Chapter 3 — The Bench at Griffith Park

Noah

Los Angeles stretched out beneath us like a glittering mosaic, a thousand tiny lights flickering in the approaching twilight. From up here at Griffith Park Overlook, the city seemed almost serene, as though it wasn’t the same beast that devoured people whole on a daily basis. The Hollywood sign loomed in the distance, its white letters catching the last blush of the setting sun—an ever-present reminder of dreams that dangled just out of reach, near enough to tempt but far enough to torment.

Harper was sitting cross-legged on the bench beside me, her Story Notebook perched on her lap, her pen tapping rhythmically against the leather cover. Her bun was lopsided, a few auburn strands escaping to frame her face as the breeze toyed with them. She always tied her hair up when she was deep in thought, like it was her way of announcing to the world: *Don’t bother me, I’m busy solving the mysteries of the universe.*

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, James,” I said, nudging her knee with mine.

She glanced up, her hazel eyes sharp but distracted, like she’d just been yanked out of another dimension. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes,” I pointed out. “Is this some kind of experimental writing technique? Staring your story into existence?”

Her lips quirked, the corner of her mouth lifting into one of those half-smiles that always made me lose my train of thought. “It’s called plotting, Miller. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I see. Plotting. The sacred art of doodling in the margins and glaring at your notebook until it bursts into flames.”

She swatted at me lightly with her pen. “If you must know, I’m... thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I said, smirking. “What about?”

Harper hesitated, her pen tapping faster against the notebook. “Just... stuff,” she said vaguely, which, in Harper-speak, meant: *I’m overthinking everything, and I’m not ready to unpack it yet.*

I noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the tension in her shoulders. Her voice carried that edge of heaviness she rarely let slip. I wanted to push, to ask what was twisting her up inside, but I knew better. Harper didn’t open up when poked. You had to give her time, space—let her come to you when she was ready.

“Well,” I said, keeping my tone light, “while you’re busy solving life’s great mysteries, I have an audition tomorrow.”

Her head snapped up, her full attention locking onto me like a spotlight. “Wait, what? You didn’t tell me you had an audition!”

“Probably because someone was busy being interrogated by Sadie Brooks and her Pen of Doom earlier,” I said, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

Harper narrowed her eyes, and I could practically feel her *don’t lie to me* radar locking onto my face. “If it’s not a big deal, why do you look like you just swallowed a live grenade?”

I laughed, but it came out strangled. She knew me too well. “Fine,” I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s... kind of a big deal. It’s for the lead in this indie film. Real dialogue, complex character, not just a pretty-boy role in a toothpaste ad.”

Her eyes widened, pride and excitement blooming across her face. “Noah, that’s huge! What’s the role?”

“It’s this guy who’s trying to reconcile with his estranged brother while grappling with his own guilt over their father’s death,” I explained, the words tumbling out despite myself. “It’s heavy, but the script’s beautiful. Like... the kind of story you can actually sink your teeth into, you know?”

“That sounds perfect for you,” she said, her voice certain, like it was obvious. “You’re going to crush it.”

I shook my head, a dry laugh escaping me. “Yeah, except they probably have a hundred other guys lined up with better résumés, better jawlines—”

“Stop.” Harper’s voice cut through my self-deprecation like a blade. “You’re talented, Miller. You’re not just some guy with a pretty face. You have... depth. Range. I’ve seen it.”

Her words hit harder than I expected, like she’d reached inside me and flipped a switch I didn’t even know existed. The way she said it, like it was a fact, not just something nice to make me feel better—it made my throat tighten. *She believes in me*, I thought, and the realization left me unsteady.

“Thanks, James,” I said softly, the words catching in my chest. My hand drifted to my pocket, where my grandfather’s watch rested, its familiar weight grounding me. I ran my thumb over the chain, the cool metal pressing into my skin. The watch always had a way of reminding me who I was, where I came from—even when I felt untethered.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her gaze shifted back to the city below, and a heavy silence settled between us.

“Do you ever feel like...” I started, but the words stuck in my throat. I took a breath, trying again. “Like you’re running as fast as you can, but you’re still stuck in the same place? Like no matter how hard you try, you’re just one rejection away from giving up?”

Her fingers stilled against the notebook, her shoulders tensing. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “All the time.”

Her honesty caught me off guard, but it also made my chest ache. Harper, with her sharp wit and relentless drive, always seemed so sure of herself. But now, in the fading light, I could see the cracks she tried to hide, the weight she carried in silence.

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” I murmured.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of eucalyptus and dry grass. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, the sound lonely and raw.

“Do you ever think about quitting?” she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and raw.

“Yeah,” I admitted, the word feeling heavier than I expected. “But then I think about what I’d do instead, and... nothing else feels right. Acting is the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not just... existing.”

She nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook absentmindedly. “Same,” she said after a long pause. “Writing... it’s like breathing, you know? Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

I turned to look at her, and her words settled deep in my chest, grounding me in a way I didn’t entirely understand.

“You’re going to make it, James,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “I’m serious. I see it in you. You’re too stubborn not to.”

She laughed softly, the sound caught somewhere between humor and something broken. “Right back at you, Miller.”

We sat there for a while longer, the city glowing beneath us like a promise neither of us felt ready to claim. And in that quiet, I realized something that scared the hell out of me: Harper was my anchor. My constant. But the thing about anchors... they could hold you steady—or hold you back.

As the last light faded and the stars began to peek through the smoggy haze, Harper finally stood, tucking her notebook under her arm and offering me her hand. “Come on,” she said, her voice lighter now. “Let’s get out of here before the coyotes decide we’re dinner.”

I took her hand, her palm warm against mine. For a second, I didn’t let go, and neither did she.

“Thanks, James,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“For what?”

“For reminding me why I’m doing this,” I said.

Her hazel eyes searched mine, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something there—something deeper, something that made my pulse quicken. But then she smiled, and the moment passed.

“Anytime, Miller,” she said, her voice teasing but warm.

We walked back to the car in companionable silence, but the weight of our conversation lingered, settling into the spaces between us like a secret neither of us was ready to admit.

As I drove us back into the city, Harper humming softly along to the radio, I couldn’t help but glance at her reflection in the window. She looked peaceful, but I knew better. The weight was still there, just like it was for me.

And as the Hollywood sign disappeared in the rearview mirror, a thought struck me: *How long could we keep pretending we were just friends before everything changed?*