The casting room smelled like cold coffee, old carpet, and nerves.
Elián Voss stood alone on the taped X in the center of the room, surrounded by folding chairs, clipboards, and people who barely looked up when he walked in. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow that made his skin look waxy. He hated these rooms. They were built to strip you down, to see what was left when the charm faded.
Vivienne had dropped him off with a tight smile and a warning: "Don't embarrass me."
He hadn't replied. He never did.
The casting director, a woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a voice like sandpaper, glanced up. "Whenever you're ready."
Elián took a breath. The script was simple: a grieving son confronting his mother. But the words felt too familiar. He didn't need to imagine the pain. He lived it.
He began.
"I waited for you. Every night. I thought maybe you'd come back. Maybe you'd remember I existed."
His voice cracked—not from performance, but from memory. His hands trembled slightly. He didn't try to stop them.
"You never saw me, did you? You saw what you wanted. A doll. A mirror. Not me."
Silence.
The room was still. Even the assistant who had been texting paused, her phone forgotten in her lap.
Elián's eyes glistened, but no tears fell. He didn't cry anymore. Not in front of strangers.
The casting director cleared her throat. "Thank you."
Elián nodded, turned, and walked out. No applause. No feedback. Just the echo of his own footsteps.
---
Outside, the air was sharp with winter. He pulled his coat tighter, ignoring the ache in his chest. The city moved around him—loud, bright, indifferent. He walked without a destination, just away.
He didn't know that a junior producer had recorded the scene on her phone. Didn't know she'd send it to a friend with the caption: "This guy is unreal." Didn't know it would go viral by morning.
But something inside him stirred. A quiet dread.
Because if they saw something real in him… what happens when they want more?
---
He kept walking. Past the cafés filled with laughter, past the glowing billboards advertising faces that had never known hunger or fear. His boots scuffed against the pavement, his breath fogged in the air, and still he walked.
He didn't want to go home. Not yet.
Home meant Vivienne. Home meant silence and sharp smiles and the constant reminder that he was only valuable when he was useful.
So he ducked into a quiet alley behind a bookstore and leaned against the brick wall, letting the cold seep into his bones.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he let himself feel it.
The weight of the words he'd spoken. The way the room had gone still. The way his own voice had sounded—raw, unfiltered, real.
It scared him.
Because he hadn't meant to give them that much.
---
He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years. Not since the night he overheard Vivienne say, "He's too pretty to waste on grief."
He learned then that pain had to be hidden. Packaged. Sold.
But now, something felt different. The silence after his monologue wasn't the usual polite dismissal. It was heavy. Still. Like the room had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
And that terrified him.
Because if they saw something real in him… what happens when they want more?
---
Elián's beauty was both armor and curse. People saw the face, the symmetry, the allure. They didn't see the boy who used to sleep in closets to avoid his stepbrother's cruelty. They didn't see the teenager who learned to fake smiles before he learned to drive.
He'd mastered the art of being seen without being known.
But now, with that audition clip out in the world, he felt exposed. Like someone cracked the mask and caught a glimpse of the boy underneath.
And worse—what if they liked him?
---