Ethan woke earlier than usual the next day, sunlight leaking through the half-closed blinds of his bedroom. It wasn't the hesitant morning of someone unsure about himself anymore. It was the steady, grounded awakening of someone remembering—who he once dreamed of becoming —really remembering.
His ER episode hadn't aired yet, but the day on set had rewired something inside him. It wasn't Noah Wyle's praise, or the makeup crew laughing at his jokes, or the subtle nod from the director when Ethan hit a difficult emotional moment. It was that he had seen the machine—the real, breathing organism of Hollywood—for the first time from the inside. And unlike the first life, where the machinery crushed him until he bent or broke, this time, he wasn't afraid.
He had lived it before and failed in it. Learned from it.
This time, he was walking into it with armour.
He sat at his desk, flipping through the old, yellowed folder that contained all the printouts of his early 2001 audition listings. He remembered how overwhelmed he had been the first time—how the sheer variety of options had paralysed him into inaction.
This time his eyes moved sharply, quickly, strategically.
He knew what each project would become. Which ones would disappear Which ones would define careers. Which ones were worth bending backwards for. And which ones were better left alone.
His fingers paused over an early listing:
"Untitled Sofia Coppola Project — seeking extras, small featured parts."
He smiled. Lost in Translation. A small role in one of the greatest quiet dramas ever made. A film that launched a generation of understated performances.
He marked it with a pen.
Another listing caught his eye:
"The Village — M. Night Shyamalan — open call for supporting villager roles."
He remembered being too shy to even show up the first time. Now he knew Shyamalan loved controlled, restrained performances—exactly the type he had spent two decades learning to perfect.
He circled it.
He kept scanning.
"City work: 20s, serious tone, for gritty Boston crime film."
His heart jolted.
The Departed.
He had forgotten how early the casting cycle began. He wouldn't get a lead—not against DiCaprio or Damon—but a small, well-placed supporting role… yes, that could work.
He drew a star beside it.
A knock came at his door.
"Ethan? You awake?" His father's voice.
"Yeah, come in."
His father stepped in, holding a mug of coffee—Ethan's old favourite ceramic cup with a faded cartoon astronaut on the side. Something about seeing the cup again made heat rush into Ethan's chest.
His father offered it to him. "Thought you might want some fuel. You were up late reading scripts."
Ethan took the mug carefully. "Thanks, Dad."
His father sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with curiosity. "You look different lately."
Ethan blinked. "Different how?"
"I don't know." His father tilted his head thoughtfully. "You always had this… lost look. Like you were worrying about everything at once. But yesterday, when you came home from that ER thing… You looked like someone who knew what he was doing."
Ethan smiled slowly. "I think I do."
His father nodded, satisfied but not fully understanding. "Your mother already bragged to the neighbours that you were on a 'major TV series.' I told her not to exaggerate until it airs."
Ethan chuckled. "Let her brag. She deserves it."
His father stood and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Go chase it, kid. If you want this life… go take it."
Those words didn't feel like encouragement.
They felt like permission.
A blessing he never realised he had needed.
After his father left, Ethan opened a blank notebook and wrote across the first page in clean, confident letters:
SECOND LIFE STRATEGY.
Then he listed:
Audition only for projects you know will matter.
Study acting every day, not only scripts.
Build relationships, not favours.
Protect the people you care about.
Help where you can—don't repeat past regrets.
Never let fear make decisions again.
He stared at the page, the promises heavy but freeing.
A vibration buzzed on the desk—his old brick-style phone lighting up with a text from Mary Holden, his acting instructor.
Mary H.: "You impressed the hell out of me yesterday. Industry showcase this Friday. You should perform."
He raised his eyebrows.
He remembered this showcase.
In his first life, he had skipped it, convinced he wasn't good enough. That one decision changed everything. Several small agencies had attended that year. And by missing it, he had delayed his career for three whole years.
Not this time.
He typed back:
"I'll be there."
He took a breath, the air filling him like new energy.
He wasn't just going to be there.
He was going to own the room.
Later that afternoon, Ethan headed to the community theatre for rehearsal. But this time, instead of walking in quietly and shrinking into the corner, he entered with measured calm.
Students glanced at him differently. Yesterday, they had looked at him like he was another teenager fumbling through lines. Today they looked like they recognised something — even if they didn't understand it.
Mary approached him immediately. "You got my message?"
"Yeah," Ethan said. "Thank you for the opportunity."
She studied him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "You sure you haven't trained professionally before? Yesterday you performed like someone twice your age."
He stopped himself from laughing.
"I've… practised a lot," he said simply. "Life tends to teach you things."
Mary crossed her arms. "Well, keep letting life teach you. Whatever you did yesterday, do it again. And do it bigger."
He nodded.
The class began with warm-ups. Ethan wasn't the best at physical exercises—he never had been—but when Mary transitioned into emotional memory work, it felt like stepping into a world he knew better than anyone in the room.
While other students struggled with connecting to a memory of sadness or joy, Ethan didn't need to dig deep. He just had to remember the years he had wasted in his first life—the loneliness, the poverty, the auditions where he felt invisible, the night he cried himself to sleep before waking up in 2001.
Emotion settled under his skin like a steady current.
Mary watched him, eyebrows lifting slightly at how quickly he fell into emotional truth.
"Good," she muttered. "Damn good."
After class, she caught him before he could leave.
"I'm putting you in the final showcase slot on Friday."
Ethan froze. "Last slot?"
"That position goes to the strongest performer," she said simply. "Don't prove me wrong."
Ethan nodded, heartbeat loud in his ears. The final slot meant the audience would remember him most clearly. It meant visibility. It meant he could change the trajectory of his life again.
As he stepped outside, the late afternoon sun warmed his face. He walked down the street slowly, savouring the moment. This second chance wasn't just a miracle—it was a responsibility. Every step mattered. Every choice mattered.
He passed by a newsstand and froze when he saw a headline:
"Britney Spears Dominates TRL Again."
A photo of her smiling onstage filled the cover.
A future he once lived flashed in his head:
Her loneliness.
Her quiet moments of fear.
The crush of fame that would soon break her open.
He felt something shift in his chest.
Soon, he thought.
Soon I'll meet her again. And this time, I won't fail her.
He walked home with steady steps, clutching his strategy notebook tightly. The future was still unwritten. He didn't know if he could save Britney, if he could help Keanu, if he could navigate Hollywood better than before.
But this time, he wasn't just a scared eighteen-year-old chasing a dream.
He was a man with two lifetimes of mistakes and wisdom, stepping forward with intention.
Nothing about his first life had been wasted.
Every failure had carved him into someone capable of this second chance.
And now?
He was ready.