Unscripted

CHAPTER TWO: Arrival

The first thing I noticed about LA was that it didn't feel real.
Not in the "Hollywood Boulevard, star maps, fake-boobs-everywhere" kind of way.
More like stepping into a dream you've had a hundred times, only to find the colors are wrong. The palm trees looked like cutouts taped against the sky. The air was bright in a way that made my eyes ache, like someone had cranked the saturation too high.
And I was sweating. A lot.
My sublease was in Koreatown — month-to-month, furnished in that "this couch has seen things" kind of way, and somehow still more than I could afford. The floors groaned with every step, the water pressure had commitment issues, and my next-door neighbor ran a crystal healing business out of her living room.
But it was mine.
Or at least, mine for now.
The first week was a blur of doing all the "new in LA with dreams" things — scrolling endless casting calls, overpaying for iced coffee in mason jars, and showing up to auditions where every waiting room felt like an Instagram explore page: tall girls, glossy hair, skin so dewy it should be illegal.
By the end of week two, I was already starting to wonder if I'd made a huge mistake.
And then my email pinged.
A casting assistant had found my profile online and wanted me to come in for a role in a "romantic drama feature." The description was vague. Paid. Filming soon.
I didn't ask for details. I just said yes.

Audition Day

The building looked like it used to be a dentist's office and never fully got over it. Pale green walls. A sad potted plant in the corner, leaves coated in a layer of dust. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and desperation.
I signed in, sat down on a ripped leather bench, and tried to read my sides for the millionth time. My legs bounced. My palms wouldn't stop sweating.
Everyone else waiting looked like they'd stepped out of a Vogue street style spread — the kind of people who probably had three agents and a publicist before their morning smoothie.
I had my Target lip gloss, a blouse that wrinkled in the car, and a prayer.
When the assistant finally called my name, I nearly tripped over my own bag standing up.
The hallway was dim, lined with closed doors. My sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. I stopped in front of a door with a taped-on "ROOM 2" sign, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
And slammed straight into someone.
The impact knocked the paper from my hand and his baseball cap clean off his head.
"Whoa—careful," he said, taking a half-step back.
I looked up, breathless.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Hoodie hanging loose over jeans. Messy curls that looked too perfectly messy to be accidental.
Great. One of those guys.
"Sorry," I muttered, crouching to grab my sides.
He bent down at the same time, our hands brushing. "You always charge into rooms like you're about to tackle someone, or is this special for me?"
"Just the ones where I'm about to be judged under fluorescent lighting by complete strangers," I said, standing.
He smiled — slow, like he was amused I'd fired back. "Fair enough."
I brushed past him toward the mark. He didn't move right away, just watched me with a faint smirk like I was already an inside joke.
We ran the scene.
It was... intense.
Lines turned into something else entirely when he delivered them — not too showy, just enough weight in his voice to make my stomach do this uncomfortable flip.
I matched him without even meaning to, my body leaning into the push and pull of the argument written on the page.
By the time we hit the last line, the air between us felt charged, heavier than it should have been.
The casting director gave a small nod. "Good. Thank you, Lena. We'll be in touch."
That was it.
No "wow, you're perfect for this." No hint of whether I'd nailed it or tanked it.
I walked out without looking back, clutching my bag like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
Outside, the air felt too bright again. I pulled my sunglasses down and started walking toward my car, telling myself I'd probably never see hoodie guy again.
And if I was lucky, I wouldn't have to.