"Martini!" The shout comes in what feels like bitter cold from the first AD, earning a loud cheer from the crew. One more shot until that long awaited winter break is upon you all. One of the PA's is already waiting with a bottle of whiskey and plastic cups. How topical, you think, considering your character's alcoholism. You quickly do a mental check -- no, you won't be spiraling into that anytime soon ... however that vodka-infused orange was a delicious experiment.

You laugh along with the woman fixing your makeup when she tells a joke. Your laugh feels hollow to yourself — and that isn't just the character eking in again. That's been a common recurrence on this film, and you don't really know what the deal is. It's not like you haven't struggled with emotional material before. Maybe this is just the darkest place you've ever had to take yourself. The challenge is thrilling, but you aren't entirely equipped to shutting it off.

There's no point in glancing towards the named chairs. She wasn't working in this scene. She would have had no reason to be here. It's been four days now since she slept beside you and you both willingly breathed the same air.

These are the moments when pride creeps in, and then come the indignant thoughts like a toxic fog. Well, it isn't MY fault. If SHE hadn't been the one to leave. We should have given each other more space, how stupid was this whole idea? You live in those thoughts, puffing yourself up because it is still so fresh, because you are still so at the ready to be angry instead of anything else. At some point, you should probably work on not being so stubborn.

Right now though, you have one more take to do.

_{DECEMBER 20}

Had you even decided that you were living together? It's one of those quiet curiosities that creeps into your mind in the depth of night. Perhaps it had been something that warranted a conversation more than "it makes sense," but it felt right, and it honestly felt really good to know you were coming home to (or with) the person you love. You feel like it's that parable of the frog: put them right in the boiling water and they jump right out with a giant "fuck you for trying to boil me alive", but put them in cold water and slowly turn up the heat ... okay, it's not a great analogy for being in a relationship for going on nine months, but for someone like you, it feels as serious. You run from commitment at every turn, shy away when you feel even the beginnings of being attached to someone. Oh no, you're too independent; you could never need someone.

It surprises you though, that it took this long for something to happen. Logic might say that it's just the amalgamation of things: work, home, life, stress. Then comes the what-if game. What if you had just chosen a film that wasn't so heavy? Or characters who didn't spend the bulk of the story hating each other? What if you had kept work and home separate? Hell, if it works for people like Brad and Angie ... what if, what if, what if.

You can feel yourself going soft. It doesn't just creep in during the nights you spend alone. It creeps in during the mornings when you stupidly fill two coffee cups and only sometimes manage to stop yourself before putting in the milk and sugars for her. You know the way she takes her coffee, what tea she prefers, which color skittles to hand over to her while you dump out the pack into your hand. Stupid little things that should mean nothing ... but actually mean the world to you. Like she does. Dammit.

You feel it when coming home to your apartment in this city you never wanted to live in. You feel it in how quiet it is, just the tick of dog feet on hardwood floors. You feel it when you find something of hers and try to ignore it. That feeling you haven't felt in a long time so you forget how bad it feels: Hollow.

_{DECEMBER 22}

"You left your gray sweater here." You text her with no flourish of an emoji to betray the way you feel. You leave out at the time, that you're currently wearing said sweater. You pass it off that it's really comfortable or warm ... but it smells like her and you always loved the way it hung on her frame. You'd roll your eyes at yourself, but your phone buzzes with a text. She asks how New York is, and you tell her that it's the same. Abnormally warm for this time of year ... yet you still feel cold.

It's been almost a week now, at least a few days at this point. You know you are driving your poor dogs crazy with how up and down your moods are, with how often you start to pace around this New York apartment for no reason at all. You call your brother, because you don't know who else to talk to. He's not the best at relationships, true, but at least you won't feel like a burden or a bitch for venting the way you feel to your friends. What he tells you doesn't actually make you feel better, but it's a nice perspective.

"You've brought all of what, three people home to meet our parents in the 30 years you've been alive? And I've never seen you that happy — that comfortable with someone. Especially around us." He wasn't one to pick flowery words out, or really even notice such things. Going on ten years as a Marine, your older brother and softness aren't exactly a hand-in-hand thing that came easily. But he knows you, almost better than anyone. He isn't telling you anything you don't already know.

"You want to just come spend Christmas with us, Fi?"

Your response comes immediately, instinctively -- without even putting a thought to the word. "No." You say so quickly that it makes him laugh. No, of course you don't want to go home to South Carolina. No, you don't want to spend Christmas alone. No, you don't want to hold onto your god damned stubbornness and potentially lose the person who matters most to you. That's the point, isn't it? You smile because you know that your brother knew exactly this. He knew what your response would be.

"I think you've got a plane to catch. Merry Christmas." You tell him you love him and hang up.

That's the whole point. This kind of mattering has begun to change you as a person.

_{DECEMBER 23}

It's so late by the time you arrive, you consider stopping to stay in a hotel for the night. The flight was long, brutally so with your nerves going all over the place. By the time you arrive at the familiar flat, you haven't even taken time to prepare yourself.

This is when you're supposed to have some long speech prepared. You're an actress, not a writer, but this is where in the "movie version", some long, romantic speech is offered. The funny thing is, this is real life, and that just doesn't fit the kind of people you both are. You know you were wrong, you know the regrets you have. Your self deprecating humor would come in just to soften the words themselves, make it less mushy. Here ... you are supposed to look so much better than you do. You're not supposed to look like you had just flown for more than seven hours. You're supposed to look devastating and irresistible. You forget all about that the moment the door swings open and she's there, looking at you as though she'd been waiting this whole time for you to show up.

It's unfair for her to look that way, with the backlit room framing her just so. For a moment, you forget what words are ... and then the floodgate opens and those words find their way of spilling out all at once. You can't stop them as you call your actions stupid, apologize for being stubborn, tell her you love her and everything else that comes out before you have the chance to even take your first breath. "I'm sorry I'm such a fucking moron," is said and in the next moment you find yourself wrapped up in strong arms and your bodies move together -- a fit that you've become accustomed to, but still feels unreal to you every single time.

Your lips meet before you even realize that there's someone else in the room. The only distraction allowed, apparently, that comes in the form of your girlfriend's father sitting on the couch. He clears his throat and wishes you a Merry Christmas -- it's past midnight and now officially Christmas Eve in Paris, after all. You're probably eight shades of red that he'd witnessed all of that, but you don't dare move from this tight embrace. You wish them both a Merry Christmas, but your eyes have returned to her face, unable to look anywhere else.

There were times you never thought you belonged anywhere. That isn't true anymore.

_{DECEMBER 31}

Somewhere in the distance, fireworks boom in the night sky. You're looking out the window in some attempt to see them, but it's pouring rain and there's no chance of it. You'd be freezing in nothing but a thin shirt if it wasn't for the heat turned up in the room, keeping you in this safe little cocoon of warmth. Her voice behind you takes your attention from watching the waves and the rain crash together.

"Happy New Year". You're smiling because you feel her close, her long arms encircling you from behind, her lips on the back of your neck. That warmth in the room is on a steady climb just from her nearness. Your reverie of reflecting on the highs and lows of the past year is interrupted by her, and how instinctively you lean into her embrace. You repeat the sentiment, and mean it. A whole year stretches out before the two of you, and more milestones that you are actually sure you're going to see. A year ago you would have never pictured a New Year's that looked like this. A year ago, you were pretty damn sure that this feeling wasn't ever going to really be in the cards for you. A year ago, you didn't think that you would find something so worth fighting for -- even fighting through your own shit to hold onto.

You wait a long moment before you turn around, her face between your palms and a kiss to start 2016. It somehow means so much more, knowing what you both went through to get here.