A Different Script

The World Moves Without Me

Akane hesitated, then reached out, placing a hand lightly on Kana’s arm.

“You’re not the only one worried.”

The small touch grounded them both for a moment.

The director’s voice echoed across the room again, pulling them back to the present.

“Alright, ladies — rehearsal from the top. Let’s keep the timing tight!”

Kana took her mark, script trembling slightly in her grip.
Akane stood opposite her, poised, calm.
But both their eyes kept drifting — toward the empty space where Aqua should’ve stood.

The scene began.
Lines were spoken. Cues followed.
But it didn’t feel right.

Because sometimes, when you’ve worked beside someone long enough, their absence feels louder than their voice.

Kana stumbled over a line — something she’d never done before. The director sighed quietly, rubbing his temples.

“Let’s take five,” he said.

Kana muttered an apology, stepping off set. Akane followed, saying nothing at first.

They sat near the props table, the room’s low chatter fading behind them.

Kana leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “He’s probably hating this,” she said with a shaky laugh. “Missing a whole two weeks of work? He’d go insane.”

Akane smiled faintly. “That sounds like him.”

“You think he’ll come back soon?”

Akane hesitated. “If I know Aqua… he’ll come back the second he can stand without falling.”

“Idiot,” Kana murmured, her voice softening. “He never knows when to stop.”

“Neither do you,” Akane replied gently.

For a second, they both smiled. Small, tired smiles — the kind that hide more than they show.

Then the stage lights flickered back on. The next cue was called.

Both girls stood, adjusting their scripts, their emotions tucked neatly away again.

The world was still turning.
The cameras still rolled.
And somewhere, behind the hospital walls, the boy they were both thinking about lay in silence — listening to a world that hadn’t stopped waiting for him.
____________________________________

The lights dimmed one by one until the studio was half in shadow.
The director’s voice echoed from across the set, giving final notes, though no one was really listening anymore. Crew members stretched, packed their things, and spoke in low tones about dinner or deadlines. But under every casual word, the same name still floated between them — Aqua.

Kana slumped onto one of the stage benches, shoulders heavy from the hours of pretending.
Akane stayed standing, her eyes fixed on the empty corner where the camera used to follow him.

“That’s the last take for today,” someone called.

Kana groaned softly. “Finally.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I swear, it’s weird acting like he’s there when he’s not.”

Akane glanced at her. “You did fine.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe not fine. But… believable enough.”

Kana scoffed and sank further into her seat. “That’s just cruel encouragement.”

Akane smiled faintly. “I learned from the best.”