The day Ethan's ER episode was airing felt strangely ordinary.
He woke up to the sound of sprinklers outside, the sun hitting the blinds in thin slats, the familiar creaking of the hallway as his father walked to the kitchen. Everything looked normal, but inside him, the tension simmered like a quiet storm.
It wasn't nerves about the episode itself—he'd lived through bigger failures than bad television performances. It was the weight of what this day represented.
In his first life, ER had been the moment he quit believing in himself.
Now, it might become the moment he starts believing.
His mother made breakfast as usual, humming softly. His father read the newspaper, flipping through pages with a sigh about politics. They had no idea what tonight meant.
"Don't you have plans?" his dad asked at one point, not looking up.
"Yeah," Ethan said, trying to sound casual. "But… let's stay home tonight. There's something I want you guys to see."
His mom perked up, instantly curious. "See? What is it?"
"You'll find out," he said with a small smile.
Throughout the day, Ethan replayed every moment of shooting that episode. Noah Wyle's quiet support. The director's approving nods. The way the camera operator had whispered, "Nice," after one take.
But mostly, he remembered something Noah had said between setups, a line that stuck with him like a guiding star:
"Most actors think the job is about being seen.
The truth? It's about letting yourself be known."
In his first life, he'd never let anyone know him. Not really.
This time… he'd do things differently.
As the evening settled in, Ethan found himself pacing between the living room and hallway, checking the clock every few minutes. His parents sat comfortably on the couch, snacks prepared, remote ready. His mother looked excited, while his father wore the unconvinced look of a man who'd never truly believed acting could be a real career.
He didn't blame him. Ethan had given him little reason to believe in the first life.
The television flickered as the ER theme music began—those familiar chimes, the urgent rhythm. Ethan's heart thudded loud enough to drown it out.
"There," his mom whispered, pointing. "Look at the hospital! Oh, it's so real."
Ethan smiled without looking at her. He was too busy tracking the sequence of scenes in his head, waiting for his part.
He knew exactly when he appeared—twelve minutes in.
"Mom, dad," he said softly, "pay attention around the next corner."
The scene began.
The camera pushes through the ER doors. Nurses rushing. Doctors shouting orders. And then—
There he was.
Ethan Hale.
Eighteen years old.
Cleaner jawline, wider eyes, crisp uniform.
He stood beside Noah Wyle's character, delivering lines he'd rehearsed a hundred times in this life and a thousand in his last.
His parents leaned forward simultaneously, as if choreographed.
"That's… that's you," his mother breathed.
His father blinked hard. "Holy hell."
Ethan watched his younger self with a mix of pride and disbelief. He looked confident on screen. Natural. Like someone who belonged. The camera didn't swallow him the way he remembered. He wasn't stiff or awkward. The emotional weight behind his delivery made the scene feel grounded.
Every look.
Every pause.
Every subtle shift of expression.
All of it carried the ghost of a man who had lived twice.
His dad shook his head, stunned. "I didn't know you could act like that."
Ethan swallowed the lump rising in his throat. "I… didn't either."
His mom was already tearing up. "Oh, sweetheart… you're wonderful."
He didn't trust himself to speak.
The episode continued, but for his parents—and for him—everything had changed.
His mother kept glancing at him, eyes shining with pride. His father sat straighter, more alert, watching the rest of the episode with the seriousness of someone reevaluating long-held beliefs.
When Ethan's final scene ended, his father let out a long exhale.
"You belong there," he said quietly. "On that screen."
Ethan blinked, stunned. In his first life, his father had never said anything like that. Not once.
And then his mother wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close the way she used to when he was small.
"I always knew you had something special," she whispered. "But this… Ethan, this is a gift."
He had to look away, blinking tears back. The emotion hit him harder than he expected. Not because of pride in the performance—but because this moment had never existed in his first life.
He had gone through his twenties alone, doubting everything, receiving no affirmation, sinking deeper with every failure. Now, he felt something he hadn't felt in decades:
Support.
Belief.
Family.
His father cleared his throat.
"So… what happens now? They call you back? You audition more? How does this work?"
Ethan stared at him, a bittersweet smile forming.
"This is just the start," he said softly. "I'm going to try everything this time. Real auditions. Big ones. I want to get better. A lot better."
His father nodded approvingly. "Then do it. Make this count."
His mother squeezed his hand. "We're right here, sweetheart. Every step of the way."
Ethan looked between them—two people he had taken for granted the first time around, two people he had lost too soon. And he vowed then that he would cherish them in this life.
The episode ended, credits rolling quietly. His name appeared in tiny letters:
Ethan Hale — Orderly #3
His mom gasped. "There it is! Look!"
His dad squinted at the screen, then laughed. "Damn. That's my boy."
Ethan laughed too, even through teary eyes.
Orderly #3.
It wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't a breakout.
But it was a beginning.
A beginning he never got right the first time.
After the show, his parents finally drifted to bed, still murmuring about the performance. Ethan stayed in the living room alone, staring at the blank screen where his younger self had just lived and breathed.
He felt different.
Grounded.
Stronger.
And most importantly—
He felt possible.
The Ethan from his first life would've been anxious, desperate for validation.
This Ethan was determined, fueled by something deeper than ambition.
Experience.
He grabbed his backpack, pulled out the printed audition list Mary Holden had given him, and circled three roles he knew existed—roles that his future self had watched from afar in theater seats, never imagining he could have been part of them.
He folded the paper carefully.
Tomorrow, he would audition again.
Tomorrow, he would step into a future he already knew—one he would now carve out with purpose.
Tonight wasn't about celebration.
It was about clarity.
He turned off the lights and whispered into the darkness:
"This time… I'm not wasting the chance."
And for the first time in his two lives, Ethan slept with hope instead of fear.