Off Script

Chapter 1 - The Script That Shouldn't Have Been

(Maya's POV)

Happy endings are scams.

I've believed that since I was nineteen, the year my first relationship ended with the kind of silence na mas malakas pa kaysa kahit anong sigawan. One minute you're dreaming about forever, the next—wala. It's just you and your empty phone screen, waiting for a message that will never come.

That's why when people ask why most of my screenplays don't have the typical "I love you" under the rain or the grand airport chase scene, I say: Because real life isn't like that. Real life is awkward silences, wrong timing, and heartbreaks you don't see coming.

Kaya noong nareceive ko yung email na nagsasabing:

"Congratulations, your script has been selected for the Indie Film Fest."

I actually laughed. Out loud.

I blinked at my laptop screen, leaned in closer, then read it again. Once. Twice. Five times. Pero andun pa rin. Clear as day.

"Wait... what?" I whispered, gripping my coffee mug tighter.

My script? That script? The one I wrote at three in the morning out of spite? The one that basically said "love is overrated, people are better off single"?

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

"Seriously? Of all my scripts, ito pa?"

It felt like a cosmic joke. The ones I poured my heart into—the carefully structured love stories with balanced dialogue and "authentic" kilig—lahat rejected. But the one I wrote like a sarcastic diary entry? Yun pa yung napili.

My coffee had gone cold by the time I reached the end of the email. That's when I saw the kicker:

Writer must be present on set as dialogue consultant.

I dropped my head on the table with a groan.

"Great. Not only will my anti-romance rant become a movie, I actually have to watch actors pretend to fall in love with my words."

I closed my laptop, shoved my mug away, and muttered:
"Congrats, Maya. Bills first, dignity later."

⸻

Two weeks later

If chaos had a smell, it would be the set of an indie film.

The air was thick with paint fumes from half-finished props, the bitterness of instant coffee, and the sweat of production assistants running everywhere with clipboards. Someone yelled "Sound check!" on one end while another barked "Where's wardrobe?" from the other.

And then there was me—awkwardly standing in the corner, clutching my battered notebook like a life vest.

I didn't belong here. I knew it. Everyone knew it.

A girl with a headset rushed past me, nearly knocking the notebook from my hands. "Sorry, ma'am!" she called, not even slowing down.

I sighed. Ma'am. Great. As if I needed another reminder that I wasn't twenty anymore, wide-eyed and hopeful.

I adjusted my oversized denim jacket and tried to blend into the background. Maybe if I looked invisible enough, they'd forget I existed.

But of course, fate hates me.

Because that was the exact moment she walked in.

Elena Reyes.

Even without knowing her name, you'd recognize her. She was the kind of woman who carried her own spotlight. Every step she took had gravity, every glance commanded attention. Her hair framed her face in perfect waves, her skin glowed under the harsh set lights, and her smile—God, that smile—was practiced but powerful.