A Different Script

The World Moves Without Me

But beneath all that movement, something heavier lingered.
Something unsaid.

Rumors had a way of living longer than facts.

They slithered between coffee cups and whispered hallways.
Between the makeup room mirrors and the cafeteria lines.

“Did you hear what really happened to him?”
“They said it wasn’t an accident.”
“Some people think he tried to—”
“No way. He’s not that type.”

Every version was worse than the last.
No one knew the truth — not really.

The official statement said ‘an on-set incident’.
The tabloids said ‘a violent altercation’.
The crew said nothing at all.

But the silence itself became its own rumor.

The assistant director clapped his hands.

“Alright, everyone! Scene twelve run-through in fifteen! Let’s stay focused — Mr. Hoshino will join us when he’s recovered, so let’s make sure everything’s ready by then.”

The crew nodded, though the words when he’s recovered hung in the air like smoke — hopeful, but uncertain.

The set for The Ghost of Us stood at the center of the studio, drenched in soft gray lighting. The props were still half-packed from the pause in production. It looked more like a memory than a set.

Then the door opened.

Kana walked in first, script in one hand, her other clutching a half-empty iced coffee. Her usual stride — confident, fast — felt a little heavier today.
Behind her, Akane entered quietly, her posture composed, expression unreadable as always.

They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t need to.
Everyone in the room felt the shift.

Kana’s eyes darted toward Aqua’s empty mark on set — the tape still there, faded and curling at the edges. His name written in black ink.
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked away.

Akane caught the glance.

“They still haven’t removed it,” she said softly.

“They shouldn’t,” Kana replied. Her tone was sharper than she meant. “He’s coming back.”

Akane gave a faint nod. “I know.”

The silence between them was fragile — stretched thin by two weeks of waiting, worrying, and pretending to focus.

Kana flipped open her script, eyes skimming lines she already knew by heart.

“They keep saying it was just an accident,” she murmured, voice low. “But no one believes that.”

Akane didn’t look up. “They don’t need to know the truth.”

“And we do?”

That made Akane pause.

“Not all of it,” she said quietly. “Just enough to know he’s alive.”

Kana exhaled through her nose, frustrated.

“Alive,” she repeated. “That’s not the same as okay.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the lights filled the space again.

A crew member passed by, whispering something about reshoots, and Kana’s jaw tightened. She turned, eyes flashing.

“Maybe if people stopped talking about him like he’s some headline—”

“Kana.”

Akane’s voice was soft but firm — enough to stop her mid-sentence.

Kana looked down. “Sorry.”