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SHE WAS SURE she was hallucinating. After a week of moping around her apartment with Spiers as her only company, the face in front of her almost made her pass out from the mere sight of it.
Bob was stood at her door, cheeks flushed a bright red and she could see the sweat shining on his tan skin. Amara blinked, trying to make sure she was seeing things clear.
"Bob?" Her voice cracked at the end, the little usage of it lately taking its toll. The man smiled at her, looking rather breathless stood there. "What are you —"
He quickly interrupted before she could complete her question, holding a hand up to silence her. Amara glared at him through her lashes, a flash of annoyance running through her.
"Please, just let me get this out," he was practically begging with his dark eyes, and Amara only hesitated for a second before she opened her door wider, allowing him to enter her home. Shooting her a small smile, Bob cleared his throat. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" She scoffed before she could stop it. Though she didn't stop there, instead crossing her arms over her chest and finally — finally, letting her own feelings pour out. "Sorry isn't going to cut it, Bob. Do you have any idea how stupid and foolish you made me feel? God, I was going to tell you how I felt, I was finally going to let myself admit that I like you as more than a friend — and you, you rejected me!"
It was scary, Amara realised with a frown. It was actually pretty terrifying, not only to admit feelings, but to admit them to an actor. In that moment, Bob looked so crestfallen, brown eyes gazing down at her with sadness, pink lips forming a slight pout, and just that broken expression on his face that he wore; Amara had no idea how he felt, with actors, they could act how they feel. It was a part of their job — her own job — and she had no idea how to feel about that.
