Each word lands with unexpected weight. Ten episodes.
That's nearly three months of our lives, of early morning calls and late-night text exchanges, of inside jokes that only make sense in the context of our shared experience. I can feel my throat tighten as the reality of it settles in, the sudden finality of it all hitting me like a physical blow.
All those stolen moments on set, the way his eyes would find mine across a crowded room, the subtle touches that felt like lightning strikes—ending today.
"Oh, God!" I laugh lightly, realizing he's right. "I forgot."
The sound that escapes me is hollow, a pathetic attempt at humor that doesn't quite land. It's the kind of laugh you use when you're caught off guard, when someone mentions your birthday and you haven't remembered it yourself. The realization hits me with a force that leaves me slightly breathless—this thing that has become so integral to my routine, this daily interaction I've built my mornings around, is ending.
"You forgot?" Vince side-eyes me with a smile that looks more pained than amused. It reminds me of the times I've felt awkward at work, when someone says something that hits a little too close to home. His expression is a complex tapestry of emotions I can't quite untangle. There's disappointment there, and something else, something softer that makes my chest ache.
"This is it. This is the big day, Andy, and you forgot?"
His use of my nickname, always delivered with that particular blend of affection and exasperation, sends a familiar warmth through me even as my stomach twists with guilt. How could I forget? How could I not have marked this day in my calendar, counted down to it with some combination of dread and anticipation?
I've been so caught up in my own drama with Ted, so wrapped up in these feelings I'm trying to untangle, that I let this milestone slip by unnoticed.
"No, I mean, I didn't forget exactly, it's just... I guess it hasn't hit me yet."
The words tumble out, a clumsy explanation that doesn't quite capture the truth. I haven't forgotten, not really—how could I when every morning starts with the thought of seeing him? But I haven't allowed myself to think about the end, to acknowledge that this chapter is closing. The thought of no more early morning drives, no more shared jokes in the makeup trailer, no more excuses to spend time together.
It's too much to process, so I've pushed it aside, buried it under layers of denial and wishful thinking.
He laughs, bumping his shoulder against mine. "It's hitting me pretty hard. But that's not the point."
I shake my head, still unsure what he's up to. "My instruction work has picked up a lot lately. I've just been so busy. The acting stuff has been kind of an afterthought, honestly." The words feel both true and hollow as they leave my lips.
My schedule has been packed with clients, their names and faces blurring together in a relentless cycle of appointments, but that's not the whole truth. The real reason I haven't thought about the show ending is that thinking about it feels too much like admitting this chapter of my life—this Vince-infused chapter—is closing for good. The mornings will still come, but they'll be emptier without our shared rhythm of running routes and inside jokes.
"Does that mean this is officially the end of your acting career?" Vince jokes, glancing at me as we run.
I manage a laugh that feels stretched thin across my face. "I'm sorry to say, it probably is. My very fruitful acting career is officially over." The words taste like ash as they leave my mouth. "My IMDB page is going to be so sad."
Vince's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if he feels it too—the sudden emptiness that comes with endings. The morning air feels colder now, or maybe it's just the realization sinking in that our shared routine is about to change.
"Come on," he says, his voice light but strained. "It's not over. You're too talented to quit."
I shake my head, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'm not quitting. Just... taking a break. Maybe." The truth is, I'm not sure what comes next. All I know is that the thought of not seeing him every day feels like a weight settling in my chest.
We run in silence for a few moments, the only sounds our footsteps on the pavement and the distant chirping of birds. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't dare look at him. If I do, I'm afraid he'll see right through me, see the mess of feelings I've been trying to keep buried.
"So," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Dinner tonight? Just us. To celebrate the end of... well, this."
The offer hangs in the air, tempting and dangerous all at once. I know I should say no, that an intimate dinner alone with him is a terrible idea, but the thought of turning him down feels like losing something precious before I've even had a chance to hold it.
"Okay," I hear myself say, the word slipping out before I can stop it. "Dinner sounds good."
Vince's face lights up, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The weight of my unhappiness with Ted, the uncertainty of my career, the ache in my chest—it all disappears, replaced by the simple, undeniable warmth of his smile.
And just like that, I know I'm in deeper trouble than I ever imagined.
"Are you still going to run with me?" Vince asks, his breath visible as he runs beside me.
The words hit me harder than the uneven pavement I nearly trip over.
My feet tangle for a moment, my ankle twisting precariously as I struggle to regain my balance. Vince steadies me with a hand on my elbow, his touch sending a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the near fall. The morning air feels suddenly thinner, harder to breathe, as the full weight of his question sinks in.
Are we still going to run together? Of course. How could we not?
