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The studio air was heavy that day—not with heat, but with the kind of tension that clung to the skin and settled in the corners of rehearsal rooms. Ashtine arrived early, her messenger bag slung over one shoulder and her phone in one hand, scanning lines as she walked. The set had been transformed overnight into a new location: a school rooftop, scattered with prop benches and soft backlight, designed to look like a place where confessions and secrets quietly bloomed.
She hadn't seen Andres yet.
It was their first major emotional scene together. Unlike the earlier rehearsals where lines were exchanged like tennis volleys—quick, sharp, performative—this scene demanded more. Their characters were meant to unravel here, piece by piece, until the walls they'd built in the script began to break.
The assistant director handed her a printed script, though she already knew the lines. She'd read them over at least twenty times the night before, pacing her room, lips moving in silence. But something felt different today. Not about the words—but about the person she was meant to say them to.
When Andres arrived, it wasn't dramatic. He didn't announce himself. He walked in wearing another hoodie—this time navy, sleeves pulled over his hands—hair tousled like he'd run a hand through it a dozen times in the car. He gave her a simple nod, quiet, respectful, and headed straight for the mark on the floor where his character was meant to start the scene.
They didn't speak before the first take.
Maybe they both felt it. The shift. The invisible thread pulling tighter between them since the cold read. They hadn't talked about it. They hadn't acknowledged the energy. But it was there now, humming between silences.
"Scene 28. Rooftop. Take one. Roll sound."
The camera whirred into place.
Ashtine stepped into the frame.
Andres turned to her, and just like that, they weren't themselves anymore.
She was the girl who had tried to distance herself from everyone. He was the boy who kept showing up anyway. In the script, her lines were guarded. Defensive. But when Ashtine opened her mouth, something softer came through—something that trembled around the edges.
"You shouldn't have followed me up here," she said. "This isn't part of the plan."
Andres, eyes on hers, answered with a voice lower than expected.
"I'm done following the plan."
It wasn't a new line. But it felt like it.
Ashtine stepped back, pacing toward the edge of the set. Her hands were clenched at her sides, not because the scene demanded it, but because her pulse had begun to rise. She turned, delivering the next line a bit too breathless.
"You think if you say that, everything changes?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He just watched her.
And for a brief moment, it felt like the cameras vanished.
"I think," he said, slowly, "that you look at me like you're scared of what happens if you let me in."
Silence. Heavy. Loaded.
That wasn't a line.
That wasn't even close to what was on the script page.
Behind the camera, the director froze, arms crossed, watching intently. No one yelled cut.
Andres didn't blink.
Ashtine swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
"You don't know what I'm scared of," she said, voice barely audible.
"I think I do," he said.
Her breath caught.
And then, like a switch, she turned the emotion back to the page. She walked past him, stopping just long enough to drop the next line without looking back.
"You're not part of my story. Not the ending."
Andres stepped forward, closing the distance slightly.
"Then maybe your story needs a rewrite."
Cut.
The director finally spoke, stepping forward. "That was good," he said. "That was very good. Let's reset and try again, but this time, keep it to script. We're still in episode three, not the finale."
Ashtine exhaled slowly, rubbing her hands together.
Andres looked over, catching her eye.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"I'm fine," she said. "You just surprised me."
"I wasn't trying to throw you off."
She looked at him. "You didn't. You just… made it feel too real."
There was a pause. Then he smiled, small and genuine.
"Isn't that the point?"
She didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
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After filming wrapped, she changed in the dressing room quickly, trying to shake the scene off. But it lingered. Every word, every glance. Her heart still hadn't settled.
Her phone buzzed with a notification.
Andres had tagged her in a behind-the-scenes photo posted by the production team.
They were standing on set, blurry in the background. She was mid-turn, facing away. He was staring straight at her.
His caption? Just a quote.
"You look at me like you're scared of what happens if you let me in."
No emojis. No explanation. Just the line.
Ashtine stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering above the like button. Then she locked her phone and placed it face-down on the table.
For someone who wasn't her type, Andres Muhlach was starting to make her question everything she thought she liked.
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