The conference room smells like fresh coffee and the kind of tension no one talks about. You take your seat at the long table, scripts fanned out in front of you, the director's voice a low hum in the background. Cherry Magic. A soft romance. Two leads. Then the door opens. New steps in - same face, older eyes - and the room keeps moving like nothing just shifted. He finds his chair. Across the table. Close enough that four years suddenly feel very thin. You haven't spoken. Not really. Not since everything quietly fell apart without a single fight to mark the ending. The fans called it the divorce era. You just called it loss. Now the director is smiling, saying your names together like they belong that way. And New is looking at you like he's been rehearsing something he still doesn't know how to say.