Yoko’s POV
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, making the audition room feel more clinical than creative. I shifted in my seat at the back of the line, the number 17 pinned to my shirt crinkling each time I inhaled.
My palms were damp. Not because I wasn’t prepared — I had memorized every line, rehearsed every gesture — but because of the gnawing uncertainty.
I was an unknown in a room full of familiar faces. Everyone else seemed to belong here. I was just… trying.
They called my number.
“Seventeen.”
I stood, clutching my script. My feet felt heavier than usual, but I forced them forward. Brave, I told myself. Even if my voice shakes, even if I don’t belong, I’ll be honest.
When I stepped onto the taped X at center stage, I finally looked up.
And that’s when I saw her.
Faye Malisorn.
She sat at the judges’ table, not speaking, her profile lit by the spotlight. Arms crossed, posture regal, eyes sharp. Her presence was magnetic, almost intimidating.
I swallowed, lowering my gaze quickly. I couldn’t let myself get distracted.
But I felt her watching.
Faye’s POV
Auditions were usually predictable. Polished smiles, rehearsed lines, safe performances. I had no interest in sitting through another round of them.
Then she walked in.
Number Seventeen.
Yoko Apasra.
There was nothing extraordinary at first glance. Plain clothes, hair simply tied back, face bare of heavy makeup. She almost seemed fragile standing under the lights.
But when she lifted her script, I noticed her hands didn’t shake. Her stance wasn’t timid. It was… steady. Quietly steady.
“Ready when you are,” the director said.
She nodded once.
And then she began.
Her voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t flamboyant. But it carried truth. Each line rolled out like she wasn’t reciting — she was confessing. When she paused, it wasn’t for dramatic effect; it was because the words meant something.
I found myself leaning forward slightly. Curious. Intrigued. Against my better judgment.
When she delivered the line, “I’m scared… but I’ll stay,” something flickered in her eyes.
Bravery. The quiet kind.
For a moment, I forgot this was just an audition.
Yoko’s POV
The silence after my last line felt deafening. My chest rose and fell too quickly, betraying how hard I tried to keep calm.
I risked a glance at the panel.
Some were scribbling notes. Some exchanged whispers.
But Faye… she was looking straight at me.
Expression unreadable. Eyes sharp but not dismissive. Like she was seeing something no one else did.
I held her gaze for half a second, then dropped mine, afraid I’d break whatever spell lingered.
“Thank you, Number Seventeen,” the casting director said.
I nodded, bowing slightly before walking off the stage.
But even as I stepped back into the dim corner of the room, I could still feel her eyes.
Faye’s POV
The other judges murmured, flipping through their evaluation sheets.
“She’s raw,” one said.
“Too raw,” another countered.
But I stayed silent, fingers tapping once on the table. My eyes followed her as she sat back down, hugging her script to her chest like it was armor.
Something about her performance lingered, echoing louder than the polished auditions before hers.
She wasn’t perfect. But she was honest.
And honesty was rare.
Yoko’s POV
As the session ended, numbers were dismissed one by one. People laughed nervously, compared notes, some confident, some deflated.
I slipped my bag onto my shoulder, ready to leave quietly. I didn’t expect anyone to notice me.
But as I reached for the door, a low voice stopped me.
“You did well.”
I turned.
Faye was standing a few steps away, her bag slung effortlessly over her shoulder, expression still composed.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Ah… thank you.” My voice came out softer than I intended.
She gave a slight nod, nothing more, and walked past me.
Our shoulders brushed. Just lightly.
And yet it felt like the start of something I couldn’t name.
