ð¬ðð¸
The first day of filming is always a whirlwind, but this one feels particularly intense. Maybe it's the pressure of playing a role that's already being hyped as "Oscar-worthy," or the way every department head's gaze lingers on me as though they're waiting for perfection to materialize on cue. Or maybe it's the fact that the first scene on the schedule is one of the most emotional in the entire script.
I'm in the makeup trailer at five in the morning, trying to sit still as the artist applies a delicate streak of blush to my cheeks.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, and the chatter around meâcrew members discussing call sheets, a wardrobe assistant updating the scheduleâblends into background noise. I glance at myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back, perfectly polished, every detail deliberate.
I'm wearing a simple dress that my character, Mia, would chooseâsubdued, practical, forgettable. It's meant to contrast with the emotional chaos she's feeling in the scene we're about to film.
"You okay?" the makeup artist asks softly. She's young, maybe in her twenties, with kind eyes.
"I'm fine," I reply automatically, forcing a smile.
I'm not fine, though.
My stomach churns with nervous energy. I know I should feel grateful to be here. This is what I've worked for, what I've sacrificed so much for. But all I can think about is how high the stakes feel. This scene, in particular, requires vulnerabilityâthe kind of raw emotion that can't be faked. And lately, I've been struggling to tap into anything real.
ð¬ðð¸
When I step onto the set, the weight of the moment hits me like a tidal wave.
The set design is breathtaking: a cozy living room bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, the details so precise that it feels like stepping into another life. But instead of grounding me, it only makes me feel more disoriented.
Everyone is bustling around, adjusting props, fine-tuning lighting. There's a low hum of activity that somehow makes me feel both invisible and hyper-visible at the same time.
"Ava," the director, Claire Navarro, calls out, her voice calm but firm. She's seated in front of a monitor, her sharp eyes scanning the set. "Let's run through the scene once before we roll."
I nod and take my place on the worn-out couch at the center of the room. In the scene, Mia is confronting her father about a secret he's been keeping from her. It's the turning point of her story, the moment when everything she thought she knew begins to crumble. The dialogue is powerful, the kind of writing actors dream about. But as I read through the lines, my voice feels hollow, detached. The emotions I'm supposed to convey hover just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue that refuses to come out.
After the run-through, Claire approaches me with a thoughtful expression. "It's a good start," she says. "But I want to see more from you. Mia is devastated here. She's scared, angry, hurt. Try to let yourself feel those things, even if it's messy."
I nod again, biting the inside of my cheek. Her words make sense, but they're easier said than done. I've built my career on precision and control, and now I'm being asked to let all of that go.
As I head back to my mark, I catch Walker watching me from the edge of the set. He's already in costume, leaning casually against a prop table, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. When our eyes meet, he gives me a quick, encouraging smile. It's disarmingânot because it's charming (which it is), but because it's so uncalculated. And that's what annoys me the most. He's so... relaxed. Like he doesn't feel the crushing weight of everyone's expectations. I hate that about him. And I hate that he looks good doing it.
We reset for the first take, and the cameras start rolling. The dialogue flows naturally enough, but as the scene builds to its emotional climax, I falter. My voice wavers, but not in the way it's supposed to. Instead of sounding heartbroken, I just sound unsure. By the time the scene ends, I can tell it wasn't what Claire wanted.
"Cut," she says, her tone neutral. "Let's reset."
I feel the sting of failure prick at my chest as I step off the set.
My hands are shaking slightly, and I curl them into fists to steady myself. Everyone is kind enough not to say anything, but I can feel the unspoken tension in the air.
This is the kind of role that can define a career, and I'm terrified of not being good enough.
As I'm pacing near the edge of the set, Walker appears beside me, holding a paper cup of coffee. He extends it toward me without a word.
"Thanks," I mumble, taking the cup even though I'm not sure I can stomach anything right now.
"You're overthinking it," he says simply.
I glance at him, startled by the bluntness of his comment. "Excuse me?"
"The scene," he clarifies. "You're trying so hard to nail it that you're not actually feeling it. Trust me, I've been there."
My jaw tightens. Who does he think he is, giving me advice? I've been doing this since I was six. And yet, there's something infuriatingly reasonable about his words.
"And what do you suggest I do instead?" I snap, my tone sharper than I intended.
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Stop worrying about whether it's perfect. Just... let it be messy. You're Mia, right? So, forget about Ava Monroe for a minute and just let yourself be her. Whatever comes out, comes out."
I'm torn between wanting to roll my eyes and grudgingly admit he might have a point. But mostly, I'm annoyed. Annoyed at him for thinking he can swoop in and solve my problems with a few casual words. Annoyed at myself for letting it get under my skin. And annoyed that, even in the middle of all that, I can't help but notice how his stupidly relaxed demeanor makes him look... well, hot.
"Thanks for the unsolicited advice," I say with a thin smile, hoping he'll take the hint and leave.
"Anytime," he says with a grin before walking back to his mark.
ð¬ðð¸
When we reset for another take, I try to push his words out of my mind, but they linger anyway. Maybe there's something to what he said. Maybe the reason I'm struggling is because I've been so focused on what everyone expects from me that I've lost sight of what the character actually feels.
This time, I silence the part of my brain that's constantly critiquing and correcting myself. Instead, I focus on Miaâher fears, her pain, her anger. I let myself feel those things without worrying about how they'll come across.
The difference is immediate. By the time the scene ends, there's a weight in the air that wasn't there before. Claire's voice cuts through the silence.
"That was it," she says, her tone filled with quiet satisfaction. "That's what I was looking for."
Relief washes over me, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe again. As I step off the set, I catch Walker's eye. He gives me a thumbs-up, his grin widening when I glare at him in response.
Maybe he's not so bad after allâbut he's still annoying.
ð¬ðð¸