I blocked the friend. I was golden. No more
chest pains, no more agonizing over a phantom lover. Work was easier. My theater company started rehearsals for a new play, and I was
cast opposite a rising star, Julian. They’d written the play just for him.
But when I read the script, the hairs on my neck stood up. It was a tragic love story. Two lovers from opposing sides, testing and teasing each other, their defenses crumbling. Their love, hidden beneath lies, blurred the lines between passion and betrayal. In the climax, the man
shoots the woman. With an empty gun. She slashes his throat with a knife. He dies with a smile. “Next lifetime,” he says, “you’ll take me
home…”
A cold dread gripped me, the familiar grief
く
threatening to drown me.
“Is the main character… Garrett?” I whispered.
Julian walked in, backlit, his silhouette glowing.
The crew chattered around him, scripts in hand.
He nodded politely, then sat beside me.
“Garrett’s a good name. Let’s use it,” he said.
His eyes, those captivating eyes, held my gaze
for a fleeting moment, and I felt a strange pull,
like he was meant for me.
He turned to the director, discussing the play,
until his assistant brought him tea. He placed a
cup in front of me without looking, as if it was
the most natural thing to do. I stared at his
profile, so different from Garrett’s, lost in
thought.
Then Julian’s voice, a little deeper than before,
brought me back. “Let’s run the scene… if Ms.
Nancy is ready.” He turned to me, his gaze
<
questioning.
- uy.
ཕཕཪ་
It was the final, intimate scene, the director
wanted to see our chemistry. No matter how
good the play, it wouldn’t work without a
believable connection between the leads. I
couldn’t refuse.
But doing a love scene on our first meeting was
awkward. The director tactfully cleared the
room. Julian asked professionally if I was
comfortable with the level of intimacy. I assured
him I was. He nodded and began to remove his
jacket.
He wore a black shirt that hugged his lean
frame. Two buttons were undone, revealing his
pale skin against the dark fabric. He looked up
as he unbuttoned another.
His intensity startled me. He was already in
character, the polite, distant gentleman gone,
replaced by the wild, desperate man from the
<
play. He stalked towards me, eyes flashing with
anger and despair, then resignation.
He spun me around, pressed me against the
wall, and frisked me from behind. Finding no
weapon, he bit my neck. I turned, my cheek
brushing his lips. He closed his eyes and kissed
me, a desperate, messy kiss. My hair, my
forehead, my nose, then finally my mouth.
I gasped, a sob escaping. “Garrett, are you
going to do it?”
In the dream, this was where he pressed the
gun to my waist. Tears streamed down my face.
Julian pulled back, gazing at me intently, his thumb gently wiping away my tears. “Screw destiny,” he muttered, tossing his prop gun into
a nearby bathtub. It sank with a splash. He grinned, a breathtakingly beautiful smile, then kissed me again, a fierce, consuming kiss, a
kiss that felt like forever.
<
The director forgot to call cut. Only when Julian abruptly pulled away, cursing under his breath, did the director snap out of it. “Amazing! That was incredible!… But, Mr. Julian, why did you change the script? You were supposed to shoot
her, then she kills you.”
Julian, back to his composed self, handed me a
tissue and buttoned his shirt. “That ending,” he
said, his voice hoarse, “is depressing.”
I froze, staring at him. I’d felt the same
resentment, waking up in a cold sweat after the
dream.
He turned to me. “Don’t you agree, Ms. Nancy?”
