Elara

My heart races and I jerk my head back to the coffee shop, but the person I thought I saw is gone. A ghost from my past, haunting me after all these years. 

The memory of the boy I left in a sad empty apartment haunts me again, even though I thought I moved on from that years ago. Back then, I would sit in my dressing room, wondering if I made the right decision to let him go, to break his heart before he had the chance to break mine. But I know it was the right choice—not just for us, but for me. 

I watch his smile falter, the hand cupping my cheek slipping away and leaving me cold, already feeling miles apart. 

“I’m not going to Los Angeles. I took the Broadway show here in New York,” I whisper. There’s no going back no. No undoing. 

His lips part and his eyes roam my eyes for an answer, hoping there was a chance that my words are a lie. A joke. 

“We’re supposed to leave tonight. Tomorrow we have a meeting with the apartment manager to tour the place together.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Nothing makes sense. You told me you weren’t going to do long distance.”

“I’m not,” I say, sharp and straightforward. “I can’t do the long distance thing, but I can’t let this huge opportunity pass either. You have a job offer, a stable show for maybe a couple of years, but what am I going to do? Be stuck in an apartment, filming endless self tapes, going to auditions that end up going to nepo babies anyway?”

“You’ll be with me. Isn’t that enough?” His eyes water, but he doesn’t look at me. He bites the insides of his cheek, chewing away the anger, the pain. 

“You know Christine is my dream role, Danny. Since the moment we’ve met I’ve raved about wanting to be in Phantom of the Opera. You even pushed me for the audition.” I try to bargain, but the damage is done. “Did you think I wasn’t good enough to get cast?”

“You know I don't think that,” His eyes snap to mine. “When did you get the call?” 

“A few days ago…” 

“And you waited until the last minute to tell me? Let me believe I was moving to California with the love of my life? For fuck’s sake, we packed the whole apartment and your stuff!” He raises his voice, standing up from the beaten up couch—the last thing left to throw out. 

I remain seated, hands bundled up, staring at the floor. Yes, I’m ashamed. But no matter how I broke the news, the results would have been the same. 

Two broken hearts and ruined plans for the future. 

“I’m sorry, I really am.” I swallow the lump in my throat, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

“You don’t even want to make it work—the distance.” He huffs, wiping away his tears with his palms.

I shake my head like a coward. Because I know if I speak, if I let this conversation hover, one of us will give up a dream, and neither of us should do it. So I deliver the final blow, even if it breaks my heart too. 

“It’s not worth fighting for something that’s going to crash and burn.” It’s cruel, but I force myself to stand on my words—on my career and dreams. Even if he is the person I always dreamed of standing beside me, cheering me on after the final bows. I won’t give up my role, and I won’t let him give up his either. 

He looks at me—not with hatred. His eyes search mine like he can’t recognize the person sat in front of him anymore. 

I grab the last of my luggage, my boxes already moved into a smaller apartment closer to the theater. I don’t bother reaching for him, because If I step into his arms, I’ll go back into his orbit and forever circle around him. I’ll watch him fulfill his dreams while I regret not reaching for my own. 

“Was any of it real?” he asks, eyes now full of anger and resentment. 

But I don’t answer, because that’s one lie I can’t force myself to say. I slip out of the door, luggage in hand, his broken face imprinted in my head for years—not the beautiful memories we shared before I shattered it all.

But I push through the ache. I swallow my pain, looking at my reflection in the theater’s dressing room, dressed in costume. Now I orbit around my career. Sold out shows, friends and family gushing about the performances and how well I was doing. The reviews are amazing, the crowds bigger every night. 

I worked for this. But at what cost? 

The obnoxious honk of the car behind me jolts me from my daydreaming. I steal a glimpse of my reflection on the rearview mirror, face pale and wandering eyes. I start driving, trembling hands gripping the wheel tightly. 

The studio is small and cold, surrounded by white walls that bounced a faint echo from the lack of furniture. Only a long wooden table sits at the far end with a couple chairs around it. Scripts, pens, notebooks and headshots scatter across the surface. A camera on a tripod records each chemistry read session I’ve had with two different guys the past few hours.

The casting director, the lead writer, and the director sit behind the table, muttering as we wait for the last guy on the schedule. Hopefully, the last guy is my potential leading man for the Maid in Manhattan remake. 

The casting assistant steps in, holding the door open for someone. “This is Danny Ramirez, reading for the role of Christopher Velez with—”

From the moment he steps in, my heart drums against my heavy chest and my breathing staggers. The casting assistant’s voice muffled by the ringing in my ear.

It’s just him and me. And suddenly I’m back in that cramped New York apartment. I feel my hands tremble, shaking the script in my grip. The room feels even more colder, and my body stiffens.

The grip of my script slips, my eyes never leaving his. His rich brown eyes are the same. His shoulders are broader now, his arms stronger. This is LA Danny—star and successful Danny. 

I kneel to grab my script at the same time he does. Our hands reach for the pages on the concrete floors, and our eyes meet again. This time it’s closer. 

“Hi.” He whispers, a small smile on his lips. 

“H-hi,” I mutter, grabbing the papers from his hands. “Thank you.”

“It’s nice to know that Broadway didn’t take away the clumsiness." He jokes, and my heart wants to leap out of my chest at the sight of him. 

It’s been five years since I last saw him. I spent a good chunk of those years imagining endless ways we could run into each other, but I never expected it to be in a room with a director and a casting director. 

“Everything okay? Do you guys know each other?” Evelyn, the casting director, asks. 

“Yeah, we went to the same school back in New York.” I blurt out, intentionally leaving out the part that we dated for three years and planned our lives together.

Danny looks at me, his smile gone. 

“Ready when you are,” Samantha, the director, says with an encouraging smile. “Or do you need a moment?”

“No,” Danny and I say at the same time.

“Perfect. Start with the It was real scene, where Christopher confronts Marisa as she walks and the paparazzi follow behind.”

I’ve done this same exact scene for the past two hours, but right now? This scene feels a little too real with him being my scene partner. Too close to our past. 

Danny clears his throat—the familiar sound he always made when I helped him learn lines years ago. I take it as my cue to turn my back to him, making it look like I’m walking away, like the script says.

“Marisa.” Danny’s voice is stern, commanding. He slips into character so easily while I struggle. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the loud rhythm of my heart. 

“I just want the truth.” He adds.

I turn to face him, keeping my eyes soft but shoulders tense. I let silence linger before I part my lips to deliver my line. 

“All right, you want the truth?” I step closer to him, eyes locked on his, ignoring the quiet table behind us. “There was a part of me that wanted to see what it felt like to have someone like you look at me the way you did, just once. And I’m sorry. Truly. If I could rewind the past week, I would.”

“Was any of it real?” His voice cracks, his eyes never leaving mine. The parallel to our last conversation cuts through me, circling back to this moment. 

And I use it. I channel it for this scene, because there’s no hiding it. 

“Yeah, it was real.” I say, nodding my head. The tears burn, my gaze softening as I look into his eyes—the place that once felt like home. “It was so real it made me wonder how I was ever gonna give you up. But I had to give you up. That was the plan.” 

I choke out the lines, not even bothering to look at the script in my hands. “And then… last night,” I pause, a tear slipping down my cheek, “I couldn’t.”

We hold each other’s stare for a few seconds. The pain in our eyes is so vivid. But the urge to reach for one another lingers heavily. The words hover, feeling like the last moments we shared back in New York when we were just kids. 

The sound of clapping makes me jump, breaking the trance.

I look at Samantha, Evelyn and the rest of the crew who are sporting wide smiles on their faces. I wipe my tears away, turning away from Danny.

“That was—” Evelyn starts.

“I believe we have our Marisa and Christopher!” Samantha rages, coming around the table, “It was gorgeous, raw, simply beautiful.” 

“Thanks, Sam.” I force a smile, but from the corner of my eye, I can still see Danny looking at me.  

A few weeks later, pre-production transitions from final contract signings into fittings and final script changes. And filming is only a couple of weeks away for the whole crew to finally step in the studio lot and work our magic. 

After the final fitting for my character, I walk towards the car under the blazing Californian sun. I cram the AC on high when the first text pings on my phone. 

Hey, It’s Danny Can we talk? Sent at 4:56PM Hi Yeah, coffee? Sent at 5:25PM Is tomorrow okay? 2PM? Sent at 6:44PM Perfect Sent at 8:19PM

Now, I stare at the puddle of condensation forming under my iced coffee while I look out the coffee shop’s window—nervously looking at traffic. 

The bell above the door rings and Danny walks in—baseball cap covering his grown out curls, black jeans loose on his body and a light denim jacket over a black shirt. 

His eyes dart around the semi busy shop until they find mine in the back.

“Hey,” he forces a small smile, taking the seat across from me. 

Before I can speak, the waitress appears by the table and takes Danny’s coffee order.

“How are you doing?” He asks, his hands dropping onto his lap, unsure of what to do with them. 

“Not going to lie, a little exhausted—and we haven’t even started filming full time yet.” I admit, relaxing a little. “You?”

“Today was light, so I don’t feel as run-down compared to other days.” 

The waitress returns with his coffee. He mutters a thank you before she leaves us alone again.

“So, you wanted to talk,” I say, breaking the ice. “We can skip the formalities, Danny. Rip the bandage.”

Danny chuckles, shaking his head. “Always so impatient.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not everyday you and your ex—the one you haven’t seen in five years—get cast together in a romcom.”

“Six.” He corrects. 

“What?”

“Six years since you broke up with me.” He lifts the cup to his lip.

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn, embarrassed. 

“I went to one of your shows during your run as Christine,” He confesses and it catches me off guard. 

“That’s when I realized that even if it hurt what you did, I understood it was something that needed to happen.”

“You saw the show?” I stare at him, shocked that he sat in the crowd one night without me knowing.

“It was after I wrapped filming season one of that Netflix show. I flew back because I wanted to see you, I wanted to fight for us. But when I saw you on that stage—watching you devour that role, watching the audience enamored with your voice—I knew I couldn’t do it. Not when you were somewhere you truly belonged.” He pauses, leaning in closer now over the table. 

“I was happy for you, even when it shattered a piece of me to watch you perform sold out shows, living on that high, and I wasn’t there beside you to cheer you on..”

“For me, it felt like torture not being able to call you before and after every show. Because even though that show was the best thing to ever happen to me, the worst part was that I had to sacrifice us—you.” I anxiously pick at my cuticles, waiting for his response. 

“I spent months replaying those last few days. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that you were gone, out of reach, completely blocking me out.” He sighs, jaw tight. “You should’ve told me from the moment you got that call. You should’ve communicated it instead of dropping a bomb the night of our flight to California and leaving me stranded with it while you left.” 

"Every night I sat in front of that dressing room mirror, I replayed it. I wished for a moment I could go back to fix things, do it differently. But no matter how I did it Danny, the results were the same.” I hug myself, shielding myself from the overwhelming emotions bubbling up.  

“Two heartbroken kids with two different dreams,” he finishes for me. “It was fucking hell feeling like I was the bad guy holding you back.”

“Danny, you weren’t,” Without thinking, I reach for his wrist, anchoring him from spiraling back to his guilt. “If anything, I was the bad guy. And I’m genuinely sorry for everything. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me leading you on those last days together.” 

His other hand rests over mine, still on his wrist. His warmth is still comforting after all these years. 

“You looked amazing on that Broadway stage,” he says, softly, “but I always preferred how you looked on film.” His brown eyes seem lighter in this lighting, gentler.

I laugh and push his hands away playfully. “Always the charmer, Ramirez. Good to know that hasn’t changed.”

“Nah, it's you that brings out this side of me.” 

His pretty fucking perfect smile makes my stomach flip. The same power it had over me long ago. 

“Truce?” I extend my hand, smirking. He takes it, his hand warm and comforting in mine.