"Near."
I pull my lips into a scowl.
"Mello?" Nate responds.
The frown is easier to maintain when I undress the chocolate bar in my hands and clench my teeth around the corner. A nauseating sweetness assaults the roof of my mouth, and I make quick work of the piece so as not to prolong the repulsive sensation.
As my mouth opens to speak, the words that had practically burnt holes into my tongue before vanish from existence. I search my blank mind in a desperate attempt to recover them. Shit, shit, shit. I've repeated this countless times to my reflection, yet the line seems to have totally escaped me now that I'm subject to the scrutiny of the cameras and at least 30 pairs of eyes. I'm suddenly conscious of every twitch and motion of my body. Someone as shy as me should never have gone into acting.
"Cut!" The director calls. My shoulders droop. "Mihael, this is your line."
"I know, I'm sorry…" I mumble. "I forgot."
"Which of us is going to reach Kira first, I wonder?" Nate pipes up from the floor. He rises from his position and a loud crack reverberates around the set as he straightens his posture.
"Right, that's it."
I scold myself for letting such a simple line escape from my clutches. I lift my eyes off the ground as Nate's shadow invades the space that had been the subject of my vacant stare. His brow descends and he rests his hands upon my shoulders.
"We've been over this a million times," he says.
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. My lips curl into a weak smile as his fingers trace my jawbone to where my cheeks taper off at my chin. His hands snake around my neck, cautious to avoid the makeup that comprises the jagged burn scar occupying almost the entire left side of my face. I practice my snarl, and Nate giggles at its foreign presence in the place of my usually soft expression.
"Remember, I fucking hate you," he whispers.
"I fucking hate you too."
He wipes a chocolate stain from my bottom lip and presses his mouth against mine. My eyes flicker to the production crew in moderate embarrassment over the public display. Then, I let my lids draw together like curtains over cerulean windows, blocking out all extraneous thoughts along with the obtrusive light. My nerves settle in his warm embrace despite the increasing frequency of my erratic breaths. Nate pulls back and his hands find their way to my chest. His fingers vibrate slightly with each vigorous pulsation of my heart.
"You've got this," he assures me.
He saunters back to the circular track where two noisy toy trains run laps in sync. He seats himself in the middle of the chaos. His shoulders hunch again, and the camera crew prepare themselves for another take. One of the production members switches out my half-eaten chocolate bar for a new one. I wince at the sight of it.
I can't wait to get home and eat a salad.