Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The call came on a Tuesday.

It was raining again, that kind of rain that doesn’t fall in sheets or storms, but clings to the sky like a stubborn gray film, soaking the city in slow, patient drizzles.

Hitori sat curled in the corner of her small Tokyo apartment, knees tucked to her chest, the glow of her laptop casting a faint blue light across her face.

She had been midway through editing her self-tape audition—a minor supporting role in a local drama—when her phone buzzed beside her.

She ignored it at first, assuming it was another spam message, or perhaps her mother reminding her to eat. Then it buzzed again. And again.

When she finally looked, her breath hitched.

Incoming Call: Kawamura-san

Her manager.
Her very rarely calling manager.

She answered immediately, fumbling with the speaker setting. “H-Hello?”

“Gotou-san,” came the clipped voice of Kawamura, his tone unusually tight with… excitement? Nerves? “Cancel your week.”

She blinked. “I—I don’t have anything scheduled, though?”

“Good. Then listen carefully. You’ve been requested for a lead role. Feature film. Romance genre. Director Hanabusa personally asked for you.”

Hitori blinked. Once. Twice. Then her voice came out a little squeaky. “I think you have the wrong Hitori.”

“I do not.” Kawamura exhaled hard. “You did a minor role in that NHK morning drama two months ago, right? As the runaway girl?”

“Y-Yes…”

“She saw it. Liked you. Said you had ‘quiet turbulence.’ Whatever that means.”

That didn’t sound like a compliment. Or maybe it did. She wasn’t sure.

“I—wait, me? Lead role? Like… main character? With lines and… and face time?”

“Yes.”

Hitori stared at her cluttered living room. A pair of worn fuzzy socks sat crumpled next to a half-eaten bag of senbei. Her guitar leaned in the corner, untouched for days. Her self-confidence, as always, was just out of reach.

“I’m not—Kawamura-san, are you sure they meant me?”

“They sent your name. Full name. Spelled correctly, mind you.” He sounded exasperated now. “They want you, Gotoh Hitori. Read the script. If you say yes, they’ll finalize the casting. Filming starts in three months. And—this part might make you faint—they’re bringing in Kita Ikuyo as your co-lead.”

The world paused.

“…What.”

-

-

Three days later, Hitori sat in the sleek office of KTK Productions, still half-convinced this was a fever dream she hadn’t woken up from.

The receptionist had bowed politely as she handed over a sleek script envelope. Hitori had thanked her too many times, bowing so low her bangs practically brushed the counter.

The script was heavy in her lap now, printed on thick paper with her name stamped on the cover.

Title: "Falling Leaves, Late Bloom"
Genre: Romance / Slice of Life
Main Characters: Kanade (F) & Mizuki (F)
Setting: Coastal Town, Autumn
Themes: First love, emotional growth, healing

Hitori stared down at the logline and her heart thudded unevenly.

Mizuki—the character she was to play—was a quiet composer who had returned to her hometown after a public breakdown. Kanade, her opposite in every way, was a cheerful local with a reputation for kindness—and hidden grief. The film was tender, aching, and very obviously romantic.

She hadn’t even gotten to the part in the script where the intimacy began, but she knew it was there. Word had already spread.

There was a kiss scene. Multiple, in fact.

And—her ears turned red—one implied bed scene, nothing graphic, just a fade to black and morning-after softness. But still.

So when she sat across from the casting director and producer, nervously twisting her sleeve, she asked the question everyone had been skirting around:

“Are you… sure Kita Ikuyo agreed to this?”

The producer, a soft-spoken woman in a gray blouse, smiled mysteriously. “Yes. We were surprised too.”

Kita Ikuyo was a legend. Versatile, loved by critics and fans alike, with a carefully curated reputation. She’d done comedies, thrillers, award-winning dramas. She could cry on cue. She could make audiences weep with a glance. But one rule had always remained unshaken.

She didn’t do kiss scenes.

Or intimacy. Or anything remotely suggestive. It wasn’t a scandalous choice—if anything, it made her more respected. Directors worked around it. Scripts were written to fit her boundaries.

But this time?

She said yes. To this script.

And to Hitori.

-

The studio was bright in a way that made Hitori feel exposed.

Fluorescent lights hummed above her like curious eyes. She stood just inside the entrance of the rehearsal space, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her canvas bag, as if clinging to it might somehow anchor her to the earth. Her heart was in her throat, her breath shallow.

The place looked like any other production studio: long table, printouts, coffee cups, name placards. Neutral grays and pale wood. A few folding chairs still being arranged by a crew member in a headset. Someone yawned in the corner.

It should have felt ordinary.

But it wasn’t.

Because somewhere in this room, soon—very soon—Kita Ikuyo would walk in.

Hitori’s knees locked at the thought.

She’d barely slept the night before. She’d kept telling herself, don’t look up clips, don’t spiral, and then done exactly that. One search of Kita’s name had led to three dramas, two interviews, a critically-acclaimed stage performance, and half a dozen fan edits on social media.

The sheer scope of her career… the range of it. Rom-coms, slice-of-life, period dramas. Kita’s smile was iconic. Her tears looked real. And even when she played distant or cold characters, there was always something beneath it—something burning.

Hitori had never worked with anyone remotely close to that level of fame before.

And now she's her romantic lead, she reminded herself in a panicked whisper.

She adjusted her mask, which was probably overkill, and tightened her hoodie’s drawstring around her face like a child playing pretend. She picked a seat at the very far end of the long table—close to the exit, in case she needed to flee.

The script sat in front of her. Her name printed at the top in crisp, clean black ink. Gotoh Hitori — Mizuki.

She stared at it. She could feel her pulse behind her ears.

The room slowly filled—producers, assistants, the director, stylists—but it was all background noise until the soft click of the front door opening again shifted the air like gravity.

Hitori looked up.

And there she was.

Kita Ikuyo walked into the room like she belonged in it—not with arrogance, not even with confidence, but with an ease Hitori couldn’t fathom possessing.

She wore a beige knit sweater tucked casually into dark slacks, sleeves pushed up slightly at the forearms. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, red strands catching hints of gold in the morning light. No makeup, not that she needed any—her skin seemed to glow on its own.

She greeted the crew with practiced warmth, a small bow here, a soft “good morning” there. Her voice carried like a melody through the quiet hum of the studio, and everyone smiled in her presence, like a switch had flipped in the room.

Her gaze shifted.

And she saw Hitori.

Hitori froze.

Kita’s expression changed—subtly, but noticeably. Her brows lifted just a little, like she’d found something unexpected.

Hitori had no idea what her own face looked like. Probably terrified.

And then Kita Ikuyo smiled.

Not the smile from TV. Not the dazzling, award-winning, red-carpet smile. This one was smaller. The kind of smile you gave when seeing something that intrigued you. When seeing someone.

She crossed the room with quiet footsteps.

Straight to Hitori.

Every cell in Hitori’s body screamed, 'what do I do with my hands?'

“You’re Gotoh-san, right?” Kita asked gently, voice like the first notes of a familiar song.

Hitori nodded too fast. “Y-Yes. Um. Hi.”

“I’m Kita Ikuyo. I’m really happy we get to work together.”

She held out her hand.

Hitori stared at it for half a second too long before reaching out, fingers trembling slightly as they met Kita’s.

Her hand was warm. Steady. Real.

“I… I’m honored,” Hitori whispered.

Kita tilted her head, her smile softening. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”

That startled a breath out of Hitori. “I—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.” Kita laughed, light and almost teasing. “It’s nice. Quiet is nice.”

Hitori’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t used to anyone calling her that in a way that felt like a compliment.

Kita didn’t sit at the head of the table, or beside the director. She pulled out the chair next to Hitori without hesitation.

Close. Too close.

Hitori tried not to hold her breath, not to panic at the closeness of someone so impossibly composed. She peeked sideways at Kita once, expecting her to be absorbed in the script, or maybe on her phone.

But Kita was looking at her.

That same curious expression.

Like she was waiting for something.

“Do you usually read scripts quietly, or do you talk to yourself when practicing?” she asked, conversationally.

“I—I usually just whisper to myself, really. In my room. Sometimes under a blanket.”

Kita grinned. “That sounds adorable.”

Hitori nearly died.

She turned back to her script so fast she almost crinkled the edge.

And beside her, Kita flipped open her own copy, humming quietly to herself. Comfortable. At ease.

As if this was just another day. Another scene.

But for Hitori?

It was the beginning of something she didn’t quite have a name for.

Not yet.

The rehearsal studio had a different energy once the scripts were open and silence settled like mist.

Everyone shifted into their places—the assistant director arranging blocking marks on the floor, a small crew setting up lighting references, and the script supervisor perched nearby with a pencil tucked behind her ear. The director, Hanabusa, stood near the wall with her arms folded across her chest, watching with a kind of gentle detachment. She didn’t believe in rigid expectations. She liked to let things unfold.

“Don’t worry about performance yet,” she had told them at the start. “I want to see how you breathe the scene, not how you perfect it. We’re just learning each other.”

That helped. A little.

But Hitori still felt like she might evaporate.

Scene 7 was chosen for their first rehearsal. A quiet, early moment in the story—Mizuki has just moved into the seaside town and dropped her groceries on the street in the rain. Kanade, a stranger then, helps her without asking, kneels down beside her, and offers a smile.

Simple, almost ordinary.

But Hitori knew what the scene meant. It was the first moment Kanade touched Mizuki’s world. The first kindness that wasn’t transactional. The kind that felt unearned.

Which made it terrifying.

They stood in a loose circle while the director laid out the emotional beats.

Hitori cradled her script like it might bite her if she let go. She kept her gaze low as everyone spoke—until she heard the director ask:

“Kita-san, how do you see Kanade at this point in the story?”

Kita was quiet for a moment.

“I think she already likes her.”

Silence.

Hanabusa raised an eyebrow. “Even this early?”

“Not romantically. Not yet. But Kanade… she notices things. And when she sees someone lost in a storm, both inside and out, she doesn’t hesitate. It’s not attraction. It’s instinct.”

Hitori looked up.

Kita was smiling faintly, her script at her side. She wasn’t acting, not yet. But something in her voice held a weight, like she'd already spent time walking around inside Kanade’s mind.

Hitori swallowed. That answer made her feel seen, like she was the storm being noticed.

They ran the scene on the floor with no cameras, no marks—just voices and instinct.

Hitori took her place off to the side, crouched down as if collecting scattered groceries. Her hands trembled slightly, fingers miming the shape of an invisible apple.

Then came footsteps.

And a presence beside her.

“Here—let me help.”

Kita’s voice, soft and natural, slid through the air like warmth on a cold bench. She crouched beside Hitori, her knees barely brushing the space between them.

Hitori didn’t look at her right away.

She was supposed to look. The script said so.

But her eyes stuck to the floor. Her breath was tight. Her whole body was humming with the unbearable closeness of someone so calm, so centered.

“You don’t have to,” she murmured, barely audible. “I didn’t ask.”

“That’s true,” came Kita’s quiet reply. “But sometimes people don’t ask for help even when they need it.”

There was a pause. A gentle one.

Then—Hitori turned her head, slowly. Just enough to meet Kita’s eyes.

And there it was.

That moment.

It wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t rehearsed. But the air shifted, like something passed between them, wordless but undeniable.

For a split second, Hitori forgot where she was.

Kita was looking at her—not as an actor waiting for a cue, but as Kanade, smiling gently, her head tilted just slightly, the edges of her eyes crinkling in the softest way.

“You looked like you were waiting to be loved,” Kita whispered.

Hitori blinked.

It wasn’t in the script. She didn’t know if she was supposed to respond. But something inside her cracked like ice in warm water.

And she spoke—without thinking.

“…What if I don’t know how?”

It came out quiet, raw, too honest.

Kita didn’t falter. She simply held her gaze and replied, still kneeling beside her:

“Then I’ll wait. Until you remember.”

Silence stretched again.

Hanabusa finally broke it with a soft, “Cut.”

No one moved at first.

Then the director spoke again, more quietly this time.

“That was beautiful. Let’s pause there.”

Hitori sat still for a second longer, eyes on the floor, her pulse a thunder beneath her skin. Her hands were still curled around pretend groceries that weren’t there.

Kita slowly stood beside her. She didn’t say anything right away.

Then—she bent down slightly, offering her hand.

“Need help up?” she asked.

It was meant to be casual. A joke, even. A callback to the scene.

But her voice was soft.

Hitori hesitated. Then took her hand.

And in that moment—just for a second—she felt steady.

Held.

Like someone had just opened a door, and she didn’t quite know what was on the other side.

But she wanted to step through.

-

The rehearsal had ended an hour ago, but Hitori still hadn’t gone home.

She sat on the back steps of the studio, where the concrete was warm from the afternoon sun and the wind smelled faintly of dust and vending machine coffee. Her bag sat forgotten beside her, the strap unlooped and dragging against the ground like a lazy tail. She hadn’t moved much. Only enough to breathe.

There was a single leaf on the toe of her shoe.

She stared at it.

She’d said, 'what if I don’t know how?'

And Kita had answered without hesitation.

'Then I’ll wait.'

Those weren’t lines.
Not really.

But they had felt like something real. Like something she hadn’t known she’d needed to hear.

Her heart was still caught in the pause after those words, fluttering quietly, like it hadn’t decided whether to beat faster or slower.

'I didn’t say that. Mizuki did', she tried to reason.

But it didn’t hold.

Because it had been her voice.
Her breath.

Her body, still crouched on the floor while Kita Ikuyo knelt beside her and looked at her like she cared.

She shifted slightly, the rough cement catching the edge of her palm.

No one had said much after rehearsal. A few polite thank yous, a soft compliment from the script supervisor, a wave from Hanabusa. It was normal—quiet praise, hands shaken, papers stacked.

Kita had left with her coat slung over one shoulder, still smiling like she had one foot in the world of the script. She hadn’t said goodbye directly—just a glance over her shoulder, her eyes finding Hitori’s one last time before she disappeared into the glassy light of the studio hallway.

That glance had stayed with her.

And everything else felt like blur.

Hitori leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

She didn’t know how to process being looked at like that. Not in real life, and not off-camera.

She was used to being overlooked in crowds, talked over in classrooms, forgotten between stage transitions. Her agency barely sent her to major auditions. Her old classmates couldn’t even remember which club she’d been in, or she'd ever been in one at all. She was quiet and invisible, in every sense of those words.

But Kita Ikuyo had looked at her as if she was something luminous. Something she was still trying to figure out.

And for a brief second, Hitori had believed it too.

The metal door behind her creaked. She startled, almost dropping her script folder.

“Ah—sorry!” came a voice.

Not Kita’s. A crew member. A young man in a headset with a cup of coffee.

“Oh, no, I—I’m sorry too,” she mumbled, scrambling to her feet, hugging her folder to her chest.

The crew member gave her a polite nod, then walked off toward the parking lot.

She stood there for a moment, awkward and still flustered, staring at the spot where her leaf had fallen. It blew away in the breeze.

A laugh escaped her—small, almost nervous. She wasn’t sure why.

Maybe because she felt different now.

Or maybe because something had started. Not a crush. Not exactly.
It didn’t feel like something she could name that easily.

It felt more like…

Like she’d heard a song for the first time and didn’t know the words yet, but couldn’t stop humming the tune.

She finally began to walk.

One slow step at a time, fingers curled tightly around her script, the warmth of that earlier gaze still clinging to her skin.

The sun had started dipping, painting the sky with quiet pastels. Somewhere far off, a wind chime jingled.

And in Hitori’s mind, there was only one thought, circling soft and weightless,

'I want to see her again.'

Not as Kanade. Not on set.

Just… her.

-

It happened on a Tuesday again.

Not the same kind of Tuesday as before. The rain had given way to sunlight, pale and sharp against the buildings, as if someone had wiped the sky clean and left it out to dry.

Hitori had spent the morning reading and rereading her script, tucked under a blanket even though it was warm, pencil tapping against the page like a nervous metronome.

The line she kept circling wasn’t even an important one. Just Mizuki saying,
"You really think someone like me deserves comfort?"

Hitori wasn’t sure how to say it. Not properly, not without it sounding like her voice again.

So she put the pencil down and sighed.

Her phone buzzed.

She flinched.

She wasn’t the kind of person who got messages often. Mostly agency emails, the occasional promo alert, or her mom checking in. She expected something mundane.

But when she picked it up—

[New Message from Kita Ikuyo]

Her breath caught.

She stared at the name for too long before opening it, fingers stiff.

[Hi Gotoh-san! I hope I’m not bothering you—sorry for the sudden message! I was rereading Scene 14 and wondered if you might be free to go over it together sometime this week?]

A pause.

Then another message, barely ten seconds later.

[Just rehearsal-wise, of course!! If that’s okay?]

Hitori’s heart was not okay.

She stared at the screen, a little stunned by how casual it was. Friendly. Not at all formal like she’d imagined someone like Kita would be. It felt like… her. Direct, bright, and just a little unsure.

The messages hung in the quiet of Hitori’s room like they were echoing through the walls.

Her brain scrambled for what to say.

Then scrambled again.

Then erased all of it and just sent,

[That’s okay! I’d like that.]

Then immediately after she pressed send, she curled into the blanket in absolute panic.

She’d said yes. Too fast. Too eager. What if she seemed weird? Desperate? Too available? Was she supposed to wait longer before replying? Was she supposed to use emojis? Maybe 10 emojis?

Another message arrived while she was halfway to regretting everything.

Yay! What days are good for you? I know the studio has a side rehearsal space open tomorrow afternoon if you’re free! I can ask Hanabusa-sensei too.

Another text.

Another soft punctuation of warmth.

It hit Hitori again just how not obligated this was. No one told Kita to reach out, no one scheduled this as required, no cameras, and no contracts. Just a text. Just an invitation.

Under the pretense of rehearsal,
and maybe it really was just that.

But something in Hitori’s chest felt light and trembling anyway.

She sat up, phone pressed to her hands like she was afraid it might disappear.

[Tomorrow works. What time should I come?]

[Maybe 2pm? Just us. Low pressure. No lines if you don’t feel like it. We can even talk through the scene instead.]

Hitori’s mouth twitched into a barely-there smile.

Just us.
No pressure.
Talk through it instead.

It was almost laughable how badly she needed someone to offer her that kind of softness without strings.

Later that night, after dinner, she lay on her futon with the lights dimmed and the script propped open beside her. Her eyes drifted again to Scene 14.

In it, Mizuki and Kanade walk along the shoreline, sharing pieces of themselves that neither had spoken aloud before. It's the scene where Mizuki finally confesses how often she feels like a burden—too quiet, too complicated, too much and never enough at the same time.

And Kanade listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fix it.
She just says,

"You're not hard to love. People just forget how to be gentle."

Hitori stared at the line.

And this time, it didn’t feel like something she was supposed to act.

It felt like something she was starting to understand.

-

The rehearsal room wasn’t particularly remarkable.

It was small, tucked in the corner of the KTK studio’s third floor, past the costume storage and behind a barely marked gray door. The paint on the walls was a little uneven, the windows wide but covered in blinds that filtered the afternoon sun into long, drowsy slats of gold. There were a few folding chairs, a low table, and a faint, lingering smell of old fabric and dust and someone’s forgotten peach tea.It wasn’t soundproof.

She could still hear the occasional murmur of voices down the hall, the distant sound of someone wheeling a rack of clothes. But it was quiet enough that every creak of the floor felt loud.

Hitori stood just outside the door for a long moment, gripping the strap of her bag tightly in both hands.

2:03 PM.

She was late.Not by much, just a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. She’d changed her outfit three times that morning before settling on something plain—beige sweater, black jeans, clean sneakers. She didn’t want to seem like she tried, even though she very much had.

She took a deep breath.

Then opened the door.

Inside, the light was warm. Soft.
And Kita Ikuyo was already there.

“Hi,” she echoed, a little breathless. She closed the door behind her quietly and hovered for a moment too long before stepping inside. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not,” Kita said easily. “I came early.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause, soft and undemanding.

Kita reached down and nudged the second chair closer to hers, the legs scraping slightly against the floor.

“I thought we could sit by the window,” she said. “It’s nice today. You can kind of smell the bakery down the street if the breeze hits right.”

Hitori nodded, slowly moving closer. She sat down, carefully, like she didn’t quite trust the chair wouldn’t vanish under her. It didn’t.

There was sunlight on the floor.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Kita shifted slightly, angling her body toward Hitori, casual but open. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to run the lines out loud today. So I brought a few notes instead. I thought… maybe we could talk through the scene? Just feelings. No pressure.”

Hitori’s throat tightened, just slightly.

“That’s… good,” she murmured. “I was nervous about saying the lines wrong.”

“There’s no wrong,” Kita replied, then looked at her for a moment longer. “You feel the story very deeply. That’s already more than most.”

Hitori’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. “I don’t know if I’m really that good at… showing it, though.”

“I think you’re better than you realize,” Kita said, gently. “There’s something honest about how you look at things. Like you’re not pretending, even when you’re pretending. I noticed that the first time.”

The words landed quietly.

Like a stone sinking gently into still water.

Hitori didn’t know what to say. So she looked down at her lap instead, her thumbs brushing over each other in slow circles.

Then—slowly—she heard Kita’s voice again, softer this time.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Hitori looked up. “O-Okay.”

“When Mizuki says… ‘You really think someone like me deserves comfort?’”

Hitori froze.

Kita didn’t press. Just let the silence bloom for a moment, before continuing.

“When you read that… what does it feel like? Not Mizuki. You.”

Hitori’s lips parted. She didn’t answer right away. She looked out the window, at the quiet street below, at the way a single petal from a rooftop tree fluttered down onto the sidewalk.

“…It feels like something I accidentally said out loud.”

Kita turned her head slightly, her gaze soft. She didn’t speak.

Hitori didn’t stop.

“Sometimes I read those lines and think, I don’t have to act it. It’s already me. And that’s kind of scary. Because if I say it wrong, then I’ll think I can’t even be good at being myself.”

The quiet held.

And to her surprise,

Kita reached out and gently placed her iced coffee between them, as if offering something to share.

“Then let’s say it together,” she said.

Hitori looked at her.

Kita smiled again—wider this time, a little crooked. Her eyes sparkled, but not from teasing. There was something else. Warmth and invitation. No spotlight, just a bench in the sun.

“Line by line,” she said. “Until you forget it came from a script.”

And they did.

They spoke Scene 14 back and forth, slowly, without pressure. They paused for jokes, laughed at awkward phrasings, rewound when Hitori stumbled, rephrased when it felt stiff. At one point, Kita acted out the seagull that squawked off-screen during the real scene and made Hitori laugh harder than she had in weeks.

The lines became conversation.

The conversation became something like music.

And at the end of it, they sat with their shoulders almost touching, the afternoon sun stretching lazily across the floor, the air still and golden.

“Thanks for this,” Hitori whispered, barely above the sound of her breath.

Kita leaned back slightly in her chair and looked at her, soft as ever.

“Me too.”

-

-

The call time was 5:30 a.m.

It was still dark when Hitori arrived at the seaside location.

The sky was a deep navy blue, softening at the edges, as if someone had gently started erasing the stars. The ocean stretched out to the east like a sleeping giant, quiet and endless. She could smell the salt before she even stepped out of the car. Could feel it in her hair, clinging to her skin.

The crew was already setting up. Lights were being wheeled into position, cables taped down along the rocky path. A folding table had been set up near the cliffs, cluttered with breakfast breads and warm coffee in paper cups. Everyone moved with practiced calm, murmuring in soft voices, as if afraid to wake the morning.

It was surreal. Like walking into a dream just before it began.

Hitori stood by the edge of the trailer, her costume already on—Mizuki’s first look: a worn hoodie, pale jeans, and old sneakers that looked like they’d walked too far. She wore no makeup. Her hair was left loose, untouched.

The breeze moved through her sleeves and up her spine. She shivered slightly.

The scene today was a simple one, but not an easy one.

Scene 5:
Mizuki arrives in town for the first time, carrying her life in two bags. She walks the shoreline alone, her hands in her pockets, her gaze turned inward. She sits on a bench, staring out at the water. Kanade watches from afar, not speaking. Not yet.

No dialogue.

Just presence.

A test of silence. Of stillness. Of feeling everything without saying a word.

Hitori took a slow breath.

Then heard the familiar rhythm of footsteps on gravel.

She turned.

Kita was walking up the hill from the base camp, wrapped in a gray hoodie over her costume. Her red hair was half-pinned back, catching the early morning light in faint streaks of gold. She looked awake, calm—but when she saw Hitori, something in her expression brightened.

“You’re here early,” she said gently.

Hitori nodded, hugging her arms across her chest. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Kita’s eyes softened. “First shoot nerves?”

“A little,” Hitori admitted. “And… a lot.”

Kita came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders might have brushed if the wind hadn’t kept them just apart.

“It’s always like this on the first day,” she said. “Even now, I still get that buzzing feeling. Like the world’s holding its breath and watching.”

Hitori looked at her. “You don’t seem nervous.”

“I’m good at pretending not to be,” Kita said, smiling. “It helps.”

They stood like that for a moment longer, two silhouettes in the pale dawn light, with the ocean stretching before them and the sky slowly bleeding into morning.

Then the assistant director called out, clipboard in hand.

“First setup ready! Mizuki’s entrance, mark one!”

They ran the shot three times.

Once from behind, once in profile, once up close—each time Mizuki walking slowly down the shoreline path, her expression unreadable, her footsteps dragging. Her bags heavy. Her back slightly hunched, like she wasn’t sure if she was arriving or running away.

Hitori felt the gravel shift beneath her shoes.
Felt the breeze tug her hair out of place.
Felt every pair of eyes watching her from behind the camera.

But mostly—

She felt one pair.

Kita stood in position for the long shot, across the path, playing Kanade in silence. Just watching. She had no lines. No reaction cues.

But every time the director yelled “Action!”, Hitori could feel her.

The quiet awareness. The steady presence.

The weight of being seen.

Not judged and not pitied.

Seen.

On the fourth take, when she reached the bench and sat down, the breeze picked up unexpectedly and pushed her bangs into her eyes.

She blinked through them, turned her face slightly into the wind, and felt the ache well up just beneath her ribs—unscripted, raw. A wave of everything, fear, relief, exhaustion, and hope.

She let it rise. Didn’t push it down.

She didn’t even know if the camera caught it. But when she looked out at the sea and let her shoulders fall forward, it was real.

She didn’t have to pretend to be Mizuki.

In that moment, she was.

Cut.

The director’s voice came softly. Approvingly.

The crew moved quickly after that—repositioning, resetting, preparing for Kanade’s closer shots. Hitori stayed on the bench while they worked. Her hands rested on her lap, trembling slightly.

She didn’t even notice Kita approach until she heard the rustle of her footsteps behind her.

“You were beautiful,” Kita said, quietly, from just over her shoulder.

Hitori turned slowly.

Kita stood there in costume, soft colors and gentle posture, her expression still half-Kanade. Still full of something open.

“You felt it,” Kita continued. “Even from across the path. You carried the silence like it was speaking.”

Hitori looked down at her hands. She didn’t know what to say. The words stuck somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.

“I’m glad,” she managed.

Kita stepped closer—not touching and not crowding—just enough to be near.

“Can I sit with you?” she asked.

Hitori blinked. “I—um.. Of course.”

So she did.

And the two of them sat together on that worn wooden bench, looking out at the sea. No one called for them. No one asked for retakes.

The sun had fully risen now, casting long gold strips across the water, dazzling and soft.

Hitori glanced sideways once, just briefly.

And found Kita already looking at her.

Not with intensity. Not with expectation.

Just with that quiet, impossible warmth.

Like this was the scene she’d been waiting to film.

The next scene came after a brief break, just long enough for Hitori to forget how to breathe properly again.

She was seated now on the steps of the guesthouse set, a half-built exterior nestled beside the real shoreline. There was an umbrella overhead to soften the light, but the breeze kept slipping past it, brushing against her skin like a curious whisper.

They were setting up for Scene 6—the first conversation.

Kanade sees Mizuki sitting outside after a long day of unpacking. No one else is around. She sits beside her. They talk.

Nothing dramatic. Just simple questions.

“Are you getting used to it here?”
“Do you miss home?”
“Why did you come?”

Hitori ran those lines over in her head again, tracing the curve of them like stones in her palm.

And then, she felt her.

Kita approached from just outside the frame, in full costume—her cardigan caught slightly in the wind, her shirt softly pressed and neat. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it always arrived before she did, like the air shifted a second before she stepped into it.

She took her place beside Hitori, silent as instructed, and waited for the camera to roll.

The director gave quiet notes. “Keep it small. Let your breath carry the emotion. No need to force anything—you’re both just… feeling your way through this.”

“Ready. Rolling. Scene 6, Take One.”

A brief beat.

Action.

Kita moved.

She sat beside Hitori slowly, carefully, knees angled just slightly in her direction. The bench was narrow, and their shoulders were inches from touching.

Neither of them spoke at first.

Mizuki stared at the horizon. So did Hitori.

Then, Kanade’s voice.

“You look like you’re waiting for something.”

It wasn’t just the line.

It was the tone—gentle, curious, and without intrusion.

Hitori didn’t have to think. She let the answer rise like breath.

“Maybe I am.”

Then came the part that made Hitori hold her breath.

The unscripted line.

In the margin of the page, a small note in the director’s handwriting,
“Try this: Kanade reaches out—just gently. See what happens.”

No cue. No signal.
Just the possibility.

Hitori forgot all about it… until Kita’s hand moved.

Her fingers brushed against Hitori’s sleeve. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just a soft, fleeting contact near her elbow.

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The dialogue passed between them like thread, delicate and measured. And beneath it—beneath it, something else was moving.

Not scripted. Not spoken.

The way Kita turned her head just slightly toward her.

The faint tension in Hitori’s fingertips, curling into the fabric of her pants.

The way their eyes met, and then didn’t.

The way silence began to feel closer than the lines.

Like a question, not a statement.

And Hitori’s body answered before her mind did.

She flinched—not away, but inward. Like her chest pulled tighter to hold in something suddenly blooming. She looked down at the place they touched.

And then up.

And there was Kita—Kanade—watching her with a kind of quiet patience that didn’t belong to fiction.

No smile.
No forced kindness.

Just a steadiness. An offering.

“I think,” she said, soft as seafoam, “that whatever you’re waiting for… it’s allowed to find you.”

That wasn’t the line.

Not entirely.

And Hitori didn’t say anything back.

But her eyes lifted, just barely, and the emotion rose in her chest in something so raw it startled her.

Cut.

The word fell through the space like a bell.

But neither of them moved.

Kita’s hand lingered for half a second longer before slipping back into her lap.

They stayed sitting beside each other on that small wooden bench, the cameras off now, the crew resetting.

And still, they didn’t speak.

It was as if something had passed between them that didn’t want to be named.

A silence that didn’t want to be filled.

Hitori looked down at her hands. They were trembling, just a little.

Not from fear.

Not even from nerves.

But from something else entirely.

Wrap was called for the morning scenes at just past 11:30 a.m.

The crew clapped politely, the kind of brief, practical celebration meant more for rhythm than sentiment. Lights were powered down. Assistants began coiling cables. A production manager’s voice rang faintly across the beach with a checklist of things that needed to be packed before lunch.

But Hitori didn’t move.

Neither did Kita.

They sat off to the side of the set on a weathered patch of driftwood, just a few meters from the filming area. Both still in costume, both quietly catching their breath, the sun rising high now and softening into a kind of haze that made everything feel a little dreamlike.

Hitori’s hands were clasped loosely in her lap.

Kita’s were wrapped around a lukewarm can of lemon tea someone had handed her during wrap. She hadn’t taken a sip yet.

No one bothered them.

Maybe because no one wanted to interrupt the moment. Maybe because no one saw what kind of moment it really was.

Hitori looked down at her shoes, the tips barely brushing the sand. She could feel her skin still tingling from the scene, the residue of closeness clinging to her sleeves.

The way Kita’s voice had softened.
The unscripted line.
The hand that had found her arm, so gently it almost didn’t feel real.

Her thoughts looped back to it again and again, her mind clumsy with it, like she couldn’t quite find where performance ended and she began again.

Kita spoke first.

“You were incredible.”

Hitori blinked. Looked over.

Kita was looking ahead at the ocean, not at her, her voice quiet.

“I mean it,” she continued. “You didn’t just act. You let it happen. That’s rare.”

Hitori’s throat tightened.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if I did it right,” she murmured. “My chest was tight the whole time.”

“That’s how I knew it was real,” Kita said softly. “Because mine was too.”

That brought Hitori’s eyes to her face. This time, she didn’t look away.

Kita smiled a little, still not turning to her. “Sometimes I think… acting is just a way of saying the things we’re not brave enough to say for ourselves. Don’t you?”

Hitori’s breath caught, a little too sharply.

“Y-Yeah,” she whispered. “I… I think that too.”

A long silence stretched out between them.

Warm and weightless.

“I almost said something I wasn’t supposed to,” Kita said.

That made Hitori sit up straighter, pulse rising. “What… what do you mean?”

“In the scene. On that line.”

Kita glanced at her. Just once.
“I looked at you, and the line in my head changed.”

Hitori’s mouth went dry.

“You still said it really well,” she managed, though her voice was thinner now. Tense.

“I almost said your name.”

Kita looked at her fully now.

Her expression wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t anything but honest.

“I was looking at Mizuki,” she said, “but I saw you.”

The words landed between them like a stone dropped into water.

Hitori stared at her, heart thundering in her chest.

It was too much. Too fast.

And yet—

Her lips parted.

And before she could stop herself—

“I think I said my real thoughts too.”

Kita blinked.

Hitori’s face flushed deep, her hands curling tighter in her lap. “I mean—like—when I answered you, I wasn’t thinking as Mizuki. I just… it came out. Like I forgot I wasn’t supposed to mean it.”

For a second, she feared she’d said too much.

But then Kita’s shoulders softened, and her mouth turned upward—not in amusement, but something more vulnerable.

Relief.

“I’m glad,” she whispered. “Because it felt like… something was really happening.”

Hitori couldn’t speak.

The ocean kept rolling against the sand.

The voices of the crew became distant.

And between them, something hovered, unspoken but no longer uncertain.

They didn’t name it.
They didn’t need to.
Not yet.

They just sat there—two girls still in character, no longer acting.

Breathing in the same space.

And feeling every second of it.

They wrapped by noon, but the memory of the camera lingered.

Even as the sun slipped lower in the sky and the sea breeze began to cool, Hitori could still feel the heat of the set against her back—the eyes, the pressure, the line that hadn’t felt like a line at all.

She had started to pack up alone when one of the assistant directors appeared beside her with a slightly amused expression.

“Gotoh-san,” he said. “Kita-san was asking if you were free for dinner. Just the two of you. She mentioned it’s to celebrate your first day.”

Hitori blinked.

“Oh,” she said, intelligent as ever, truly.

“She’s waiting near the vans.”

-

-

They went to a small seaside diner.

Not fancy. Nothing polished or celebrity-touched. Just a place that sold grilled mackerel sets and battered fried oysters with crisp cabbage, where the tea was hot and endless and the windows caught the last gold streaks of the day.

They sat by one of those windows now, facing the beach—both still a little windblown, a little wrung out, Kita with her hair twisted into a low, loose bun, and Hitori in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her posture.

She hadn’t changed out of it since leaving set.

It was warm and shapeless. She liked hiding in it.

Kita didn’t seem to mind.

She was still in jeans and a navy turtleneck, sipping barley tea with a relaxed sort of quiet. Her phone was tucked away. Her attention was fully here.

And somehow, that made it harder to meet her eyes.

But easier to stay.

The food arrived.

Two full set meals—miso soup, pickled vegetables, rice, grilled fish.

They ate quietly for a while, the clink of chopsticks the only interruption between mouthfuls.

“I was really glad you came,” Kita said softly, without looking up.

Hitori hesitated. “To dinner?”

“To the film,” Kita replied. “I know that sounds obvious. But when I read the script and heard you were cast—I remember searching your name and watching some of your work. You have this… quiet rhythm that makes everything feel personal. I knew if we were in a scene together, I’d forget we were acting.”

Hitori stared at her rice.

She tried to speak. Then failed.

Kita noticed, and offered a gentler smile.

“You don’t have to say anything back. I just wanted you to know.”

“…I’m glad you accepted it too,” Hitori finally whispered.

Kita tilted her head. “Hmm?”

“The role,” she said. “Everyone kept saying you never did romance. Or… not ones with that kind of intimacy.”

She didn’t look up as she said it. She didn’t want to ruin the moment. But she felt Kita shift slightly across from her, heard the pause before she answered.

“I usually don’t,” Kita said, carefully. “I have my reasons. I think the industry gets lazy when it comes to women and intimacy—it flattens us into something consumable. I’ve turned down dozens of projects because they treated romance like an obligation. Or worse, a performance with no truth.”

“But you said yes to this one.”

Kita was quiet for a beat longer.

“Because the story felt honest. And because… your character didn’t need to be rescued. She just needed someone to see her. I could do that.”

Hitori’s breath caught.

The words hit a place in her chest that still felt too tender to name.

“And,” Kita added, voice even softer now, “because I wanted to meet you.”

The clatter of a spoon fell somewhere behind them in the diner, a waiter apologizing under his breath.

Hitori sat completely still.

She had no idea how to respond to something like that.

But Kita didn’t seem to expect her to.

She took another sip of tea and smiled like she hadn’t just said something that rearranged the shape of the room.

“You know,” Kita continued, more casually now, “we’ll be on this shoot for the next four to six months, depending on weather delays. I’m glad we’re starting like this. Slow. I’d rather build something real than perform something perfect.”

Hitori managed a tiny nod. “M-Me too...”

They finished the rest of the meal in soft companionship.

No rush and no pressure. Just the ease of sharing time.

And when the bill came, they somehow politely argued for about six seconds over who would pay, before the cashier politely informed them that the producer had already taken care of it as a Day 1 treat.

Kita laughed, that light, ringing sound that seemed to come from somewhere behind her teeth. “I guess we’re both off the hook.”

And as they left, walking slowly past the shoreline in the last gold light of the day, she glanced sideways and asked,

“Do you want to walk a little longer?”

Hitori paused.

She could have said she was tired. She could’ve said she wanted to go back and study the next day’s script. She could’ve said no.

But instead—

She nodded.

And they walked.

Two actresses. Two silhouettes.

Not in a scene.

Not reading lines.

Just walking side by side, into the orange-glow hush of evening, letting the space between them fill slowly, quietly, with something they hadn’t had time to name.

-

The sky was barely tinted when Hitori arrived.

The crew wouldn’t officially begin for another thirty minutes, but she liked being early. The studio lot was still sleepy—delivery vans idling in the distance, birds circling overhead, the clink of folding chairs being arranged echoing faintly from inside the building.

The entrance was unlocked, so she stepped in alone.

No lines to memorize today—at least, not yet. Just blocking. The scene was simple. A conversation on a rooftop between Mizuki and Kanade. A moment of rest in the middle of the film’s emotional weight. It was written to feel airy, stripped back. Just breath, and presence, and unspoken things.

The rooftop set was real—an actual rooftop on the adjacent building, refurbished for filming with safety rails disguised as props. Hitori climbed the narrow stairs that led to it, coffee in hand, hoodie sleeves pulled over her wrists.

She didn’t expect anyone else to be up here.

But she was wrong.

Kita was already there.

Sitting on the low edge of the rooftop wall, legs curled under her, dressed not in costume but in something even softer—cream knit sweater, denim shorts, her hair still damp from a morning shower, tied loosely at the nape of her neck.

She didn’t look surprised to see Hitori.

She looked… like she’d been waiting.

“Morning,” she said, her voice still hushed with sleep.

Hitori blinked. “Oh—morning.”

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

Kita smiled at that, stretching slightly. “Couldn’t sleep much.”

“Me neither,” Hitori admitted.

The sky above them was slowly blooming into color—muted lavender bleeding into soft apricot. The city stretched far below, but from here, it all felt distant. Faded. Like it had forgotten to be loud.

They didn’t talk for a while.

Hitori sipped her coffee. Kita drank from a water bottle she kept tucked under her sweater sleeve. A pigeon landed on the far railing and hopped twice before flapping off into the wind.

Eventually,

“Did you read through the scene yet?” Kita asked, her voice still low.

There was something gentle in the air between them—like condensation on glass. Thin, quiet, a little fragile. The kind of atmosphere that made you whisper even if you didn’t have to.

Hitori approached slowly, unsure of whether to sit or stand or walk away and pretend she hadn’t seen her. But Kita patted the spot beside her without speaking.

So she sat.

Their shoulders didn’t touch. Not quite. But the space between them was small enough to feel.

Hitori nodded. “Yeah. Last night. It’s… soft.”

Kita tilted her head. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” Hitori said. “I just… I’m still figuring out how to do soft without disappearing.”

Kita didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, gently,

“You don’t disappear.”

Hitori turned her head.

Kita’s gaze was on her now, steady and kind. Not intense. Not flirtatious. Just honest.

“You’re quiet,” she said. “But you don’t vanish. There’s a difference.”

Hitori swallowed.

“Sometimes I can’t tell which one I’m doing,” she whispered.

Kita’s fingers curled slightly around the water bottle in her lap.

“Then I’ll remind you,” she said.

Hitori stared.

“Every time,” Kita added. “If you ever feel like you’re vanishing, just look at me. I’ll remind you you’re still here.”

The sun breached the edge of the rooftop, brushing against Kita’s face.

She didn’t move from it.
Didn’t look away.

And Hitori—so used to shrinking, so used to fading—felt, for one suspended moment, like she was anchored. Not by the scene. Not by the script.

But by a girl who hadn’t stopped seeing her since the moment they met.

The sound of footsteps and laughter finally drifted up from below. The crew was arriving.

The rooftop would soon become a set. The silence would become dialogue. The distance between them would be choreographed.

But for now—

It was just them.

Two girls sitting in the half-light of early morning. No cameras. No marks. No director’s voice.

Just the quiet reminder of presence.

And the promise of a beginning that neither of them could name just yet.

By 7:10 a.m., the rooftop was no longer theirs.

The calm of the morning had dissolved into production noise: the sharp clack of clapperboards being tested, grips checking sun bounces, the distant call for someone to “move the C-stand an inch to the left.” Someone handed Hitori a water bottle and touched up her lip with a cotton swab, even though she wasn’t wearing much makeup.

Kita had changed into Kanade’s look for the scene: pale gray dress shirt tucked into casual slacks, a windbreaker light enough to catch the breeze. Her hair was pinned back this time, wispy and clean. She looked a little more structured. But when she caught Hitori’s eyes across the set, the expression she wore wasn’t acting.

It was something softer than readiness.
Something like recognition.

The rooftop scene was a midpoint in the film.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no confessions, no tears.

Just this,
Two people leaning on a railing and talking about the sky.

And yet, the subtext pressed against the page so tightly, Hitori could feel it like a heartbeat.

“Alright,” said Hanabusa-sensei, their director, folding her arms thoughtfully. “Let’s walk the scene before we roll.”

They started with blocking.

Kita would enter first, casually, and find Mizuki already on the rooftop, leaning against the ledge. She’d approach—three steps in—and ask,

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Then Hitori would nod, and they’d settle into a short, quiet conversation about insomnia, dreams, and why people end up in high places when their thoughts are heavy.

Nothing physically close. That's not in the script.

“Think of it like… soul proximity,” Hanabusa said as she paced. “You’re not touching. You don’t need to. You’re tuned to the same emotional frequency. Let the air carry that.”

The rehearsal began.

Kita stepped in. Light movements, relaxed. The three steps she took toward Hitori were measured but natural. When she spoke, her voice was a little husky—intentional, maybe. Maybe not.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

Hitori turned, arms crossed against the ledge, and gave a small nod.

“It’s too quiet at night,” she murmured.

Kita smiled faintly. “You say that like quiet is the problem.”

A few lines followed. Simple ones. Easy to speak, but strangely hard to fake.

Then came the final few lines, where Kanade says:

"Sometimes it feels like the whole world is waiting for you to speak… but you never get the chance."

Mizuki, in the script, says nothing.

She just looks at Kanade. And Kanade turns to leave.

That was how the scene ended.

But—

On the second take, Hitori didn’t move right away.

And neither did Kita.

Instead of turning, Kita lingered—her feet still in the blocking spot, but her body angling slightly closer. Not too much. Not quite a breach of space.

But enough that Hitori could smell the faint citrus in her hair.

Kita looked at her like she was still listening.

Waiting.

And Hitori—without thinking, without planning—took one small step forward.

Not toward the camera.
Not toward her mark.
Toward her.

It was barely a shift.

But her fingers brushed the edge of Kita’s sleeve.

She didn’t mean to.
She didn’t plan it.

She just… needed to stay near the warmth.

Kita’s eyes flickered down—just a second.

Then she said, unscripted again,

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Not the line again, that's not even close.

And yet, it fit.

She said it like Kanade would, like Kita herself would.

Then turned, gently, and walked away.

Cut.

There was silence.

Then Hanabusa spoke up from her director’s chair, squinting slightly.

“…Did we write that?”

One of the script assistants flipped through pages. “No, ma’am.”

Hanabusa leaned forward. “Keep it.”

The note was quick, clipped, but the look she gave Kita and Hitori next was not.

It was knowing, surprised, and pleased.

“That’s the version we’re using,” she added. “That last take—there was something in it. Whatever that was… hold on to it.”

Kita gave a polite bow of her head.

Hitori just stood still, heartbeat climbing somewhere up into her throat.

After the crew moved in to adjust angles and light shifts, the space around them broke open again.

Hitori turned slightly toward Kita, quiet and uncertain.

“I didn’t mean to—uh—step in. That wasn’t…”

Kita turned to her, her smile small but sincere.

“I know.”

She also added,

“It felt like you meant it.”

Then, again after a pause so quiet it barely existed,

“...Was it?”

Hitori looked at her.

Then, she nodded.

Just once.

Kita’s gaze lowered slightly. She said nothing else.

But her fingers brushed gently, deliberately, against Hitori’s sleeve as she passed on her way back to mark.

As if to answer, 'me too.'

By the time they finished running the rooftop scene three more times, the morning light had sharpened and the rooftop had begun to feel smaller.

Not claustrophobic—just closer.

The kind of closeness that settles in after you’ve shared silence with someone, and realized it was the most honest thing either of you had said all day.

The crew started to descend the narrow stairwell with their equipment. Someone joked about the sun finally cooperating. A makeup artist asked Kita if she needed retouching. She smiled and declined, laughing a little, her voice light, casual.

Everything went back to normal.

But not for Hitori.

She stood near the ledge, script tucked under one arm, and watched the distant horizon as the rooftop emptied. The sea was still visible between two buildings—just a sliver of blue. Below, the world carried on. But up here, things still felt suspended.

Kita passed behind her on the way to grab her bag. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the memory of it did. The way their sleeves had brushed just minutes earlier. The slight shift in warmth when Kita had turned toward her during that unscripted moment.

And that voice—quiet, careful, just for her.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Hitori exhaled, slow and uneven.

She wasn’t sure why it stayed with her. Why those six words felt like they’d slotted themselves into a hollow space inside her chest and decided to stay.

The way Kita had looked at her—it wasn’t romantic, not in the obvious way. It wasn’t teasing, or heavy, or dramatic.

It was something smaller.
Softer.
Like an open window that had never been opened for anyone else.

And that was somehow worse.

Worse, because it felt real.

Not written.
Not directed.
Not rehearsed.

Just themselves.

Hitori didn’t realize she’d spaced out until the rooftop was empty. A soft gust of wind pulled at the edge of her hoodie, the script pages fluttering gently against her arm. The last production assistant had already gone downstairs.

She was alone.

And yet—not completely.

Her body still remembered the nearness. The weight of unspoken words. The way one glance had folded time in on itself.

She turned her face into the breeze and closed her eyes.

There was a warmth she couldn’t shake now. Not from the sun. Not from the scene.

From her.

Kita had said “if you ever feel like you’re vanishing, just look at me.”

Hitori hadn’t answered then.

But now, standing quietly in the sun, she knew the truth,

She hadn’t vanished.

Something about her had been seen. And the worst part—the best part—was that she wanted it to happen again. Forever, even.

-

Hitori couldn’t sleep.

She’d been in bed since ten-thirty. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Her phone resting face down on the nightstand like it was something dangerous.

She had done everything she usually did to unwind. Took a shower, put on her softest oversized tee, drank half a cup of lukewarm barley tea, and laid on her side with her pillow folded just right.

But none of it worked.

Because every time she blinked, her body remembered the feeling of the rooftop beneath her sneakers.

And her mind played the scene again.

Not the scripted one.

The real one.

The moment Kita had spoken those words—not written, not planned,

“You don’t have to say anything.”

And the way she looked at Hitori when she said it.

That part—that part—wouldn’t leave.

Because that wasn’t Kanade looking at Mizuki.

That was Kita looking at her.

And Hitori… hadn’t known how much she’d wanted to be seen until it had already happened.

The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:17 a.m.

She turned her head into the pillow with a quiet groan. The bedsheets were twisted at her waist, and her legs felt too warm despite the air conditioning.

She should stop thinking.

She knew that.

But her hands kept twitching—remembering that moment her fingers had grazed Kita’s sleeve. The light, accidental touch she hadn’t meant to do. The moment she didn’t pull away.

And then—worse—how Kita hadn’t moved either.

There hadn’t been a flinch. No polite retreat. Just stillness. Acceptance. As if that contact had been welcome. As if it had meant something.

As if she hadn’t been acting.

Hitori reached for her phone on instinct. Face still half-pressed into her pillow.

She just wanted to check the weather for tomorrow.

That was her excuse, anyway.

But as soon as she turned the screen on, she saw it:

Kita Ikuyo [12:53 AM]:
[Are you still awake?]

Her heart slammed into her ribs like it had been waiting for the permission to panic.

She stared at the message for six full seconds before she managed to breathe again.

Hitori [1:20 AM]:
[Yes... You too?]

The reply came almost instantly.

Kita Ikuyo [1:21 AM]:
[Couldn’t sleep. Still thinking about the scene.]

Hitori rolled onto her back, phone balanced over her face now, fingers tight against the edges.

Her thumb hovered.

Hitori [1:21 AM]:
[Me too. It felt different. In a good way. Just… hard to explain.]

For a while, there was no reply.

She watched the “typing…” bubble appear, vanish, then appear again.

Finally,

Kita Ikuyo [1:24 AM]:
[I didn’t want to stop filming after that take.
It felt like we were just starting to say something.]

Hitori’s throat closed.

It was so direct. So open.

She clutched the phone tighter and hesitated before answering.

What was she supposed to say to something like that?

How was she supposed to explain that her chest still felt too full, that her body still remembered the warmth, the almost-touch, the exact softness of Kita’s voice in that unguarded second?

She swallowed and typed slowly.

Hitori [1:26 AM]:
[It felt like we weren’t just acting anymore.
I… didn’t mind that... I liked it.]

She sent it before she could overthink.

This time, Kita took longer to reply. Almost two minutes.

Hitori lay still in the dark, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly, heart pounding loud enough to be a metronome.

Kita Ikuyo [1:28 AM]:
[Good.
Because I don’t think I want to fake any of this with you.
Even the small things. (I liked it too)]

Hitori’s breath caught.

She read the message three times, chest rising slowly with each one.

Not fake.

Even the small things.

She liked it too.

What was this?

What were they starting?

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t romantic—not exactly.

It was something else.

A shift.

Not in the script.
Not on camera.

Just in them.

She typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed again. Backspaced.

In the end, she settled on,

Hitori [1:32 AM]:
[I don’t know what this is yet.
But I’m glad you’re in it with me.]

Kita didn’t answer immediately.

And Hitori didn’t need her to.

She placed the phone gently on her chest, eyes soft, pulse still wild. And for the first time all night, she let her muscles relax.

Sleep didn’t come right away.

But the quiet did.

And it carried her somewhere warm.

-

Filming didn’t slow down.

If anything, it picked up—with new location setups, dusk-to-night scenes, costume fittings, early calls that blurred into late-wraps. The entire crew moved like clockwork, lighting techs rotating gels, second ADs shouting call times, someone always double-checking script notes with half a rice ball in one hand.

In the chaos of it all, there wasn’t time for big moments between Hitori and Kita.

But there were small ones.

And in those small ones, everything shifted again.

They weren’t filming together that morning—Kita was on the other side of the lot, shooting a flashback sequence. Hitori had wrapped her part early and was sitting under a shady tree behind the trailers with her bento box balanced on her lap, half-eaten.

She didn’t hear footsteps until someone sat beside her.

“I heard this spot’s got the best breeze,” Kita said, exhaling lightly as she settled in.

Hitori blinked. “You finished already?”

Kita shook her head. “Told the crew I’d catch up. I needed some air.”

Her chopsticks fumbled slightly when she added, without looking over:

“I was hoping you’d still be here.”

Hitori’s heart stuttered.

Kita didn’t say anything else. She just opened her own lunch—a small container of rice and simmered vegetables—and ate quietly beside her.

They didn’t talk.

But they didn’t move apart either.

And when Kita offered her a piece of simmered pumpkin from her own lunch without a word—just holding it out gently on a pair of chopsticks like it was the most normal thing in the world—Hitori opened her mouth and accepted it.

Just like that.

-

They were shooting an early-morning cafe scene on location, and the whole crew was sluggish from lack of sleep.

Hitori was wrapped in a coat between takes, sipping water, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Kita approached from behind and quietly draped her own coat over Hitori’s legs.

“Yours is too thin,” she said, kneeling slightly to tug it closer around her. “You’ll catch a cold like this.”

Hitori stared at her.

Kita didn’t meet her gaze—she was focused on fixing the buttons.

And Hitori whispered, almost without thinking,

“You’re really warm.”

Kita’s hands stilled on the hem of the coat.

She looked up slowly, her face close. Their knees brushed.

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft.

“So are you.”

Neither of them moved for a while.

And when the AD called five minutes to reset, they pulled apart gently, almost reluctantly, the coat still around Hitori’s lap.

The sunset scene had taken longer than expected. A cloud bank kept rolling in from the west, and they had to pause between takes for lighting adjustments.

By the time they wrapped, the sky was the color of cold persimmons, and the crew was rushing to pack up before it got too dark.

Hitori stood by herself near the sea wall, brushing wind from her hair, her thoughts scattered across the uneven rhythm of waves and footsteps behind her.

She felt Kita before she heard her.

Not loudly. Just there.

Kita stepped up beside her, not saying anything at first. Her arms folded gently, her expression unreadable.

“Sometimes I forget what’s scripted and what’s not with you.”

Hitori looked over.

“I do too,” she admitted, voice a little raw from the wind.

They stood there in the hush that followed—no smile, no dramatic swell, just presence.

And then Kita reached over and tugged a stray hair from Hitori’s cheek, slowly, like it was second nature.

They didn’t say anything directly, of course. But their glances lingered a second too long when the girls sat beside each other. The sound techs turned their heads when Hitori’s laugh—so rare, so quiet—bubbled up after something Kita whispered during a makeup touch-up.

Hanabusa, their director, didn’t comment.

But once, after a scene wrapped, she murmured behind her script binder,

“If that’s acting, I hope they never stop.”

That night, after the sixth day, Hitori sat on her hotel bed, hair damp from a shower, fingers curled around her phone.

No messages yet.

But she stared at the thread with Kita anyway.

The last thing sent was from the rooftop night, two days ago.

I don’t know what this is yet. But I’m glad you’re in it with me.

She hadn’t said anything more since then.
Neither had Kita.

And yet,

The small things kept happening.

And in those small things, something louder than words was unfolding.

It was nearly midnight when they crossed paths again.

Hitori had only gone downstairs for a drink.

The vending machines were just outside the hotel’s back entrance—a quiet little nook wrapped in potted plants and chain-link fencing. A few stray moths fluttered near the lights. The only sound was the low mechanical hum of the machines and the soft hiss of traffic from the main road.

She’d already pressed the button for barley tea when the glass door behind her slid open.

Kita stepped out, hoodie zipped up to her chin, hands tucked into her sleeves.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “You too?”

Hitori nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

They stood side by side in silence for a moment, the vending machine clunking out her drink. Kita tapped at the screen beside her but didn’t press anything.

“Did you already buy something?” Hitori asked softly.

Kita turned, sheepish. “No. I just… saw you through the glass.”

Hitori’s heart jumped. “Oh.”

Kita smiled a little. “I wasn’t sure if I should come out.”

“…Why?”

Kita looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

A pause.

Hitori held her tea with both hands. “You’re not interrupting.”

Something small and fragile passed between them. Not a breeze. Not a sound.

Just that.

“Wanna walk?” Kita asked, eyes still averted. “Just around the block. I think I need air more than tea.”

Hitori didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

They walked quietly through the side street.

No fans. No lights. No signs of the industry that usually wrapped itself around them like scaffolding.

Here, under the dim orange glow of old streetlamps, they weren’t actors.
Just two girls in sneakers and loose jackets.
Just footsteps and breath.

They reached a corner with a vending stall long closed for the night. Someone had planted a stubborn hydrangea bush beside it, and though it was slightly overgrown, the flowers were still pale and full in the moonlight.

They stopped there without speaking.

And for a moment, the silence turned heavy again.

But this time—it wasn’t empty.

It was expectant.

Kita leaned back against the fence and folded her arms. “Can I ask you something?”

Hitori looked at her, heart already answering yes.

But she just nodded.

Kita’s gaze didn’t lift. “What are we doing?”

The question was soft.

Not accusing. Not unsure. Just… open.

Like she wasn’t afraid of what it meant—only of pretending it wasn’t there.

Hitori stared at the edge of the vending stall beside her, feeling the chill of the aluminum siding against her fingertips.

“I don’t know,” she said. And it wasn’t evasive. It was honest. “I just… know that I keep noticing you. When you’re not around. And even more when you are.”

Kita turned to her, slowly.

Their eyes met.

“I think about what you’re going to say before you say it,” Hitori admitted, voice thinner now. “I listen to your scenes even when I’m not in them. I keep wondering if you feel the same things I do, but I’m scared to name them because once I name them, I can’t go back.”

Kita didn’t look away.

She took a slow step forward, quiet on the pavement.

Then another.

And when she stopped, she was close enough that Hitori could see the faint indentation of the drawstring from her hoodie pressing into the line of her neck.

Kita’s voice, when it came again, was barely more than breath.

“I don’t want to go back either.”

Hitori’s hands tightened around her drink.

“I keep thinking,” Kita continued, “how strange it is that I always used to say no to films like this. That I had rules. Limits. That I told myself I wasn’t open to… anything like this.”

She looked down, just briefly.

“And then you showed up.”

Silence again.

A soft car passed in the distance. A moth danced near the lamplight.

Hitori stepped forward now, just slightly, drawn without knowing she’d moved.

They stood like that—not touching, still.

But the distance between them was no longer safety.

It was invitation.

“You said you didn’t want to fake anything,” Hitori whispered. “Even the small things.”

“I meant it.”

“…What if this isn’t small anymore?”

Kita smiled. Not brightly. Not with her usual polish. But with something gentler. Something realer.

“Then I guess we’re not faking that either.”

Hitori could feel the gravity of it, of an intimacy that she could finally grasp, suspended just between them.

Later, as they walked back side by side in silence, the back of Kita’s hand brushed against hers.

Once.

Then again.

And that time, neither of them moved away.

-

Chapter Text

It was a rare thing, a full day off.

Not a weather delay and not a half-day wrap. A real break in the schedule. The director had insisted—everyone was running too hot, she said, too tight in the shoulders, the seams. They needed air, rest, and silence.

“Reset the rhythm,” she’d muttered to the assistant director as she marked it on the call sheet. “Or they’ll burn out.”

Hitori didn’t know how to rest well.

Her body didn’t slow down easily. Her mind even less.

But when her phone buzzed just past 9:00 a.m., and she saw Kita’s name blinking on screen, everything stilled in a strange, focused way.

Kita [9:03 AM]:
Want to get away for a few hours?

No emojis. No context.

Just that.

Hitori stared at it.

Hitori [9:05 AM]:
Yes.

They didn’t go far.

Just a coastal walking path on the far side of town—lined with low stone walls and rusted bike racks, the sea flickering past wild grass and flowering shrubs. A hidden place. Not unknown, but unremarkable enough that no one followed them. No fans and no stares.

Just a few old couples walking slowly. A cyclist passing now and then.

And them.

Kita wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, her hair down for once—straight with a few subtle waves and slightly wind-tousled. Hitori had pulled on a hoodie and mask. They looked like two normal girls trying not to be noticed.

They succeeded.

After twenty minutes of walking, they settled on a bench facing the water. The air smelled like salt and dried seaweed. There was a vending machine behind them. They each bought canned coffee and sat with the sun warming their knees.

No one said anything at first.

But Hitori liked that about Kita.

The way she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence, only when she wanted to.

After a while of silence,

“I... I keep thinking someone’s going to recognize you,” Hitori murmured.

Kita smiled faintly, one hand shielding her eyes. “People recognize Kita Ikuyo. Not this version. Not when I wear a hat and don’t smile.”

“Y-your smile’s pretty noticeable,” Hitori said before she could think better of it.

Kita turned her head slightly, curious. “Noticed it, have you?”

Hitori looked down at her can.

“…Just a little.”

Kita leaned back, letting her head rest against the bench rail.

The breeze tugged at the ends of her sleeves.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” she said after a while. “Not just the film. This, hanging out and being out here.”

Hitori nodded, gaze fixed on the sea and fighting the small urge to look at the view beside her. “...Me too.”

A gull cried overhead. The sun caught on the water in thin streaks, like spilled glass.

“Feels easier,” Kita added. “When we’re not pretending to be anyone else.”

That line sat between them for a beat.

Then Hitori whispered, “Are—um... are we pretending now?”

Kita turned.

Her sunglasses slid slightly down her nose, and Hitori saw her eyes—warm, unguarded.

“No,” she said. “Not anymore.”

They wandered for a while after that.

Found a narrow garden path tucked between two shrines. Bought fried fish cakes from a stand and ate them under a tree. Sat on the seawall while the tide rolled in.

And through it all, they never talked about the scene. Or the rooftop. Or the night before.

They didn’t talk about them.

But they moved closer. Naturally and slowly.

Kita stood beside her without leaving space. Hitori didn’t flinch when their arms brushed. Once, she swore she felt Kita watching her while she sipped her drink—and when she turned, their eyes met and stayed.

Nothing was said.

But nothing had to be.

It was the kind of day where the closeness was quiet yet chosen.

Where the line they were trying not to cross had already been stepped over, slowly, gently, one barefoot moment at a time.

And the only thing left now was not to run from it.

Later, as they headed back toward the station to return to the hotel, Kita walked a little slower than usual.

Just before they reached the final crossing, she said,

“If we keep doing this…”

Hitori looked over.

“…It’ll be harder to go back to just being scene partners.”

A pause.

Then, Hitori’s voice, low...

“I don’t think we’re going back.”

Kita glanced at her.

And her smile, small yet so achingly gentle, was the answer Hitori didn’t know she needed.

-

Filming resumed with a sharpness.

After a full day off, everyone returned sharper, brighter, more alert. The crew moved faster. Lighting was cleaner. Dialogue was tighter. Even the extras hit their marks with unnerving precision.

And yet, Hitori felt off-balance.

Not in a bad way.
Just… tuned too finely.

Every glance felt weightier. Every spoken word seemed to echo.

And then the call sheet landed in her hand.

Scene 38
Interior: Mizuki’s Apartment.
Time: Early Evening.
Action: Mizuki breaks down. Kanade comes over. They don’t speak much. Kanade pulls her into a hug—quiet, desperate, unshakable. Mizuki doesn’t resist. Doesn’t pull back. For once, she lets herself be held.

Hitori read it twice.

Her fingers curled slightly around the paper.

The scene was only a few paragraphs long.

But it said everything she’d been trying not to say.

She could already feel it. That strange, invisible tension twisting through the air between them, not discomfort, not anxiety. Just magnitude.

They weren’t strangers to working close.

But this scene—this hug—was a culmination. It came after thirty-seven scenes of emotional footwork. Of repressed longing, quiet concern, shared breath, and too-close moments. Their characters had earned this moment.

And yet they weren’t sure they had.

Not the characters—no. Them. Whatever it is they have between them.

They shot in a mock apartment built inside the warehouse lot—soft evening lighting already rigged to spill golden light over the couch. The props were minimal: a half-empty glass of water, a cardigan left on the floor, and Mizuki’s journal closed on the coffee table.

The intimacy wasn’t in the setting.

It was in the quiet.

“You don’t speak until the last ten seconds,” Hanabusa-sensei reminded them. “The silence is the dialogue. Let it live on your faces. Let the contact mean something.”

Kita nodded, pulling her sleeves over her wrists as she paced.

Hitori kept her arms folded.

On the second take, something shifted.

Hitori sat on the edge of the couch, posture closed, shoulders hunched.

Her hands trembled slightly—Mizuki’s quiet collapse.

Kita entered wordlessly, closed the door behind her, took off her shoes, walked to the couch, and stood behind her.

And waited.

Exactly as scripted.

Then, slowly, Kita sat beside her.

Not too close, just close enough.

The silence stretched.

Mizuki’s hands trembled harder, and Kanade moved.

No dramatic gesture and no sudden sweep.

Just… a gentle slide forward. Her arm wrapping around Mizuki’s shoulder. The other pulling her in.

And Hitori—

For a half-second, she was acting.

And then she wasn’t.

Because when Kita’s arms circled her fully, when her hand settled gently behind Hitori’s head, fingertips brushing her neck, something broke.

Not out loud.

Inside.

Her breath caught.

Not from the script.
Not from the blocking.

From Kita.

From the warmth.

From the impossibly steady rhythm of her breathing against Hitori’s temple.

She felt every part of her awareness narrow down to that hold.

To how it felt to be wrapped in someone who wasn’t trying to fix her. Who just stayed.

Her arms moved—slow, instinctive. She curled into the hug, her hands grasping the back of Kita’s shirt.

And she let herself be held.

Not Mizuki.
Not for the camera.

Hitori.

The director let the silence run for eight extra seconds after the scene was technically finished.

When she finally called cut, no one spoke right away.

“…Keep that,” Hanabusa murmured. “Exactly that. That was real.”

And Hitori, still in Kita’s arms, realized,

Yes.

It was.

They didn’t let go right away.

Even after the scene ended.

Even after the crew started moving around them.

They stayed still, arms loosely around each other, as if neither wanted to be the first to step back into the world where things were pretend.

Eventually, Kita whispered against her ear,

“You okay?”

Hitori nodded slowly.

But she didn’t let go yet, and neither did Kita.

The dressing room was quiet.

Not silent—there were muffled sounds from the hallway, light chatter between stylists, the soft shuffle of garment bags being zipped and unzipped.

But around them, it was quiet.

Kita sat in front of the mirror, still wearing Kanade’s button-down shirt. Her makeup was smudged slightly at the edges, not enough to break the illusion on camera, but enough that she looked… tired.

Hitori had just returned from wardrobe, now back in her own clothes. A navy hoodie. Hair still damp at the ends from the stylist lightly misting it earlier. She hovered near the bench, unsure of whether to sit down or leave.

Kita met her eyes in the mirror.

And didn’t look away.

The moment stretched between them.

Not hostile, not tense.

Just bare. Vulnerable.

Like neither of them had stepped out of character completely.

Or maybe—like the characters had never been that far from the truth.

Hitori dropped her bag gently onto the counter, the zipper barely making a sound. Then she sat beside her—just one seat over. Enough space to breathe, but not enough to hide.

Kita didn’t speak.

Her gaze lingered on Hitori’s hands, her collarbone, and her face. Then back to the mirror, where their reflections sat shoulder to shoulder in awkward quiet.

The overhead lights made everything too bright.

Artificial.

Too seen.

Hitori shifted slightly. “Do you… want to go somewhere?”

Kita turned to her. “Now?”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep anyway.”

A soft smile ghosted across Kita’s lips.

“Okay.”

They didn’t go far.

Just a small side garden behind the production office. It was tucked between two concrete walls and a low maintenance shed—clearly not meant for anyone to linger. But someone had set up a wooden bench there, surrounded by potted mint and shy marigolds.

It was dim.

Private.

And quiet enough that you could hear yourself think.

They sat down, a little stiff at first. Hands folded in their laps. Legs crossed toward each other, but not touching. The breeze carried the faintest scent of wet earth and shampoo.

Kita was the first to break the silence.

Her voice was low and careful.

“Was that scene hard for you?”

Hitori hesitated.

“Not—It's—...Not because of the acting.”

Kita nodded like she understood. Maybe she did.

“I didn’t mean to hold you that long,” she murmured, barely audible.

“I didn’t want you to let go,” Hitori said. Then blinked, realized what she said, and stared down at her hands.

Kita didn’t flinch.

She leaned back slowly, exhaling.

“…So it’s not just me.”

Hitori looked at her.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s really not.”

There was a silence so full it felt like a third person sitting with them.

Kita shifted slightly on the bench, her thigh brushing against Hitori’s. She didn’t move it away. Neither did Hitori.

“I think I’ve been trying to stay behind the lines,” Kita said softly. “Professionalism. Distance. Rules I set before you ever walked into the room. That's how I should be...”

Hitori breathed in through her nose, careful and slow. “I didn’t know I could… feel this way with someone I met in a script.”

Kita turned her head fully then.

Her voice cracked a little—not with sadness, just with vulnerability.

“I meant what I said the other night. I don’t want to fake anything with you.”

Hitori met her eyes. “Not even this?”

A small laugh. Soft and tired.

“Especially not this.”

She reached out, slowly, deliberately.

Her fingers brushed against Hitori’s hand.

Hitori didn’t move away.

Their fingers didn’t lace. Not yet.

But the contact held.

A light pressure, like a question left on the table.

Like something beginning.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Hitori said quietly. “But it feels like the right direction.”

Kita’s eyes searched her face.

And when she smiled this time, it was the kind that reached all the way in.

“No script could’ve written this,” she said.

And Hitori—careful, breath held—leaned just enough that their shoulders touched.

Not by accident.
Not as characters.

They didn’t talk about it the next morning.

Not the bench, not the touch, and not the way their fingers had lingered longer than friends or scene partners or anything they’d ever been before.

But everything felt talked about.

In the way Kita didn’t sit across the dressing room anymore—but beside her.

In the way Hitori no longer looked at the floor when she greeted her—but straight into her eyes.

It wasn’t obvious.

Not to most.

But for the few who knew them well enough—or simply paid close enough attention—there was something new in the air.

A tension.

Not of friction, but of gravity.

Like two celestial bodies suddenly aware of their orbits.

It started with the lighting tech.

He was crouched behind the camera cart while they ran lines for a new café scene. Hitori caught him glancing at them twice. Not leering. Just… curious. Too focused.

Then the boom operator subtly tilted the mic between them during a break, when they weren’t speaking—just looking. Hitori didn’t notice at first, but Kita did. Her lips twitched. Not irritation. Just awareness.

Later, one of the younger costume assistants leaned in while fixing Kita’s cuff and asked, too casually, “You two hanging out after shoots now?”

Kita just smiled and said, “We work well together.”

And that was the end of that.

But it wasn’t the end of noticing.

Their next scene was a quiet walk along a neighborhood riverbank. Mizuki and Kanade, post-confession, still unsure, still healing. The script called for hands almost brushing, but not quite touching.

It was the kind of scene that required restraint. Emotional proximity without payoff.

But on the second take, Hitori felt Kita’s pinky graze hers—just enough to be felt, just enough to jolt.

Not a mistake.

Not quite intentional.

But when the director called cut, Hanabusa narrowed her eyes over her binder and said, “Interesting. Let’s keep that version.”

Kita said nothing.

But when they returned to their marks, her hands were just a little closer again.

And Hitori didn’t move away.

On the third day after the bench, they filmed a late-night kitchen scene.

It was nothing romantic.

Just the two characters making tea. Mizuki, freshly home from work. Kanade, reading from a newspaper. They’d share glances, pass cups, and sit in the hush of a dim apartment.

But something about the scene felt more intimate than it read on paper.

More genuine.

Because now, when Kita handed her the mug, their fingers touched on purpose.

And Hitori’s eyes lingered on her for a breath too long.

The camera caught it.

So did the editor, watching from the monitors.

So did the second assistant director, who muttered to himself, “They’re either terrifyingly good or terrifyingly obvious.”

No one said anything out loud.

But the noticing grew.

After wrap that evening, Hitori lingered in the makeup room longer than usual.

She wiped her face slowly, avoided the mirror, and atched Kita from the reflection instead—still in her Kanade blazer, chatting softly with the stylist about dinner options, her voice light and tired and golden.

And for a second, Hitori wondered what it would look like to anyone watching.

What they looked like now.

Were they obvious?

Were they careful?

Were they… foolish?

She rubbed her temples and stood.

As she exited the room, Kita caught up beside her. No one else around.

Her voice was quiet.

“Do you want to come by? I made soup last night. There’s enough for two.”

It sounded casual.

But it really wasn’t.

Hitori nodded.

And neither of them smiled in that moment.

They didn’t need to, because they knew.

And soon, it seemed, everyone else would too.

Kita’s hotel apartment was nicer and more humble than Hitori expected.

Not large, not flashy—just clean, warm-toned, and comfortable. A lived-in kind of neat, with a few personal touches scattered across the space, a travel-sized diffuser on the counter, a mug with a chipped lip, a folded scarf draped over the arm of the couch. A single house slipper kicked under the coffee table like it had been forgotten mid-step.

“You can sit wherever,” Kita said, already padding toward the kitchenette in socks. “It’s just miso, nothing fancy.”

Hitori stepped in slowly, her bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t sit right away.

The room smelled like dashi and ginger and something faintly sweet—homey, in a quiet way. Her eyes landed on the table. Two bowls already set, steam curling up softly from their surfaces.

“You really made this last night?” she asked, still standing.

Kita glanced back over her shoulder. “I like cooking, it slows my brain down.”

Hitori hummed. “I didn’t know that about you...”

Kita smiled without turning fully around. “There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”

And there it was.

Soft, direct, and barely veiled.

Hitori’s chest tightened in that unnameable way again.

She set her bag down by the door and walked in.

They sat across from each other.

The soup was rich—thicker than usual, with bits of soft tofu, wakame, and thin slices of daikon that practically melted on her tongue.

They ate quietly at first. No music and no TV. Just the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic, the occasional exhale as the steam warmed their faces.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t push. That waited.

Kita spoke first, eventually.

“I used to think keeping people out was the only way to protect what I loved about acting.”

Hitori looked up.

Kita was still staring at her soup, stirring it gently, not eating.

“I thought if I blurred the line between me and my roles, I’d lose both. That being close to someone like this—while working—would mess everything up.”

She took a small bite, chewed slowly.

“But then we had that rooftop scene. And the hug. And every take since has felt… different. Not harder. Just closer to something true.. Something I might actually mean.”

Hitori’s hand tightened around her spoon.

“I feel it too,” she whispered.

Kita looked up.

Finally.

And there it was again—that pull in Hitori’s stomach. The weight behind the eyes. The truth in the quiet.

“I keep thinking about how we’re going to get through the next hundred days,” Hitori said, voice a little hoarse. “Pretending to almost kiss. Pretending to want each other. When I—”

She stopped herself.

Kita set her chopsticks down gently.

“You’re not pretending?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug.

It was curious, hopeful, and almost vulnerable.

Hitori didn’t look away.

“I don’t think I ever was.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was relieved.

Kita reached out slowly, hand resting on the edge of the table between them.

She didn’t reach for Hitori, just offered.

And Hitori, without hesitation, slid her fingers forward until their hands touched.

They didn’t lace. Not yet.

Just warm skin. No characters, no blocking, and no second take.

Just them.

Kita’s thumb brushed her knuckles once.

“I’m scared this could ruin the film.”

Hitori nodded, quiet. “...Me too.”

“But—I’m more scared of pretending it’s not happening.”

Hitori breathed out, slow.

Their hands stayed right there, unmoving.

Anchored.

“I don’t want to go through this movie pretending not to fall for you,” Kita whispered.

And Hitori—heart loud and full—answered just as softly,

“Then...Then let’s stop pretending.”

Later, when they watched an old movie on Kita’s laptop curled up on the same side of the couch, and Hitori dozed off against her shoulder, Kita didn’t move her.

She stayed.

Let the weight of her rest there.

And thought—for the first time in weeks—not about how to avoid crossing a line.

But about how she’d already stepped across it, barefoot and sure.

And she didn’t want to go back.

They didn’t talk about it on set.

They didn’t hold hands behind the lighting rig, or sneak glances at the monitors, or disappear into dressing rooms with flushed faces and unspoken promises.

They didn’t need to.

Because the change—whatever it was—moved with them.

It was there in the way Kita would glance at Hitori just before a take, a subtle flick of the eyes like a silent cue—I’m here. Are you with me?

And it was in the way Hitori would always nod, almost imperceptibly, and soften.

Then the cameras would roll—and the world would shift.

Scene 47: After the Rain.

Kanade finds Mizuki soaked outside her apartment after a fight with her mother. She says nothing. Just takes Mizuki’s hand, wordless, and pulls her into the warmth.

The first time they ran it, Hanabusa-sensei called cut after thirty seconds.

“Too careful,” she said, flipping a page. “You’re not strangers anymore. Don’t act like you’re still afraid of each other.”

Neither of them spoke.

They reset.

Second take.

This time, Hitori let the exhaustion drip from her fingers, let it settle in her shoulders. When Kita reached out, she didn’t hesitate. Their hands met—not perfectly choreographed, just tight.

And when Kita pulled her in, Hitori breathed in the scent of her collar, the damp fabric, the warmth underneath. Her face pressed lightly into Kita’s neck. She exhaled against her skin without thinking.

The camera caught everything.

No one said cut for a long time.

The crew didn’t comment out loud.

But there were signs.

A staff quietly gave up his chair whenever he saw them sitting together during breaks.

One of the younger actors, watching playback near the monitor, turned to another and whispered, “Are they actually…?”

To which the other replied, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s working.”

Even Hanabusa didn’t interrupt as often anymore. She’d let takes run longer. Let the silences stretch. Let the camera drink in the way Hitori’s gaze lingered on Kita when she wasn’t meant to speak.

“They’re building something in the pauses,” she murmured once, flipping through her notes. “Let them.”

Scene 53: The First Touch.

This one wasn’t written as romantic.

Just a scene where Kanade helps Mizuki fix her bandage. A small kitchen moment. Light background music. Muffled radio.

The script said:

Kanade leans in. Fingers brush Mizuki’s wrist. They lock eyes. Something lingers. Then it passes.

That’s all.

But on set, when Hitori sat down at the table, and Kita kneeled in front of her, pulling the first aid kit from the drawer—they both felt it.

Something lingered longer than it was supposed to.

When Kita’s fingers grazed her skin, Hitori stilled.

Not like Mizuki would.

Like Hitori.

The hush that followed wasn’t performance.

And the crew watched in near-breathless quiet.

No one flinched when Kita’s thumb hesitated over the edge of the gauze, when Hitori swallowed softly, and when their eyes met—and held—for one moment too long.

No dramatic music. No lighting shift.

Just weight.

And the director whispered, “Print it.”

After wrap that night, they sat together again.

Same bench outside the trailers. No words yet. Just a thermos of barley tea passed between them and a bag of snacks they barely touched.

The sun was long down. The hum of the generator buzzed behind them.

Kita finally said, “Do you think they know?”

Hitori took a sip from the thermos and wiped the condensation from her fingers.

“…I think they feel it.”

Kita looked at her sideways. “Do you?”

A beat passed.

And then—quietly, honestly—

“I feel it most when you’re not saying anything.”

Kita smiled faintly. “Then I haven't been saying a lot lately.”

Hitori glanced over, heart warm and bruised.

She didn’t say me too.

She didn’t have to.

-

The scene was printed on the call sheet in bold:

Scene 58 – Rooftop at Dusk
Mizuki walks away. Kanade grabs her hand. She turns back. They step closer.
Almost a kiss—almost. Breath shared. Then the moment breaks.
Not yet.

The words not yet had been scribbled by the director herself.

They all knew what it meant.

This wasn’t a climax.

This was the tremor before.

The moment of gravity before the fall.

But Hitori still felt it settle deep in her ribs the moment she saw the page.

The rooftop set was smaller than it looked on camera.

Just a wide stretch of concrete, some railing, a few fake city lights blinking in the far distance. The crew had set it for a late summer sunset—dim orange overcast, tinted blues in the shadows, and a soft wind created by industrial fans off-screen.

They were both mic’d. The lights were rigged. The cameras set.

No rehearsal.

Hanabusa-sensei had asked for it in the moment.

“This scene lives in the unknown,” she said. “No blocking. No marks. Just find it.”

Kita stood across from Hitori, arms folded.

Her expression unreadable, but her hands—slightly curled, at her sides—told the truth.

She was tense.

So was Hitori.

But she wasn’t nervous about the cameras.

She was nervous about her.

About what it would mean to stand that close. To breathe her in, to almost kiss—only almost.

Would it feel like pretending?

Or would it feel like restraint?

Would it be worse to lose herself in the moment, or to realize she already had?

They started the scene.

Just a quiet voice, “Rolling.”

Hitori walked forward, just as the script said.

Mizuki’s spine stiff with anger. Pain and resignation.

Kanade’s voice behind her, “Please don’t go.”

Hitori stopped.

She didn’t turn around.

Just let her shoulders rise and fall once—twice.

Then came the sound of footsteps.

Soft and measured.

And then—the hand.

Kita’s.

Her fingers closed around Hitori’s wrist, gentle but firm, and something inside Hitori snapped taut.

She turned, breath shaky.

And suddenly—

She was close.

Kita stood just a few inches away. The wind brushed her hair into her face. The sky behind her was streaked with fake orange. The city lights blinked behind her like a heartbeat.

They didn’t speak.

They weren’t supposed to, anyway

They just looked.

And stepped closer.

Breath to breath. Eyes to eyes.There was no mark for distance, but they found the same space anyway.

Kita’s hand lifted, almost touched Hitori’s jaw.

Almost.

Then fell.

And Hitori leaned in. Barely.

And Kita—

She breathed in, sharp and quiet.

Their foreheads brushed.

Their noses ghosted past each other, their lips stopped just short, and there it was.

That breath.

Shared and unspent.

A pause so long it felt like a confession.

Then Hitori exhaled.

Pulled away, barely.

Kanade’s line, “I’m not ready.”

Mizuki’s line, “I’m not sure you mean that.”

Cut.

Silence.

The crew didn’t say anything.

No one needed to.

The director only whispered, “That was real. Again.”

And both of them stood still.

Kita’s hand still at her side, like it hadn’t let go.

Hitori’s breath still trembling in her chest.

They didn’t look at each other.

Not until the crew moved again and not until the moment passed.

But when they did—finally—It wasn’t with smiles, it was with knowing.

And something that tasted too much like longing. Yearning, even.

Because pretending not to want it was one thing. Pretending they hadn’t almost crossed that line in real life, off camera?

Impossible.

The next scene was supposed to be easy.

A low-stakes domestic one. Kanade and Mizuki cooking dinner in a shared space for the first time—awkward, new, tentative.

There were a few scripted moments of fumbling, some soft laughter, a quiet line near the end,

“You don’t have to try so hard.”
“Maybe I want to.”

It was the kind of scene meant to relax the rhythm of the movie, to give the characters and the audience a breath, and to show softness in the day-to-day.

But for Hitori, there was nothing easy about it.

Because everything had changed.

Since the rooftop. That almost kiss.

Since that breath.

Since that moment where she’d almost closed the space between their lips and discovered, in one terrifying second, just how real it had all become.

They moved around each other in the set kitchen like they had rehearsed.

Kita peeled vegetables at the counter, her sleeves pushed up, and her hair tied loosely at the back of her neck. Hitori chopped herbs in silence.

The lighting was soft. Evening and cozy.

The scene was three minutes long.

But every time they looked at each other—really looked—something slowed.

Their timing.

Their breathing.

Their ability to remember where the lines ended and where they began.

“Is it boiling?” Kita asked, glancing at the pot.

“Not yet,” Hitori answered, voice low.

Kita turned back around, but the corners of her mouth quirked—like she’d heard something else in her tone.

A beat later, the camera moved in.

Closer.

Tracking.

A long shot over their shoulders as they moved in tandem.

Hitori passed a spoon to Kita. Their fingers brushed again.

Again.

Again.

Not scripted.

But not corrected.

Because the camera caught it and stayed. They would be foolish not to keep it.

Later, during a cut, one of the crew members near the monitor muttered under her breath, “They’re definitely doing something. You seriously can’t fake that kind of tension.”

Another chimed in, “Didn’t they just almost kiss for the last scene?”

Hanabusa, who had been quietly watching through it all, didn’t turn from the screen.

She only responded, “They’re in love and taking baby steps. That’s what you’re seeing.”

No one argued.

No one dared.

The final moment of the scene came.

Hitori set the last plate on the table.

Kita looked up from the stew.

Their eyes met.

The line came, “You don’t have to try so hard.”

Kita delivered it, tone indicative of something secretive.

Like something only she knew the weight of.

And Hitori—who had practiced her line dozens of times—found her voice thinner than expected.

“Maybe I want to.”

Not playful.
Not teasing.

The moment held.

Their eyes didn’t move.

The camera operator had to whisper to the director, “Are we still rolling?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let them stay there.”

And they did.

Until the silence became a statement, until cut was called, and until Hitori finally let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

When they stepped away from the set that day, the gap between them felt smaller than ever.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like they were walking along the same narrow ledge—side by side—just waiting for the moment when one of them would turn and say,

“We both know now that this is more.”

But not yet. Not quite.They weren’t ready yet.

Not while the lights were still on.

Not while the whole set was watching.

But the truth was loud in the quiet.

They weren’t acting anymore.

Not really.

It was late by the time they made it back to Hitori’s place.

Not that it was much of a place—just a small corporate-leased apartment for the duration of filming. Minimal, quiet, and almost monastic, save for the guitar leaning against the wall, the folded laundry on the corner of the couch, and the mug with a chipped rim by the sink (Kita noticed that and smiled, recognizing the same imperfection from her own).

They didn’t talk much on the way over.

The cab ride had been quiet. Their hands hadn’t touched, but their knees did. Neither moved away.

Now, inside, with the door shut behind them, Hitori let out a long, tired breath.

“Tea?” she asked softly.

“Please,” Kita said.

They sat on the floor.

The couch was right there, but somehow the carpet between the coffee table and television felt more real—closer to the ground, to the truth of things. Two mugs between them. A flickering lamp on. No music. Just the low hum of the fridge.

Hitori leaned back on her palms, legs half-folded.

Kita sat cross-legged, fingers curled around her cup.

They sipped for a while, still quiet. Still circling the edge of the thing.

Until Kita broke it.

“We still haven’t said what this is,” she said, not accusing, not afraid. Just… laying the thought out between them.

Hitori nodded, slowly. “I know.”

Kita looked down into her tea. “Is it because we don’t know… or because we already do?”

That made Hitori still.

Her fingers gripped the edge of her cushion.

“I think I’ve known for a while,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“And?”

“I was scared naming it would change it.”

Kita met her eyes then.

And there was no smile this time.

Just a kind of softness that almost hurt to look at.

“I don’t want to lose it,” Kita said.

“You won’t,”

Hitori sat forward, setting her mug down. Her voice steadied as she continued.

“But I do think we need to ask, what are we doing? Is this something we’re just... holding onto quietly until the movie wraps? Or is it—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Because that was the part that terrified her. The forever of it.

But Kita understood.

She always did.

She set her own mug aside and shifted slightly closer, enough that their knees brushed.

“If you asked me what this is,” she said gently, “I’d say it’s real. And growing. And... complicated.”

Hitori’s breath hitched. “But worth it?”

Kita nodded. “Yes. If you want it to be.”

A silence settled.

The kind where futures are quietly considered.

Then Hitori asked, almost childlike in its vulnerability,
“Are we dating?”

Kita blinked, then smiled in that way that made Hitori feel ten degrees warmer.

“I think we’re something more careful than that right now,” she said. “But I also think I’d like to be. When we’re ready.”

“When filming’s done?”

“Maybe even before. If we can finally be brave enough.”

Hitori’s eyes dropped to Kita’s hand, resting lightly on the floor between them.

She reached out and touched her fingers.

Their hands stayed just barely there.

Like they were still tiptoeing toward the name of it.

“But it’s not temporary?” Hitori asked, barely breathing.

“No,” Kita said. “I don’t want it to be.”

Her fingers curled into Hitori’s, slow. Sure.

“I don’t want to be something you only feel on set,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” Hitori said. “You’re... something I carry home.”

A beat.

Then Kita leaned forward, just slightly, her voice even softer.

“And if we name it... will you still want it?”

Hitori swallowed. Her heart thundered.

“I want it more.”

Their hands held.

Just the truth of closeness. Of two people quietly choosing each other in the hush of after-midnight, when everything is bare and nothing can be performed.

It didn’t have a name.

Not yet.

But it was theirs.

And for now, that was enough.

-

The rehearsal room smelled faintly of dust and wood varnish.

No crew, no cameras. Just Hitori, Kita, a water dispenser humming in the corner, and a printed script lying between them on the floor.

The space wasn’t big—just four bare walls, a cracked mirror across one side, and the echo of the hallway beyond the door. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel larger than it was.

The only thing louder than the room was Hitori’s heartbeat.

She sat cross-legged on the mat. Kita lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, her script half-folded in her hand. The light above them flickered once. Neither of them moved.

They’d been here for an hour already.

Lines had been read. Blocking discussed. Everything professional. Everything fine.

But they hadn’t talked about the kiss yet.

Not directly.

Not really.

It lingered—like steam in the air after a shower.

Hitori glanced at Kita from the corner of her eye.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

Kita looked up from her script, lips curving slightly. “So are you.”

“...I’m thinking.”

“About tomorrow?”

Hitori hesitated, then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Kita sat up slowly, drawing her knees in, arms resting on top of them. She exhaled through her nose, like she’d been waiting for Hitori to say it first.

“The scene’s cleanly written,” she said.

“Nothing gratuitous. It’s well-timed. Elegant.”

Hitori nodded. “I know...I think it’s a beautiful moment.”

Another pause.

Kita leaned back on her hands. “But it’s still our first kiss.”

The words dropped gently between them.

Not heavy.
Just true. A fact.

Hitori’s breath caught—not because she hadn’t thought it, but because hearing Kita say it out loud made it more real than she was ready for.

She gave a small laugh, soft, and shaky.

“I’ve kissed a co-actor on camera before,” she said. “But not like this.”

“Not with someone you’re—...” Kita stopped, the sentence unfinished.

But it didn’t have to be.

Hitori looked at her. “No. Not like this...”

Kita picked at a loose thread on her pant leg. “I keep thinking about how we’re going to have to do it more than once. For coverage. Angles. Emotional beats.”

“And timing,” Hitori added. “And lighting. And probably five or six takes minimum.”

Kita smiled, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “And we’re going to have to do it... carefully.”

“Professionally.”

“Convincingly.”

Then, very softly—

“Honestly.”

That one landed different.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a quiet truth.

Hitori shifted closer, just enough that their knees touched lightly. She wasn’t sure who moved first. It didn’t matter.

“Do you want to walk it?” she asked.

Kita blinked. “Now?”

“No kiss. Just... movement. Blocking. We can—we can pause wherever.”

Kita nodded. “Okay.”

They stood. The script left on the floor.

The mirror caught their reflections—side by side, facing one another. The lighting was soft, uneven. A bit of Kita’s hair had fallen over her cheek.

They started slow.

Hitori took a step forward—Mizuki, unsure.

Kita mirrored—Kanade, stilling her with a hand near her elbow. No contact yet. Just breath between them.

Then the scripted moment:

She steps into her. She hesitates. They both lean in. A kiss, slow, vulnerable, quiet.

They didn’t go that far.

They stopped right at the lean.

Their eyes met, noses almost brushing.

Then Hitori whispered, “This is where the line is.”

Kita nodded. “Right before it.”

Hitori’s voice shook a little. “I-It—It feels so close.”

Kita’s hand came up, not touching, just hovering near her cheek.

“It is.”

Their breath shared the same small space.

And then, together, they pulled back.

Grounded and steady.

But their hearts were louder than before.

They sat again. Closer this time. Not quite touching, but no longer far apart.

Kita glanced down, fingers brushing over her knee.

“Do you think it’ll be different?” she asked.

Hitori tilted her head. “From what?”

“From every other kiss we’ve ever faked.”

Another pause.

Hitori smiled faintly.

“Not if we’re faking it.”

And then—finally—Kita laughed.

Quietly. The tension broke a little.

They sat in the softness of it.

And Kita said,

“I don’t think I’ll be pretending.”

“Me neither,” Hitori whispered.

The rehearsal ended with no kiss.

Just two hearts, closer than they’d ever been, sitting in the quiet knowledge that tomorrow, they’d cross a line they’d already stepped over in everything but name.

And this time, it would be seen.

But it wouldn’t be performance.

It would be the truth, written in light and breath and motion.

Tomorrow, they’d kiss.

Tonight, they understood.

Kita’s apartment was dim when they stepped inside—shoes off, the faint scent of cedarwood diffuser in the air, the glow of the hallway light just enough to blur the edges of the world.

They hadn’t said much since the rehearsal.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because there was too much.

Because the nearness had weight now, and every brush of their sleeves, every glance, every small pause in conversation was filling with a kind of urgency neither of them wanted to push, but neither of them could keep holding.

Hitori set her bag by the door and toed off her shoes slowly, heart beating too loud in the hush.

Kita moved into the kitchen, started making tea by habit. No music. No distractions. Just the quiet sound of water boiling and two people trying not to think about how close almost had felt earlier.

She didn’t even notice she was holding her breath until she heard Hitori speak from behind her, softly.

“I don’t want our first kiss to be tomorrow.”

Kita’s hands stilled.

The kettle whined, steam curled.

Then she turned, slowly.

There was no smile on Hitori’s face.

No performance. No script.

Kita stepped closer, wordless.

She didn’t, "ask are you sure?"

She didn’t say "me too."

She just looked at her—really looked at her—like she had been trying not to for days, for weeks.

And Hitori—standing there in the entryway, under the soft light of the kitchen, nervous but rooted—breathed in.

“I want it to be ours first.”

And something in Kita broke open, gentle and bright.

She crossed the space between them in two quiet steps.

Not rushed.

Not hungry.

Just inevitable.

Her hand rose, hovering just beside Hitori’s cheek.

“Can I?” she whispered.

And Hitori, barely a nod—just her eyes closing, the slightest tilt forward.

And then—

Their lips met.

Soft.

Tentative.

So unbearably tender it made Hitori tremble.

There was no applause.

No cameras.

No lights.

Just the hush of breath, the warmth of fingers curling lightly against her jaw, the way Kita kissed like she was afraid of hurting the moment.

And Hitori leaned into it—not deepening, not chasing.

Just being.

Finally.

Quietly.

With her. Kita.

The kiss broke after a few seconds.

Not because they wanted it to.

Because it had to, to breathe, to feel it.

They didn’t step apart.

Their foreheads rested together. Their hands still touching.

“I’m glad,” Kita whispered.

“Me too.”

They stood there, not counting time.

Not naming anything still.

Because it didn’t need a name.

Not tonight.

Only this.

-

The soundstage had never felt so loud.

It wasn’t the noise, exactly. Not the voices of the crew, not the distant thrum of lights powering on, not the clatter of set dressers moving props into place.

It was the hum of knowing.

The cameras were positioned already. The rooftop set—reconstructed indoors for lighting control—looked eerily identical to the one they’d rehearsed on. Fake city skyline, pastel skies rendered by LED panels, a soft simulated breeze just enough to move the actors’ hair.

Hitori stood just off-camera, half in wardrobe, half in herself.

Someone was powdering her face. Another person adjusted her collar.

She barely heard them.

Because Kita was only a few meters away, standing by the monitor, hair already styled, her lips a little pinker than usual, probably from lip balm. She wasn’t speaking either. Just watching, her arms crossed, the script folded in her hand but unread.

They hadn’t spoken yet this morning—not about last night, not about the kiss. They didn’t need to.

But Hitori felt it, still.

The softness of it.

The ay her lips tingled just remembering it.

Like something she was wearing under her clothes.

Hanabusa clapped her hands once.

“Scene Seventy-One. Kiss scene. Let’s lock it in.”

The crew shifted. Cameras clicked into place.

An assistant director ran through blocking once more. “You’ll start on this mark here, Hitori. Kita, you step forward on her line, then the kiss—pause three seconds before break. We hold for one clean shot. We'll do tight coverage after the wide.”

Kita gave a polite nod. “Understood.”

Hitori’s stomach twisted—not from nerves, but from pressure. Not from the kiss itself.

From everything around it.

This was going to be their first kiss… again.

Except now, under lights.

With angles, with calls of Action, and with a version of themselves they had to perform even though the real thing already existed.

Could they do that?

Could they let it mean less than it did last night?

Or would the camera catch all of it—them—and print it forever?

The slate clacked.

“Scene 71. Take 1.”

Speed.

Rolling.

A beat of silence.

“Action.”

Mizuki stood at the edge of the rooftop, her back to the city, her heart in her throat.

Kanade stepped forward, slow.

No words yet.

Just motion.

Hitori turned as scripted, her eyes catching Kita’s just as the soft wind machines kicked in. She didn’t have to fake the way her breath hitched.

Kita stepped into her space.

And then—

The line, soft. Careful.

“I don’t want to be uncertain anymore.”

And then Mizuki—Hitori—whispered back,

“Then stop hesitating.”

And there it was.

The kiss.

They leaned in.

And the world slowed.

Their lips met—not too soft, not too deep.

Held, as instructed.

Three seconds.

One.

Two.

But on the third—neither of them moved.

They lingered.

A beat longer than scripted.

A breath too long.

The director didn’t yell cut.

The cameras kept rolling.

And Hitori felt it—Kita, trembling slightly, a hand at her jaw now, unscripted.

The kiss broke gently.

Their eyes stayed locked.

And for a moment, everything felt seen.

Printed.

Captured.

“Cut.”

The word came, low. Not sharp.

Just stunned.

Hanabusa stood behind the monitors, arms folded across her chest, face unreadable.

No one moved.

Then someone from lighting said, very quietly, “That... that was not just acting again, was it?”

No one answered.

But no one denied it.

They retouched makeup in silence, did a second take, and then close-ups.

Angles.

Versions.

But none of it felt the same as the first.

Because that first one—that was them.

Not Kanade and Mizuki.

Not characters.

Just Kita and Hitori, caught under the lights, falling a little deeper in front of everyone.

Later, after wrap, in the far end of the lot where the trailers stood and the last bits of golden hour curled low across the pavement, Hitori found her.

Kita was leaning against the wall, her eyes turned toward the sky that wasn’t a backdrop anymore.

“You okay?” Hitori asked.

Kita turned.

And smiled—soft, almost tired, but full.

“Yeah. I just keep thinking about how many times people are going to watch that.”

Hitori stepped closer. “And?”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind if they see.”

She looked at her, steady now.

“I just wanted us to have it first.”

And Hitori—heart warm, raw, honest—reached out.

Laced their fingers.

And whispered, “We did.”