The title of Best Actor at the Oscars had gone to Roy.
This outcome disappointed many, but also had just as many cheering in approval.
His performance in Silence was hailed by critics and audiences alike as near-miraculous.
Especially in the final scene—when his character's friend-turned-enemy dies to save him—his expression of grief was so powerful, so layered.
Not just sadness, but confusion, helplessness, and a storm of tangled emotions all played out on his face with haunting authenticity.
Everyone who had seen that scene in theaters had felt it.
He had made them feel it.
And if that level of acting didn't deserve a Best Actor Oscar, then who did?
Of course, there were still those who were disappointed.
Mostly, they were fans of the other nominees.
When your favorite actor doesn't win, there's not much to do but grumble at the Oscars and mourn the missed opportunity.
But no matter how you looked at it, Roy's acting left little room for criticism.
Anyone, even a bit rational, would admit that he was a worthy winner.
Over in the East, however, a collective sigh echoed across social media.
The higher the hope, the greater the disappointment. They understood that.
But after Leslie Cheung's Golden Globe win, it was hard not to get their expectations up.
Now that the Oscar had gone to Roy, there was nothing left but a sense of regret.
Leslie himself wasn't particularly surprised. He knew exactly how that Golden Globe had been won.
Westerners could play the game, and though their methods were crude, they were effective.
Still, he didn't feel like the sky was falling.
He truly believed that one day, an Asian actor would stand on that stage and claim that golden statue—fair and square.
If not him, then someone else.
"I'll make sure you stand there one day,"
Laila looked at him, silently making a vow in her heart.
She was still young, and she still had time—time to slowly change Hollywood's rules.
Change a little each year, and eventually, all the bias and discrimination would be gone.
The heated race for Best Actor was over—but the battle for Best Director was only just beginning.
This time, some of the biggest names in the industry had stepped into the ring.
Martin.
Laila.
Each of them was a powerhouse whose mere presence could shake Hollywood.
Steven Spielberg didn't cut War Horse, which was a surprise twist.
But the other nominated directors had all brought strong contenders.
French director Michel Hazanavicius's' The Artist, in particular, had completely won over the Academy.
In the original timeline, he had taken home the Best Director award—beating even Martin Scorsese. That said a lot about how much the judges loved his film.
As the presenter walked onstage, Laila's heart was pounding harder than it ever had before.
Yes, she was nervous.
Very nervous.
Silence was her first true directorial work—and she wanted to know, more than anything, if her skills truly matched the awards she'd won so far.
Of course, being nominated for Best Director was already a huge accomplishment.
If she were still the version of herself from her past life, just seeing her name on the list would have left her crying with joy.
But not anymore.
She'd won so many awards—of all kinds—that her appetite had long since been spoiled.
A simple nomination no longer carried much emotional weight.
Now, she was desperate for the trophy.
Call it ambition, or the fulfillment of a dream carried over from her past life—it didn't matter.
She wanted that Oscar more than anything.
"And the Oscar for Best Director goes to… Laila Moran, Silence!"
The presenter's voice rang out like a message from the heavens.
Laila's breath caught in her throat.
She'd done it.
She really did it.
Hahahaha—
If not for the shred of rationality telling her to stay composed, she might have laughed so hard that her fans would unfollow her out of sheer embarrassment.
But the joy inside her was overwhelming.
Roy, sitting beside her, knew exactly how she felt—he was just as happy as if he'd won the award himself.
Under the gaze of countless cameras, they kissed—fiercely, passionately—and the warmth of her husband's breath finally pulled Laila back from the edge of euphoric delirium.
She walked onstage, receiving the golden statue that symbolized the pinnacle of directorial achievement with reverence in her heart.
At that moment, she heard nothing, felt nothing.
It was as if she'd stepped into a suspended moment outside of time.
The presenter was just about to gently prompt her when Laila finally opened her mouth.
"Unknowingly, it's been more than ten years since I came to Hollywood. Back then, I was full of hope, chasing the dreamland of cinema I'd longed for since childhood."
"I inherited a small company from my father. We had no funding. We didn't even have a full team. But despite that, I never stopped loving film. I believed that with a sincere heart, it was possible to walk this thorny, competitive path."
"Step by step, I grew from a hot-blooded young girl into an adult. I got married and had a child. And throughout that journey, besides my family and the films themselves, it was the fans who loved my work that stayed by my side. This award is the result of your support. As long as you continue to believe in me, I will keep making movies—telling stories that I hope will move this world."
The thunderous applause that followed was Hollywood's collective embrace.
With tear-filled eyes, Laila stepped off the stage and into Roy's arms, her emotions refusing to settle down.
Sure, some of her acceptance speech had been crafted to "sound good."
But that didn't mean there wasn't truth in it.
Hollywood had given her some of the most important things in her life:
—A career fulfilling the dream she'd carried from her past life.
—A husband she loved.
—A little son, Eli.
It was all so perfect that she sometimes feared it was all just a dream she might wake from at any moment.
"You're already this emotional?" Roy chuckled as he gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"You still have one more big award to go tonight."
There was only one award left connected to Laila:
Best Picture.
"Do you think we'll win?" she asked honestly.
She wasn't very confident.
Only films with excellence in every aspect stood a chance of winning Best Picture.
To her, Silence deserved it.
But this film was too special to her—so special that even she couldn't help feeling uncertain.
"Of course we'll win! No question about it." Roy answered with absolute certainty.
"We have the best team, don't we?"
In his eyes, Silence was a modern classic.
Martin's whimsical tale or a black-and-white silent film might be memorable, but when it came to meaning and impact, neither could hold a candle to Silence.
That's why he was so confident.