Chapter 3: Not My Type (Probably)
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Ashtine sat on the set stairs with her knees pulled to her chest, chewing on the straw of an iced drink she didn't like. It was matcha. She hated matcha. Someone handed it to her without asking, and she was too polite to correct them.
She watched the extras gather on the fake school hallway. Lights buzzed above. Makeup artists floated in and out with powder brushes. Production assistants yelled time checks.
12:47 PM.
First scene of the day starts in thirteen minutes.
She glanced at the door across the hallway — Room 3B. Again. She'd spent more time in that room than she had in her own house this week.
The door creaked open.
Andres walked out.
Grey hoodie again. Script tucked under one arm. Headphones slung around his neck like they were just for decoration.
He saw her instantly.
She looked away, pretending to check her phone.
Too late.
"Matcha?" he asked, flopping down beside her like he'd been invited.
"I thought you hated that."
She blinked at him.
"How would you know?"
He grinned, leaning back on his elbows.
"You said it during our first break. You literally said, and I quote: 'It tastes like grass and disappointment.'"
She blinked again, then snorted.
"Wow. So you listen?"
"Only when you're funny."
She sipped again, gagged a little.
"Okay, fine. I hate it."
He gently took the cup from her and stood up.
"Be right back."
She watched him walk away — not because she wanted to, but because… she did. She told herself it was curiosity. She barely knew the guy.
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Seven minutes later, he returned.
With a new drink.
Chocolate milk tea. Her actual favorite.
He didn't say a word. Just handed it over like it was no big deal.
"How did you—?"
"I listen," he repeated. "Even when you're not being funny."
She didn't thank him. Not with words.
But she took the drink, and this time, she smiled a little longer.
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When it was time to shoot, they stood opposite each other in the hallway. It was a one-take, three-angle shot — long and emotional. Their characters had just had a falling out. The script required distance. Bitterness.
Andres' character was supposed to look angry. But instead, he looked tired.
And when Ashtine delivered her line — soft, but firm:
> "I don't want to be around you anymore."
Andres paused.
A real pause.
So much so that the director almost said cut.
But then, Andres whispered:
"Then stop looking at me like you do."
That wasn't in the script.
The room went still.
And the director didn't yell cut.
Because it was good. Too good.
Ashtine blinked, heart stuttering.
She reset, lowered her gaze, and kept going. She wouldn't let him get to her.
---
After the take, she walked off quickly.
He caught up beside her.
>"Sorry," he said. "Improvised."
"I noticed," she muttered.
"Was it too much?"
She shrugged.
"Not bad. Just… confusing."
"Confusing how?"
She looked at him.
"You're not my type."
He raised an eyebrow, half-offended, half-amused.
"You said that last time."
"Because it's true."
"Okay," he said. "So what is your type?"
"Someone serious. Someone grounded. Someone who doesn't wear hoodies like they're a personality."
He gasped, clutching his chest like she stabbed him.
"That was a personal attack."
She smiled sweetly.
"Good."
They paused in the hallway. Just standing there. Too close.
"You're not my type either, you know," he said finally.
"I'm aware."
"Too composed. Too sharp. Feels like you always know what you're doing."
"And that's… a bad thing?"
"It's terrifying," he whispered.
She laughed, shaking her head, walking past him.
"Then maybe stay scared."
He didn't follow.
But he watched her walk away with that same half-smile.
And in his head, one truth echoed:
She may not be his type.
But damn if he wasn't already interested.
---
Later that night, Andres posted a story — a photo of a chalkboard from the hallway scene.
On it, someone had written in faint script:
You're not my type (probably).
No caption.
Just that.
And the flower emoji 🌹.
Ten minutes later, Ashtine posted a boomerang of her chocolate milk tea.
She zoomed in on the straw.
In the background, barely visible, was the corner of a hoodie sleeve.
Her caption?
Grass and disappointment? Nah.
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Maybe they weren't each other's types.
Maybe that's why it worked.
Because the best stories aren't predictable.
They bloom unexpectedly.
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