Read The Line Between Us :: The Switch

I walk into the soundstage already annoyed at my own nervous system.

New day. Fresh call sheet. Same problem.

No matter how many times I repeat: “we are not thinking about him”, my heart is like, “cool story, have you considered replaying his voice in high definition instead…”

“Sometimes it feels like everything with you… means something.”

I sip my matcha harder than necessary.

“Nope,” I tell the cup as I pass a light rig. “No slow-burn nonsense today. We are calm. Professional. Unaffected…”

I push open the door.

“…maybe slightly affected,” I mutter.

The stage is humming. Crew members cross with coils of cable over their shoulders, the AD is calling out times, props are lined up on a folding table like soldiers waiting for orders.

And then he walks in.

He looks like trouble and warm comfort fused into one human, which should be illegal this early in the morning.

The room reacts instantly. Someone says “wah” under their breath. The stylist nearest the door actually straightens her back like she’s been caught slouching in front of royalty.

Jingyi takes off his sunglasses as he moves, folding them with one hand and hooking them at his collar. His eyes sweep the room… stop when they find me.

Of course they do.

He walks over. Not swaggering, not performing. Just… coming straight to me like that’s the most natural thing.

“Morning,” he says softly. “Sleep well?”

My brain scrambles. I knew this question was coming and I still wasn’t ready.

I search for something that sounds normal, “I… slept…”

He huffs a small laugh, eyes crinkling.

“That sounds accurate,” he says.

His mouth curves, that soft, crooked not-quite-smile that I am starting to recognize as the one that belongs only to me.

He looks like he wants to say more, then swallows it.

Then he moves away, the space he leaves behind buzzing faintly.

Professional composure: 67 percent and falling.
Heart: buffering.

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The director calls everyone to the center of the stage like a principal announcing something nobody is ready for.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands once, “today we’ll finish blocking the rooftop confrontation from episode nine… and start rehearsal for the close scene.”

People murmur. The lighting tech beside me perks up.

Close scene.

I don’t like the sound of that.

“What close scene,” I ask the AD under my breath. “Why close. How close.”

“You wrote it,” she whispers back. “You tell me.”

Ah. Right. There is that.

The director continues.

“We’re testing three versions,” he says, ticking them off on his fingers. “One with a hand hold, one with a forehead touch, and one… with a near kiss.”

The air changes.

I feel it. The crew feels it. My heart definitely feels it.

A near kiss. Chemistry test. Great.

I focus very hard on not looking at Jingyi.

Which, of course, means I immediately look at him.

He is standing on his mark across the set, script in hand. His posture is relaxed, but his jaw is a little tight. Like he is also remembering who wrote this.

Our eyes meet for half a second.

My stomach flips.

No. Absolutely not. We can not doing this.

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We sit at the small fold-out table, again, to go over the lines.

Which is unfortunate.

I open the script on my tablet and angle it so we can both see. He pulls his chair in. Our shoulders touch when we lean over the screen.

I pretend this is fine.

Our knees bump under the table. I pull back a little. The metal edge of the chair digs into my thigh. He shifts too, but the space is too small to fully escape.

We end up close enough that I can smell his cologne, warm and subtle, with something clean underneath it. It makes my brain feel like it has dropped frames.

“Here,” I say, tapping the top of the scene. “She’s on the rooftop again. He shows up. She tries to leave. He stops her.”

He nods, eyes on the screen, lashes thick in profile.

“And this line,” I point at the middle, “is where he admits it.”

Jingyi reads aloud, voice dropping into the character’s cadence.

“‘I didn’t hate being close to you,’” he says. “‘Sometimes…’”

He pauses, gaze flicking to me for a heartbeat.

“…‘Sometimes I like it.’”

The words come out low, quiet, almost rough.

He is not acting.

Heat rushes up my neck.

“That’s… the line,” I say, brilliant as ever.

His eyes linger on my face for a second, searching, like he’s trying to see if I heard him.

I definitely heard him.

He nods once, looks back at the script.

“I think this works,” he says. “We don’t need to soften it.”

“We could make it less… direct,” I suggest, even though my chest is still echoing.

“Do you want to,” he asks, voice calm.

I don’t know what he’s really asking.

“No,” I say quietly.

He looks satisfied. A tiny, private sort of pleased.

“Then we’ll keep it,” he says.

Our shoulders stay pressed together a little longer than strictly necessary.

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Rehearsal is supposed to be simple.

They mark the rooftop with tape on the floor. Camera A lines up on a dolly track. The wind machine sits idle in the corner like a large, judgmental fan.

“Okay,” the director says, “run through it once without emotion. Just hits, marks, beats. Save the feeling for later.”

Right.

Save the feeling.

They start.

So-ah is watching from the sideline, script hugged to her chest, expression neutral and alert.

Jingyi steps into the taped square. The stand-in playing the heroine for this rehearsal moves opposite him.

He reaches out, catches her wrist, pulls her close.

It looks… wrong.

Not technically. His form is perfect, the angle is right, the light catches them in a pretty halo. But something isn’t there.

The director frowns.

“Cut,” he calls. “Something feels off. Try again. More tension. Less… mannequin.”

They reset.

Again, the block is textbook. Again, it feels hollow.

He is trying, but his eyes are too flat, his body language too controlled. I recognize that version of him, the one that pulls back when something doesn’t fit.

The director rubs his temples.

“Let’s do something different,” he says finally. “Switch the perspective. Writer Yoon, stand where the camera will be. Jingyi, walk her through the beats, show her what you’re feeling so she can adjust the line if needed.”

That is not what I signed up for.

But everyone is looking at me now, so I set my tablet down and step into the taped rooftop.

Jingyi moves to stand in front of me.

“Just walk me through it,” I say. “No acting. Just technical.”

“Right,” he says.

The AD calls, “Rehearsal… action,” out of habit.

He reaches out and takes my wrist.

Gently. Carefully. His fingers wrap around the inside of it, warm and steady.

“This is where he stops her,” he murmurs, half to himself.

My pulse picks that exact moment to speed up, thudding against his skin.

He glances down, then up, eyes meeting mine.

I forget the next instruction I was going to give.

He steps closer, guiding me backward one small step at a time.

“The camera will be here,” he says quietly, over my shoulder. “So you turn your face… like this.”

His free hand lifts, hovering near my cheek. He doesn’t touch me, just traces the line of air beside my jaw to show the angle.

I can feel the ghost of his fingers anyway.

He moves behind me for the next part, so the director can see the spacing. His hand slides from my wrist to my elbow, then to my shoulder.

“Here he steadies her,” he says.

His palm rests against the curve of my shoulder blade.

His breath grazes the back of my neck.

I stop breathing entirely.

“Too close,” I say, a little strangled.

“Camera needs to see both faces,” the director calls from somewhere that does not currently feel real.

“We can cheat the distance,” I add quickly.

“We can,” Jingyi says. His voice is low, a hint of a smile in it. “Or we can be honest.”

I don’t respond to that.

We reach the final mark, the spot where the almost-kiss happens.

“From here,” the director says, “she tries to run again… but this time you don’t let her. You step in. One… two… close enough that if someone sneezed, you kiss by accident.”

Several PAs choke quietly.

We reset.

He stands in front of me again, hand still on my arm.

“Ready,” he asks softly.

No.

“Yes,” I say.

We run the beats.

I step back, as written. He catches my hand, fingers threading through mine.

Not a wrist grab. A hand hold.

It sends a jolt straight to my chest.

He pulls me in, not hard, just firm enough that there is no mistaking it. I step into his space.

Our bodies stop an inch apart.

Our noses… very nearly bump.

The world shrinks.

I can hear the silence behind the monitors. Even the wind machine seems to be holding its breath.

He looks down at me, eyes dark and steady.

“Don’t run this time,” he murmurs.

In character. Not in character. I can’t tell anymore.

My gaze drops to his mouth.

His hand tightens just slightly around mine.

My heartbeat is a drum solo again.

“Okay, okay,” the director says too loudly. “That’s enough. We have the spacing. Save the rest for the actual shoot. Don’t burn it out before we roll.”

The spell snaps.

We step back. Too fast. Too far.

I take a breath that feels like it’s been waiting for minutes.

Someone exhales loudly on the other side of the room. There are muffled laughs. Someone whispers, “I thought they were really going to…” then stops.

I focus on my hand. It is empty and suddenly cold.

“We should… put this in the notes,” I say, my voice not quite steady.

“Yeah,” he says.

His voice isn’t steady either.

Good.

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I escape to the hallway water cooler like it’s a confessional booth.

The plastic jug gurgles as I press the lever, filling a paper cup. I drink half in one go, trying to put out the fire in my chest.

Footsteps slow behind me.

Without turning, I already know.

He stops beside me, close enough that I can feel him without looking.

We stand there in silence, sharing stale hallway air and fluorescent lighting.

“The scene was fine,” I say finally, eyes on the cooler.

“It wasn’t acting,” he says.

The words drop between us like a stone into a very deep lake.

I go dead still.

He seems to hear what he just said at the same time I do.

“I mean,” he corrects quickly, “it felt real. Good. Natural. That’s all.”

It is, objectively, the most unnatural sentence he has ever put together.

I look up at him.

He’s staring at the water cooler now, jaw a little tight, as if he’s as annoyed at his own mouth as I am at my heart.

“Natural is good,” I say carefully.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Natural is… good.”

We stand there a few seconds longer. I can practically see the line drawn between us on the floor, thin and bright. We are both pretending not to notice how close our toes are to it.

“I should… check the next scene,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll… run lines.”

We go in opposite directions.

The line stays.

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By wrap, my brain feels like overcooked noodles.

The director seems satisfied. The crew is buzzing. I hear the words “chemistry” and “insane” and “death scene for fangirls” whispered more than once.

I pack my things slowly, hoping my heart will catch up.

The stage is mostly empty when I step out into the hallway. The noise has settled into a soft end-of-day murmur.

“Writer Yoon.”

His voice again.

I turn.

He is leaning lightly against the wall near the door, jacket slung over one shoulder now, sunglasses hanging from his fingers.

The lighting in the hallway turns everything softer around him. He looks less like an idol and more like… a man at the end of a long day who doesn’t quite want to go home yet.

“I didn’t…” he starts, then pauses, searching for words. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Today.”

My hand tightens on my bag strap.

“You didn’t,” I say.

His eyes search my face, like he’s checking for fractures.

“Really,” I add. “We were working.”

It was not just work and we both know it. The lie sits between us, polite and ridiculous.

He nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Working… if that's what you wanna call it”

He gives me that soft smile again, the one that feels like it’s just for me.

“See you tomorrow, Writer Yoon,” he says.

Tomorrow.

My heart does that small, traitorous lift at the word.