Falling Between Frames

Chapter Four: Unscripted

I don't sleep that night.

I try — I toss, I bury myself in blankets, I count backwards from a hundred — but every time I close my eyes, I feel it again.

His hands. His lips. His body, pressed so warm and certain against mine. And his voice.

"Tell me to stop, and I will." his voice repeats in my head over and over again.

But I didn't. I didn't stop him.
And now I can't stop myself from reliving it. The air in my tiny sublet bedroom feels thick, unbreathable. Every time I close my eyes, I see him.

The way he looked at me. The way his voice dropped to that warm rasp when he asked me if I wanted him to stop. How I didn't. How I wanted it. Wanted him. And now... I feel like I've been set on fire and abandoned to burn alone.

The next morning, the sky is bruised grey, like it knows something I don't. The cold settles under my jacket as I step out into the courtyard of the studio lot, clutching my thermos like it can anchor me.

When I get to set, I don't see him right away — just the usual chaos. The production tent buzzes with half-finished sentences and last-minute script updates. A new assistant is crying over spilled fake blood. The cinematographer is arguing about lens choices with the director. Crew rushes by with scripts, props, wardrobe bags. There's always an energy here — chaotic and frantic, but today it hums louder. Like something's coming.

The movie — Burning Bright — is an art-house fever dream wrapped in a coming-of-age thriller. Half of it takes place in a haunted summer camp, the other half inside the lead character's fractured memories. It's beautiful. Twisted. Full of longing and guilt and things left unsaid.

I bury myself in my tasks. I dodge questions, coffee orders, and casual jokes. I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. If I stay busy, maybe last night will feel less real. Maybe I can pretend it was just a scene we never meant to shoot.

But it only takes until midday for the illusion to break.

I'm walking out of the props trailer when I hear a laugh — soft, feminine, effortless. My steps slow without meaning to. I turn toward the catering tent just in time to see him.

Timothée.

And then... I see her.

She's with him.

Tall, model-elegant, and wearing vintage denim like it was tailored for her alone. Her laugh is soft, melodic. Familiar.

She's standing beside him. Her hand rests lightly on his chest, like she's done it a thousand times. She leans into him, says something in French, and he laughs — low and familiar. Her lips brush his cheek like she owns the spot.

She probably does.

She's stunning. Model-tall. Long honey-blonde hair in a claw clip. Vintage Levi's, a crop top under a leather jacket that looks like it cost more than my rent. She looks like she belongs next to him. Like she expects to be.

He wraps an arm around her waist..

The sounds of clinking plates and shouting PAs blur into static. I'm frozen. Watching. Swallowing the taste of bile and disbelief rising in my throat.

I don't realize I'm staring until someone mutters next to me, "Damn. She flew in early."

I glance sideways. One of the camera assistants shrugs. "Guess they're back on."

My chest twists. Back on?

I make it two steps toward the equipment tent before someone intercepts me — Gerry, one of the older lighting guys with a kind smile and bad knees.