Off Script

Chapter 4 - Script Revisions and Unscripted Emotions

(Maya's POV)

I came to the studio early the next day, hoping—praying—that I'd avoid her. The universe, however, is a comedian.

"Elena's already inside," the production assistant whispered as I signed in.

Of course she was.

When I entered the rehearsal hall, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair tied in a messy bun, flipping through the latest version of my script like it was light reading.

"You know, Maya," she said without looking up, "your stage directions are ruthless. 'She collapses emotionally, yet still looks devastatingly beautiful under the spotlight'?"

I groaned. "That's a note for the lighting crew, not you."

She raised a brow. "Then why underline devastatingly?"

I snatched the script from her hands. "Because apparently, you need very specific instructions to stop smirking."

Her laughter echoed in the hall, rich and warm. It irritated me how much I secretly liked it.

⸻

Rehearsal that day was chaos. One actor forgot his lines, the sound system glitched, and the director nearly had a meltdown over prop placement. But the real disaster?

Elena decided to improvise.

"Maya," she called across the room, mid-scene, breaking character completely, "why is my character so in love with someone who clearly doesn't deserve her?"

Every head turned toward me. My pen froze mid-note.

"That's... not in the script," I stammered.

"I know." She shrugged. "But it's more interesting this way."

The director groaned, "Elena, stick to the lines."

She winked at me before continuing as if nothing had happened.

My pulse refused to slow down for the rest of the day.

⸻

Later, during a short break, I cornered her by the costume racks.

"What the hell was that?"

"What?" she asked innocently, sipping from a water bottle like she hadn't just upended my entire concentration.

"You can't just throw lines like that. This is a professional production."

She leaned closer, her voice low. "Relax, Maya. It got a reaction, didn't it?"

My throat went dry. "You're insufferable."

"And yet..." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "You're still standing here talking to me."

I hated that she was right.

⸻

That night, at home, I tried revising the script. Tried focusing on dialogue, blocking, stage cues. But every sentence blurred into her voice.

Finally, I slammed my laptop shut and muttered to the ceiling, "This is ridiculous."

My cat, uninterested in my existential spiral, jumped onto the bed and curled up by my side.

"Fine," I sighed. "Don't take my side."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

[Elena Reyes: Found your number. Don't be mad. Just wanted to say thanks for not killing me today.]

I stared at the screen, torn between deleting it and framing it.

A second message popped up.

[Also: You're kind of fun to mess with.]

I buried my face in a pillow and screamed.

Because the worst part?

I smiled.