Work Text:
An actor’s life is strange. It’s beautiful—but it traps you.
You see your face everywhere, but no one really knows who you are. People call you by your name, either falling in love or hating your character. You're watched constantly: how you treat your friends, the staff, the crew—especially the fans. And slowly, you begin to forget yourself, because you’ve been pretending to be someone else for so long.
You perform joy when you're exhausted. Romance when your heart is breaking. Grief on cue, even though you buried your own years ago. You live for the moment the director calls, “Cut,” but sometimes even that word feels cruel. Because off-camera, there’s no script.
No clean take. No retake.
"Thank you for your hard work," Tay said, wai-ed to everyone on set. The final scene was done. The series was wrapped.
"Good work, Tay," the director said, patting his shoulder. Tay smiled politely. "Thank you for your help, sir. I'm sorry for the mistakes I made."
"Thank you, everyone," he said again, his lips forming a smile, but his eyes betrayed the exhaustion he tried to hide. After thanking the rest of the crew, Tay turned to his manager. "I’ll clean up at home," he said softly, then left.
He let out a deep sigh as he sank into the back seat of the car. His eyes closed for a moment, seeking rest where there was none.
It was already 2 a.m., and yet here he was—still working, still running.
He hadn’t hung out with his friends in over a month. For the past six months, his life had been filled with endless work: photoshoots, filming, interviews, social media content, promotional events.
Even his mother had started to complain about how packed his schedule had become.
When the car stopped, Tay thanked the driver and stepped into the silence of his home.
The air inside was still, the kind of stillness that holds unspoken stories. He closed the door behind him with a sigh, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders.
"I'm home," he said, softly—to no one in particular.
He flicked on the lights. The room lit up, but somehow still felt dim.
This place had never felt lonely before. But tonight, even his own voice echoed too loudly in the empty space.
He poured himself a glass of water and stood by the sink as he drank, listening as the rain began to fall.
Soft. Steady.
Like footsteps walking away.
His nights always looked the same: water, a quick shower, scrolling through social media, maybe a call with Junior or someone else, a book he never finished, and a sleep that never came.
Insomnia had become an old friend. Familiar. Unwelcome. Always there.
Lying in bed, he picked up his phone and opened social media. He searched his name through the hashtag, #Tay. Scrolling. Liking. Nodding. Then something caught his attention,
A post with the hashtag #WeMissTayNew, alongside #Tay and #New.
It had been two months since Tay and New publicly announced they were drifting apart—choosing to focus on developing their individual careers. They said being an “agency couple” was too limiting. They said they were still friends.
No hard feelings.
At least, that’s what the public believed.
Maybe that’s even what New believed.
But to Tay, it was heartbreak.
A silent, clean break that left no room for hope. It was the clearest sign yet that the thing he’d quietly yearned for—him and New being something more—was never going to happen.
Because Tay was in love with New.
Had been, for what felt like forever.
He loved New the way people breathe—without thinking, without needing a reason.
Even now, after everything, he still love him.
Tay and New were bonded in a way few could understand.
No one knew him the way New did.
They’d shared years of laughter, late-night calls, long flights, and silent comforts that never made it to the screen.
“If they want to see me, they want to see you,” Tay once told New, when he was too sick to show up and asked him to go in his place.
He believed that.
Maybe he still did.
Sometimes, New made him believe they were more than just friends.
The way he looked at Tay when no one was watching.
The way he listened.
The way he remembered the smallest things.
Tay clung to those moments like leaves refusing to fall.
But seasons always changed.
The fans missed them.
The fans wanted them back.
They called it chemistry. Bond. Legacy.
Tay stared at the ceiling. The darkness felt heavier tonight, like it had learned how to breathe—and now it was sitting on his chest. His eyes dropped to the glowing screen in his hand. The words stared back at him like ghosts. He didn’t cry. His body was too tired. His tears too rehearsed. Too performed, too used.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, Tay was fading into himself, quietly and completely.
He lay there, his thoughts louder than any silence.
Is this really the end, New? The question had echoed in his mind since the announcement, playing on loop like a final scene that refused to fade to black.
New had been more than a co-star.
He had been part of Tay’s dream.
Part of his purpose.
Part of the version of life that made everything else bearable.
And now he had to let him go.
Let go of the moments that never made it to the screen.
Let go of the late-night talks, the quiet glances, the almosts.
Let go of the boy who felt like home, and the dream that gave his own reflection meaning.
It had been six months since the public statement—eight, if you counted from the night New first brought “drifting apart,” up like it was something casual.
Reversible.
Tay hadn't been able to let go. Not then. Not now.
He knew he would have to. Eventually.
Eventually, he would move on.
Eventually, he would let the ache dull into memory.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he stayed in the space between holding on and breaking down.
Between pretending and remembering.
Between who he was… and who he was when New still beside him like maybe it meant something.