Chapter Text
Okay, I admit it. I'm in love with Joe Locke, my best friend and co-star.
I tried to hide it for so long, tried to convince myself that it was just friendship, that it was all just admiration. But it's not. I know that now.
He doesn't know this, of course. And maybe he never will.
I just wish things were simpler, that I knew how to deal with all of this. But deep down, I know it's more than just friendship. Something is growing, something I can't control, and it scares me more than anything.
Amid the cameras, the hurried voices, and the lights that burn the skin, everything fades when I look at him. The way he holds the script, his long fingers gliding over the pages, almost like a caress. Sometimes, he bites the corner of his lip while reading, his forehead furrowed in concentration, and I lose myself completely. Then, he smiles—a small, hesitant smile, but still capable of lighting up everything around. And I stand there, breathless, my heart tight with wanting.
Because I can't say it.
Because if I do, everything changes.
So I laugh with him, go along with the jokes, let myself exist in those moments that seem so simple, so easy. The conversation flows easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world, but I know there's something wrong with me. But at the same time, there's a weight on me, something that keeps me still. I could reach out, touch his arm in a way that would mean more. I could let my gaze linger on his, hoping he'd understand without me needing to say anything. I could let myself dream that, maybe, he also feels that invisible current pulling us toward each other.
But I don't do anything.
I just keep it to myself. This secret that grows, that consumes me, that makes me want to scream—and at the same time, never be heard.
Sometimes, I find myself imagining what it would be like if he knew. What if he saw what I feel, if he knew the truth, even if I never have the courage to say it out loud? But then, fear takes over. Fear that, seeing this, he would pull away, that things between us would change.
I think I wanted to be more like him.
He has the confidence of someone who doesn't need to try, and I... well, I'm just Kit. The shy one, the one who never says what he really feels.
No one knows what I feel for him, of course. How could they know? I'm so good at hiding all of this. But, if I could look at him the way I've always wanted, without fear-
If I could simply let my gaze rest on him, without having to look away at the last second.
If I could laugh without measuring my words, without fear that, somehow, my heart would spill out in them.
If I could touch his hand in a way that didn't seem accidental or platonic.
But I'm just Kit. The one who swallows his feelings and pretends to feel nothing. The one who smiles at the right moment, laughs at the right moment, says everything... except what really matters.
And him? He's everything I'm not. He occupies space effortlessly, shines without even trying. He doesn't need to hide anything.
And me? I'm here, suffocated by what I never say.
I know that Joe has something I feel I'll never have: self-sufficiency. He broke up with his boyfriend, that older man, almost twenty years between them. I don't really know what to think about it. Sometimes, it seemed like age was never an obstacle for them, but there was something in the air—a subtle tension—that made everyone around us question it. Our friends, our co-workers, couldn't hide the curious looks, as if it was something strange, something that didn't fit. The fans talk about it, in low voices, in codes, when they think we're not understanding, but I do.
And even with all those looks and comments, Joe seems so sure, so confident. He's radiant, exuding a confidence I've never seen before. And that scares me in a way I can't explain.
I, on the other hand, sit here, quiet, hiding what I feel. Because, while I see how much lighter he is, how much happier, how comfortable he seems with himself, a part of me can't help but question. Not what he feels, but what I feel. I look at him and see what could have been, what I wanted it to be, but it's not. He'll never look at me the same way he looked at his ex, no matter how many times I get lost in him during a day of filming. It doesn't matter how fast my heart beats whenever he smiles at something I said or when he gives that look that's only his, that no one else can get.
I know Joe is happy now, and that's the most important thing, right? He deserves to be happy. But as the days go by, something inside me stirs. Joe broke up with his boyfriend, and even so, something still doesn't feel right. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something in the way he used to look at Joe, a possessiveness in his words, that bothers me even though they've been apart for a while.
Sometimes, when we talked about him, or when someone would mention him, there was a tension in the air, as if their relationship wasn't as simple as it seemed. Joe's ex had this way of being controlling, of talking about Joe in a way that didn't sound like someone who respects his freedom. He didn't let Joe be who he really was, didn't let him be that independent person we all know he is. And the looks he would give when Joe spoke or laughed about something... they were too intense, almost possessive, as if he wanted to be the only one who deserved that smile.
I knew Joe was going through something really complicated with his ex, but I didn't imagine it would get this far. His ex, that man who seemed like a shadow in his life, leaked photos of Joe and the people closest to him. Personal images, pieces of Joe's life he always tried to protect, things no one should have seen. And suddenly, there they were, scattered across the internet, like some dirty blow to destabilize everything he'd built. Because, no matter how quickly Joe's media team acted and got the photos removed before they caused more harm, the pain left behind, the anger he felt, no one could take that from him. It didn't matter how hard they tried to erase the damage, how much the situation was controlled—the sadness was there, clear and undeniable.
And the worst part of it all: the ex’s words, which at first seemed like mere accusations and misunderstandings, now seemed like revenge. The photos were an attack, a way to ruin the trust Joe had been starting to rebuild, and what hurt the most was knowing that, despite everything, Joe was still trying to stay calm. Even with all that storm swirling around him, he kept moving forward, because deep down, he knew he couldn’t let anything – or anyone – make him feel smaller.
I know this might sound strange, but I can't help it. Everyone could feel it, in some way, his energy, and I'm not the only one who feels this strange vibe. Our friends, even though they try to hide it, have opinions about him. Not openly, of course—always in nervous smiles that never reach their eyes when the subject comes up and in quick exchanges of glances. They say the age difference isn't the problem, but the way he treated Joe.
I know I shouldn't think this way. Who am I to judge their relationship? Who am I to question what Joe chooses for his life, for his heart? Maybe what I feel is just a reflection of what I wish it could be, something I never had the chance to be. Maybe I just want to be Joe's boyfriend, but I never had the chance. I never knew how to take that step, how to stop being just the friend.
It's easy, from the outside, to look and criticize. Look at his ex and try to find flaws, things that don't fit. I catch myself doing it, trying to justify my own feelings, as if I had the right to question what the man feels. But, in reality, what I'm really doing is hiding behind those assumptions, those little critiques, because I don't have the courage to admit to myself what's right in front of me. The truth is, maybe I'm just scared. Scared that he'll never look at me the way I look at him. Scared that, even if I wanted to be the person by his side, maybe he'd never want that from me.
In his last relationship, I saw Joe trying to fit in, trying to please, always striving to be the best, and that broke me inside. Because, deep down, I knew he deserved more than that. He deserved someone who saw him for who he truly is—incredible, as he is. But instead, there he was, stuck in a relationship that seemed... bad.
There were moments when Joe seemed to shrink, his light dimming just a little, as if he were constantly molding himself to fit the space the other left for him. And I hated that. Because Joe has always been someone who shines effortlessly, who fills up the whole world without asking permission.
But, when he was with him, it sometimes felt like Joe became smaller. Like he was being held back by an invisible thread, pulled back every time he tried to be too free.
He's always been so big, so vibrant. How could anyone want to shrink that?
I tried to talk to him back then, to show him that he deserved more, but he wasn't ready to listen. How could he be? He was so involved in that love—or what he thought was love—that he didn't see what was right in front of him. Until the shit hit the fan and came back to him.
I feel like I'm the only one who understands the pain he might be feeling, because, in the end, that pain was once mine.
And maybe that's what hurts the most. Not his exes, not the age difference, but the fact that I never had the chance to be the one he'd look for.
The fans, of course, have their own ideas. They see the invisible wall between Joe and me, even if it's subtle, even if I try to hide it. They feel the chemistry, notice the way I look at him, how the words between us always seem a little more loaded than they should be. And, no matter how much I try to hide it, it’s impossible to ignore. They joke about it all the time, make comments on social media, in interviews, in the comments that somehow make me smile—and also make me nervous. “You two are perfect together,” they say. “When are you finally going to admit it?” they write.
I know they're just joking, but the truth is, if I stop to think about it, there’s a part of me that wishes it were true. Because the chemistry between Joe and me… is undeniable. I feel it every time we're together, every time our conversations stretch longer than normal, every time we laugh about something only the two of us understand.
I wonder: what if one day I admit it? What if one day Joe realizes all of this, realizes how I feel, and he doesn’t feel the same?
Our friends, on the other hand, know. They always know, no matter how much I try to hide it. The jokes start light, as innocent banter, but then they begin to linger, becoming more frequent. “When are you two going to kiss?” someone asks every now and then, laughing, while exchanging glances with the others. And me, well, I always give a nervous laugh, try to redirect the conversation.
But sometimes, when he looks at me differently, they’re right.
There's something there.