Off-Script || ENJOYJUNE

Chapter 22: Unscripted

Berlin’s weather turned colder by the day. Rain tapped the windows more often, and wind crept into the corners of June’s hotel suite. She had started wearing two pairs of socks to bed and drinking chamomile tea every night. The studio provided heaters on set, but it was not warmth she missed.

The project was reaching its emotional peak. Scenes were more complex, dialogue heavier, stakes higher. Liora’s heartbreak mirrored her own, and June found it harder to pull away from the role when the cameras stopped rolling. Each take felt like therapy she had not asked for, and sometimes, when the director yelled cut, her tears still lingered.

Enjoy’s letters were her anchor. Some were silly, filled with random sketches or funny stories about neighbors. Others read like poetry, quiet but powerful. She had started ending each one the same way.

Come home soon. I’ll be here.

June kept them folded in a velvet pouch in her purse. Between takes, she would pull one out, run her fingers over the ink, and feel less alone.

---

Back in Bangkok, Enjoy threw herself into a short film project. She was not in front of the camera this time. Instead, she helped write scenes and worked behind the lens. Her director told her she had a natural eye for moments, and she laughed because all she did was imagine what June would notice.

Their apartment stayed tidy. Sort of. June’s jackets still hung in the entryway. Her slippers sat untouched by the bed. Enjoy never moved them. She found comfort in those small signs of presence. Like June had never left.

Every night before sleeping, she read one of June’s letters again. She kept them in a wooden box beside the bed. And every morning, she wrote back. She included film photos she had developed, pressed flowers between the pages, once even a movie ticket stub from a show she went to alone.

---

One quiet night, June stood in front of her bathroom mirror, freshly showered, towel around her shoulders. She stared at her reflection for a long time. She barely recognized herself anymore. Her face looked thinner. Her eyes, sharper. The tiredness was etched in, but so was something else. Growth. Strength.

She picked up her phone and recorded a message.

"I saw this pigeon outside the bakery today. It kept pecking at a croissant someone dropped. And for some reason, I thought of you. Because you’re always hungry. And you’d probably name the pigeon and give it a backstory. I miss you so much it hurts sometimes. But today, I laughed. And it felt good. I wanted to share that."

She sent the audio file to Enjoy and waited. The reply came two minutes later.

"That pigeon’s name is Kartoon. He’s an aspiring baker who just can’t get a license because of species discrimination. I love you. Come home soon."

June laughed for the first time in days.

---

The next few letters were full of dreams. Things they planned to do when June returned. Drive to the beach. Rewatch their favorite drama series. Try the new restaurant in Ari. Talk about everything and nothing while lying on the floor until sunrise.

Day Thirty-Seven:

We are halfway through a hundred things I want to do with you. I made a list. It includes dancing in the kitchen, even if there’s no music. Wearing matching pajamas we will pretend to hate. Reading books to each other until one of us falls asleep. I miss the way you look at me when I say something dumb but sincere. You make me feel like I am worth the world. I want to make you feel that way too.

Reply to Day Thirty-Seven:

I will wear the pajamas. I will dance. I will let you read to me even when you pick sad stories. I want all of it. And when you come home, I want to spend one whole day doing nothing except touching your face and memorizing it all over again.

---

One morning, June woke up to a knock on her door. A delivery. A small package wrapped in brown paper. No return address. She opened it carefully and found a frame. Inside it was a collage made of their old photo booth pictures, receipts from cafes, ticket stubs, and notes they had scribbled to each other.

She turned it over. A message was etched on the back.

This is everything we are. Everything we will be. Come back to it.

Her hands shook. She placed the frame beside her bed and stared at it for a long time.

Later that night, she sat at her desk and wrote a longer letter than usual.

Day Forty:

Today, I cried. Not because I was sad. But because I remembered how lucky I am. To have you. To be loved like this. I think about how far we’ve come, how we started with eye-rolls and awkward interviews, and now we’re here. Letters and memories and late-night audio files. You are my home. No matter where I go. No matter what city I wake up in. I carry you. I always carry you. I want more than words. I want mornings and nights. I want the in-between. I want you.