Chapter 2 — The First Take

Y/n

The director’s voice slices through the ambient hum of the set like a whip. “Alright, places everyone! Let’s see if we can get this scene on the first take. Y/n, are you ready?”

Ready? The word reverberates in my mind as I shuffle toward my mark. The smooth concrete floor feels cold beneath my sneakers, and my legs seem to carry me forward on autopilot. No, I’m not ready. Not even close. But I nod anyway, forcing a tight smile that feels more like a grimace. The blazing studio lights overhead have a heat to them that prickles my skin, and the faint hum of the camera starting to roll vibrates in my chest.

I clutch the edges of my costume—an old, slightly frayed sweater—trying to steady my hands. They’re trembling again, a slight, uncontrollable shake that sends a warning shot through my nerves. My throat feels parched, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. The words I’ve rehearsed a hundred times swirl like smoke in my mind, and no matter how hard I try to grasp them, they slip away.

“Y/n?” The director’s voice sharpens, edged with impatience. “We good?”

I glance up at him. His wire-rimmed glasses glint under the hot lights, and his narrowed gaze fixes on me like a sniper's. The weight of his expectations presses against my chest, a silent reminder of everything riding on this moment. A memory flickers in my mind—a high school auditorium, forgotten lines, laughter cutting through the heavy silence. My stomach twists, and the world narrows to the set, the crew, and my mounting fear.

“Yes. Sorry,” I manage, my voice thin and unconvincing. “I’m ready.”

Samuel steps into the frame, his movements smooth and unhurried, like he’s been doing this forever. And, of course, he has. His leather jacket creaks softly as he shifts his weight, arms crossing over his chest. He glances at me, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a test I’m destined to fail. And then, as if sensing the effect he’s having, his lips quirk into a faint smirk. It’s not reassuring. It’s predatory.

“Alright, quiet on set!” the director calls out. The shuffling of crew members halts, the faint buzz of whispered instructions fades, and the room stills. My heart pounds faster, harder, each beat like a hammer against my ribs.

The clapperboard snaps shut with a decisive *crack*, and the word rings in the air: “Action!”

The line is simple. Ten words. Just ten. But as I open my mouth, my voice disappears. The first syllable catches in my throat, and my mind goes blank. Completely blank. My gaze darts toward the lights, the camera, Samuel, and then the director. The silence stretches, unbearable and deafening. My pulse echoes in my ears, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out everything else. I can feel every pair of eyes on me, waiting, judging, confirming every fear I’ve ever had about myself.

“Cut.” The director’s tone is clipped, though not unkind. “Y/n, let’s reset. Take a breath and try again.”

The crew shifts around me, their movement a quiet chorus of rustling scripts and whispered frustration. A gaffer adjusts the lights, the bright glow searing my vision, and someone sips loudly from a coffee cup. My cheeks flush hot, humiliation rising like a wave that I can’t suppress.

Samuel leans against the edge of the set, twirling his silver lighter between his fingers. He flicks it open. *Click.* A small flame dances before vanishing with a sharp *snap*. *Click.* The sound slices through the noise like a blade, too loud, too sharp.

“Don’t worry, newbie,” he drawls, his voice carrying that infuriatingly lazy confidence. “First takes are always the hardest. Or so I’ve heard.”

The jab stings more than I want to admit. My hands clench into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. I don’t trust myself to look at him, afraid that I’ll either crumble or explode. His smirk widens, a cruel amusement playing on his face as if my misery is a perfectly scripted performance.

“Samuel,” the director warns, his voice sharp and precise. “Enough.”

Samuel shrugs, the picture of nonchalance, but the damage is done. My fragile confidence is cracked, splintered, and I don’t know how to piece it back together.

The second take is worse. My voice stumbles, the words coming out jagged and wrong. My movements are stiff, unnatural, and my face burns as I catch the faintest twitch of Samuel’s brow—a flicker of displeasure that he doesn’t even bother to hide. The director exhales audibly, his frustration slicing through my last shred of composure.

“Alright, let’s take five,” he says, waving a hand. “Y/n, step out for some air. Clear your head.”

I don’t need to be told twice. Mumbling an apology, I make a hasty retreat, weaving through the maze of cables and set pieces until I find the exit. The corridors stretch out like a labyrinth, each turn pulling me further from the suffocating atmosphere. My thoughts race, every step fueled by a simmering mix of anger and shame. By the time I shove open the rooftop door, my chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

The rooftop’s crisp air slams into me, cool and biting against my flushed skin. The distant city sprawls out below, its glittering lights indifferent to my failure. I lean against the railing, gripping the cold metal so hard it feels like it might bend under my fingers. My eyes sting, but I blink furiously, refusing to let the tears fall. Tears mean weakness. Weakness means they were right about me—not good enough, not ready, not anything.

“Rough start?”

The voice startles me. I whip around to see Samuel leaning lazily in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the distant skyline. His lighter flicks open again. *Click.* The small flame flickers before vanishing with a snap. The sound grates on my nerves, sharp and relentless.

“What do you want?” I snap, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. The anger in my voice is a thin mask for the humiliation bubbling beneath.

He steps forward, unhurried, his expression annoyingly calm. “Just checking on you,” he says, though his tone carries an edge that makes the words feel more like a taunt.

“I don’t need your help,” I fire back, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

He tilts his head, his smirk softening slightly—but not enough to put me at ease. “You looked like you could use some pointers,” he says, the words as casual as if he’s offering directions to a lost tourist.

“Pointers?” I let out a bitter laugh. “From you?”

Samuel shrugs, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. “I mean, it’s not easy, is it? All these people watching, waiting for you to fall on your face. It’s a lot.”

The words hit harder than I want them to. My jaw tightens, and I take a step forward, closing the distance between us. “You don’t know anything about what this means to me,” I say, my voice low but firm. “I’ve worked hard to get here. I might trip, I might fall, but I’ll figure it out. Watch me.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. His smirk falters, just for a second, and his hand tightens around the lighter. The flame flickers again before disappearing with a snap.

“Fair enough,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. He steps back toward the doorway but pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Just don’t let the nerves win. You’ve got more in you than that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the city’s hum and the faint metallic *click-click* echoing in my head.

I stay there for a while, letting the cold air soothe the heat in my cheeks. A strange mix of emotions churns in my chest—anger, shame, and maybe even a flicker of... determination. I think about his lighter, the way the flame wavered despite his steady hands. Maybe he doesn’t have it all together either.

By the time I return to the set, the crew is resetting the scene. The director throws me a quick glance, his expression unreadable but not hostile. Madeleine catches my eye and gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up, her smile warm and encouraging. It’s a small gesture, but it steadies me. I manage a small smile back, my pulse steadier now.

I take my mark again, inhaling deeply as the lights come up. The clapperboard snaps. The camera rolls. This time, I force myself to focus—not on Samuel, not on the crew, but on the story, the lines, the moment. My voice is shaky, but the words come out, one by one. Imperfect, but real.

For now, that’s enough.