Today is 1st, November. Almost six months.
That's how long it had been since the interview.
Since her tears.
Since that question shook the illusion they had built around themselves and exposed the quiet storm inside.
Ashdres hadn't been spotted together since.
Not on set. Not during promotions. Not online.
Their names trended separately now. Headlines danced around words like "break," "rift," and "cooling off." But no one knew what had actually happened. No statement was released. No fan page received a leaked DM. They were simply... gone.
And the silence screamed.
—
Ashtine's Instagram grew colder, her captions shorter. She posted sunrises, food photos, screenshots of songs. All hints. All vague. Her fans tried to decode them like riddles.
Andres, on the other hand, barely posted at all. When he did, it was for work: poster releases, magazine shoots, occasional fan greetings. His eyes in those posts looked glazed over—too polished, too practiced.
The chemistry that once bled through the lens had dried up.
The 'Ashdres' ship wasn't dead. It was stuck. Floating in still water.
—
The crew noticed it first on set.
When Andres would arrive early, finish his makeup fast, and sit quietly in his trailer instead of pacing outside waiting for her.
When Ashtine would slip in moments before rehearsal, always with earbuds in, always avoiding small talk.
When their scenes together required more takes than ever before.
Because something was missing.
And it wasn't talent.
It was the current—the unspeakable spark—that used to pulse between them even when they weren't touching.
Now, they avoided touching.
A line in the script would call for his hand brushing against hers.
They'd fake it.
The camera wouldn't catch the millimeter of space left between their fingers, but the fans would.
And they did.
Fan edits started slowing. The hashtags dropped in activity. YouTubers made video essays titled "The Rise and Pause of Ashdres." There was no scandal. No betrayal. Just a heavy silence that no one could explain.
But she missed him.
And he missed her.
They just didn't know how to say it anymore.
—
One night, Ashtine sat on her balcony with a blanket around her shoulders. The city lights below blinked like soft sighs. She scrolled through old pictures on her phone—behind-the-scenes moments, blurry selfies of them laughing between takes, a snap of him asleep on her shoulder in a van ride.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn't blocked him. She couldn't bring herself to.
But they hadn't texted.
Not once.
Her last message was still there. A simple: "Take care today, okay?"
Seen. No reply.
That was the day after the interview.
She never sent another.
—
Andres lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Three months of pretending he was okay. Six months of smiling for cameras and leaving rooms before she entered. Of deleting drafts of messages he never had the courage to send.
He thought giving her space was the right thing.
But now space had become distance. And distance had started to rot what was once blooming.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the one where she asked, "Why did you look away?"
And still, he had no answer.
Only regret.
He rolled over and opened his DMs.
Her name was still there.
He typed:
"Are you okay?"
Then stared.
Backspaced.
Typed again:
"I miss you."
He stared longer.
And deleted it again.
The screen went dark.
And the drought continued.
—
Some loves don't die.
They dry.
Quietly.
Until someone has the courage to water them again.