zoomed in. Her smile wasn't toward the camera. It had been toward him.
He remembered that day.
She had made fun of his hair that morning.
He had retaliated by switching her coffee with black espresso.
They had laughed. And then worked. And then laughed again.
Now?
He didn't know what they were.
—
In another part of the city, Ashtine was picking out flowers for a talk show appearance. The assistant asked her if she had a favorite.
She looked at the bouquet of roses and blossoms.
She hesitated.
She picked neither.
She picked daisies.
But her hand trembled when she did.
Because that morning, her Spotify had recommended a song titled: "Golden Hour." The first track? A song from their rooftop scene.
She didn't play it.
She didn't have to.
The memory already played in her head.
His voice.
The way he said, "I wasn't pretending."
Even if now… it felt like he was.
—
Andres scrolled again.
Midnight.
His burner account had seen all of her stories. He never interacted. Never messaged. But he watched. Every single one.
She posted about her new role. Her favorite dessert. Her dog.
Not a trace of him.
But that didn't matter.
Because every time someone mentioned her, his ears burned. Every time he saw a pink blossom, his chest hurt.
And once—just once—when he was walking past a bookstore, someone handed him a flyer with a red rose printed on the corner.
He smiled without thinking.
Then stopped.
And walked away.
—
They hadn't spoken in weeks. In months.
And yet?
They hadn't gone a single day without feeling the other's presence in something. A line. A place. A scent. A sound.
Everyone thought they were fine.
Everyone thought they had moved on.
But the truth?
They were still searching.
Not with words.
But with eyes.
With ears.
With hearts tuned to an old frequency.
They didn't talk.
But they still looked.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because sometimes, you don't lose a person all at once.
You lose them in moments.
In silences.
In the way your fingers hover over their name but never press send.
In the way your smile fades after a crowd disappears.
In the way you keep looking—
Even when you know they're not there.
Even when you're the one who left first.
Even when you're the one who stayed waiting.
Even when it hurts.
And still, you look.
Everywhere.
For them.