Alan

I've been on set since I was four, but now, in the middle of the fourth season of our mega-popular series, my nerves are getting the better of me. We're in a field, the sun is blazing, and I'm forgetting the last lines of the script for the hundredth time. Everyone around me is busy, and I'm panicking.

"Are you being stupid again, Little One?" a familiar voice rang out.

It was Alan. At 15, he sincerely hated me and let me down at every turn. Later, he allegedly fell in love with my friend, and I became his "postman"—delivering gifts. Now he's 19, I'm 18. Something has changed over the past year. He asks about her less and less and increasingly looks for an excuse to be with me.

Alan came close, peering at my script. His presence, which had once infuriated me, now made my heart beat faster.

"Let me help you," he whispered, covering my palm with his . "These lines are about love, and you read them like toaster instructions. Maybe you could try playing it for the camera?"

He lifted my chin, and in his eyes I saw not interest in his friend, but something deeper. Could our years of hostility really have been just a mask?

"Come on," his voice grew quieter. "Forget about hatred. I'm offering help. We'll have to act off camera sooner or later anyway..."

The site workers bustled about in the distance, but here, in the tall grass, time stood still for us. The script was completely forgotten.