A Different Script

The World Moves Without Me

Aqua turned his head slightly. The man was older, his eyes kind but sharp — the kind that saw through lies the way Aqua once did through scripts.

“How’s the surgery?” Aqua’s voice was still rough.

“Clean,” the doctor replied, glancing at his chart. “You’re healing better than expected. Lucky, considering the trauma you sustained.”

Aqua let the words hang in the air. Trauma. He wondered if the doctor meant his body or his mind.

“When can I leave?”

The doctor raised a brow.

“Most people ask when they can walk. You’re already asking when you can disappear.”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“You don’t like staying still,” the man corrected, adjusting the IV tube. “You’ve been faking sleep for days. I didn’t say anything, figured you had your reasons.”

Aqua stayed silent.

“You’ll need at least another week,” the doctor went on. “You’re stable, but you’re not ready. Not physically, not… otherwise.”

“Otherwise?”

“You stare at the ceiling for hours, Hoshino. That’s not rest — that’s running.”

Aqua’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

The doctor gave a small laugh.

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

When the man left, the silence returned — heavier than before. Aqua stared at the ceiling again, the thin lines of sunlight cutting across his vision. He reached for his phone.

Missed messages blinked on screen — Ruby, Akane, Kana. News updates.

One headline caught his eye.

“New drama The Ghost of Us resumes production — Lalalai actors return after unexpected delay.”

He tapped it open.
The article explained everything he already knew but didn’t want to admit. The series had been delayed after his “incident.” He was supposed to play the lead — a quiet man haunted by guilt and ghosts of his past. Ironic, in a cruel kind of way.

Because he was the ghost now.

The production had restarted two weeks late, with Kana and Akane already rehearsing. They said they’d wait for him to recover before resuming full shooting. In the meantime, they were working with body doubles, testing lighting, and filming everything that didn’t require him.

He watched a short behind-the-scenes clip. Kana on set, hair tied back, focused as ever. Akane smiling faintly while speaking with the director. The crew laughing, working, living.

The world was still spinning — even without him in it.

He turned off the phone. For a long time, he just stared at his reflection in the black screen — the boy who had killed a man for revenge, who wore peace like a borrowed costume.

He didn’t look like someone who’d won.

“Good,” he murmured under his breath, eyes closing slowly. “Keep moving. All of you.”

His voice barely made it past his lips.

“I’ll catch up when I can.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a promise — or a lie.

Either way, the world outside his hospital room didn’t stop to ask.

The soundstage at Lalalai Productions buzzed faintly — lights being tested, cameras being repositioned, script pages fluttering under the low hum of the air conditioning.