The cameras weren't rolling for real yet—just a simple test of light and angles—but Alex already felt the air shift.
The script rested loosely in his hand, but his focus wasn't on the lines. It was on the small movements around him.
Leo adjusting the reflector board near the window, sleeves rolled up, wrist catching the morning light.
His hair kept falling into his eyes, and every few seconds he brushed it away with a distracted flick of his fingers.
"Alright, Alex, let's walk through this scene," Mr. Tanaka said, tone brisk but patient. "We're checking lighting and spacing."
Alex nodded and stepped into position.
The camera lens glinted back like an eye that saw too much.
He inhaled slowly, dust and pinewood settling in his lungs.
He should've been used to this—lights, movement, quiet pressure—but something tugged inside him, subtle and disorienting.
Every time Leo moved, his peripheral vision betrayed him. His gaze flicked over, caught, retreated.
