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Michael stood frozen behind the canvas chairs, the director's "Cut!" echoing in his ears.
He had to get out of there but while he was going he couldn't help looking back.
Emma pulled back from Zain.
They both laughed, breaking character instantly. But Michael couldn't laugh.
A sudden, sharp pain flared right in the center of his chest. It felt like someone had reached into his ribcage and squeezed his heart with an icy hand.
He reached into his jacket pocket with shaking fingers and pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses, sliding them over his eyes. If this sudden, inexplicable ache in his chest made his eyes water, nobody could see it.
The van parking lot was right beside the set.
Michael was just standing in the asphalt.
"What is wrong with me?" he thought, his mind racing. "Is it a medical issue? A panic attack? I had faced terrifying executives, negotiated million-dollar deals, and met God. But watching Emma Myers kiss an actor for a fictional scene I wrote myself had just knocked the wind entirely out of me. Why do I care? I barely know her. I've only seen her on screen. This is irrational. This is bad writing."
Lost deep in his inner monologue, his body went on autopilot. He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a mini cigar, flicked his silver lighter, and took a slow, deep drag. A cloud of thick, gray smoke drifted up into the damp English air.
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On the other side of the trailers, the cast was walking back from the set.
"Oh, come on, Emma, admit it," Henry Ashton teased, bumping her shoulder. "You were completely blushing before the cameras even rolled."
"I was not blushing!" Emma protested, her face turning a bright shade of pink.
Zain Iqbal laughed from beside her, putting his hands in his pockets.
"She totally was," Zain joked.
"Can we talk about something else?" Emma pleaded, desperately trying to change the subject. "Like how incredible the writing is? I mean, the build-up to that scene in the book was a masterpiece. Michael Owen is a genius."
"He really is," Asha Banks agreed with a dramatic sigh. "I am such a massive fan. It's actually a tragedy that we've been filming his show for weeks and we don't even get to meet the guy. He's the original writer and the executive producer! You'd think he'd drop by."
Carla Woodcock looked around quickly, then leaned in, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper. "Actually... I heard from one of the line producers that Mr. Owen is visiting the set. Today."
Emma and Asha stopped walking. "Are you serious?" Emma gasped, her eyes lighting up. "Today?! Oh my gosh, I have to fix my hair."
They started walking again, the energy in the group buzzing with excitement. But as they turned the corner of the vanity vans, the mood instantly shifted.
Standing right in the middle of the walkway was a guy in a turtle neck which was very tight to the skin and black jeans, wearing dark sunglasses, casually smoking a mini cigar.
Henry frowned. "You've got to be kidding me. Doesn't he know the rules?"
Smoking was strictly prohibited anywhere near the trailers due to fire hazards and the expensive wardrobe inside.
Henry, being the oldest of the group, took the lead. The rest of the cast followed closely behind.
"Excuse me, mate," Henry said politely, stopping a few feet away. "You can't smoke here."
The guy didn't move. He just stared blankly ahead through his dark lenses.
"Hello?" Henry waved a hand. "Did you hear me? Put that out, please."
Still nothing.
For five whole minutes, the group stood there.
Zain tried asking nicely.
Carla tapped her foot impatiently.
Asha even tried pointing to the giant "NO SMOKING" sign printed on the trailer. The guy just stood there, completely ignoring them, taking another slow puff of his cigar as if he were trapped in another dimension.
Finally, they felt utterly defeated. But Emma had had enough.
She stepped right to the front of the group, crossing her arms.
"Hey! Are you deaf or just incredibly rude?" she berated, her voice sharp and authoritative, sounding exactly like Pip. "This is a closed set! You can't just stand around blowing smoke into our trailers! Do you have any idea how important today is? Our favorite writer, the creator of this entire show, is coming to visit today! The last thing we need is for Mr. Owen to walk in and smell cheap cigar smoke because you can't read a warning sign!"
Behind the sunglasses, Michael's brain was still furiously trying to diagnose his heart condition.
"It's an emotional response," his inner voice reasoned. "A psychological reaction to a perceived loss. But I haven't lost anything. It's the tragedy of... wait."
His eyes widened behind the dark lenses.
"Wait... *Fault in Our Stars*."
That was it.
That was the feeling. He was experiencing the exact, painful, stupidly dramatic teenage romance arc he had read about. He was actually jealous.
The realization hit him like a freight train. He finally snapped out of his trance.
"Wait..." Michael muttered aloud, his voice low.
He immediately reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, sleek pocket ashtray, and stubbed the cigar out, snapping the lid shut.
He was just about to turn and walk away to process this horrifying revelation when his vision finally focused.
He flinched, suddenly realizing he wasn't alone.
Standing less than three feet in front of him were five very angry actors. And standing right in the center, looking up at him with a fierce, furious glare, was Emma Myers.
Michael's usually strong mind completely broke.
He looked at the angry faces, then looked down at his pocket ashtray, and quickly put the pieces together.
He had just zoned out and smoked a cigar in front of the cast he was supposed to be suppose to be talking to.
A heavy, embarrassed flush hit his neck.
"I... I deeply apologize," Michael stammered briefly, his voice a little hoarse.
He didn't wait for a response. He shoved the ashtray into his pocket, ducked his head, and quickly walked away down the path, leaving the confused cast staring after him.