A rainy night in Tokyo and a sunny afternoon in Hollywood, separated by a sixteen-hour time difference.
Leon had just wrapped up a day of shooting for Final Destination.
He returned to his apartment, where the Los Angeles afternoon sun streamed through the window, almost blindingly bright.
"Leon…"
Scarlett's voice came through the phone, accompanied by the soft, relentless patter of rain in the background.
"I'm here," Leon replied, sinking into the couch and loosening his collar. His voice softened naturally, almost instinctively.
He could vividly picture the scene on her end:
Scarlett, probably curled up in some corner of her hotel room, the window framing blurred neon lights outside.
"Today… was awful," she said, sniffing, her voice tinged with a rare sense of defeat.
"Sofia wants something… I can't even describe it. It's not sadness, not happiness—it's this… detached, lost feeling, like you're watching the world from outside your own body."
She paused, struggling to find words for the abstract, demanding vision of director Sofia Coppola.
"I flubbed it seventeen times. Seventeen! Bill [Murray] even started cracking corny jokes to lighten the mood, but I still couldn't get it. I felt like an idiot, stumbling around in a pink dress that didn't even fit right, totally lost in front of the camera…"
Leon listened quietly, not rushing to interrupt or offer advice.
He just let her vent, letting the frustration and anxiety pour out.
He could hear the faint rustle of fabric on her end, imagining her burying her face in her knees or a pillow.
"And the language barrier doesn't help," she went on, her complaints picking up steam.
"The translator the crew gave me can't always keep up with Sofia's wordy, vague descriptions. I swear half my energy goes into figuring out what the hell 'ethereal alienation' is supposed to mean."
Leon's lips curled into a faint, barely noticeable smile.
He could picture the scene: a brilliant but demanding young director trying to explain an intangible emotion to a native English speaker, with a bewildered translator caught in the middle.
It was like a absurd little cultural clash playing out on set.
"Sounds like," Leon said slowly, waiting for her to catch her breath, "Sofia's not asking you to 'act' an emotion. She's trying to capture a state of 'being.'"
Scarlett went quiet for a moment, mulling over his words. "Being?"
"Yeah," Leon said, shifting to get more comfortable.
"Think about it. You're alone in a completely foreign city, surrounded by a language you don't understand, signs you can't read, and all your usual routines are thrown out the window."
"Wouldn't that naturally make you feel like an observer?"
"Like you're a ghost, floating outside your own life?"
The only sounds from her end were the steady rain and her breathing, now slower and calmer.
Leon kept going, guiding her gently:
"Don't try to 'act' lost."
"Just stand there and let the feeling of being lost find you."
"Feel the air, the humidity, the way the crowds move past you like you're invisible."
"The camera's not filming you 'acting' detached—it's capturing you living that detachment."
He paused, giving her space to process.
"Maybe what Sofia wants isn't the end result, but the process itself. It's Scarlett Johansson, an American girl, genuinely lost in Tokyo."
A long, relieved exhale came through the phone, like a weight lifting.
"God… the way you put it…" Scarlett's voice lightened, the tension in it melting away. "That actually makes sense. I think I've been trying too hard to 'get it right,' to prove I deserve this role."
"You do deserve it," Leon said, his tone firm and unwavering.
"Otherwise, Sofia wouldn't have picked you. She saw something in you that others didn't. Now you just need to relax, trust her, and trust yourself."
"Mm…" Scarlett's voice softened, a hint of warmth and reliance creeping in.
"I wish you were here right now. Your words are way more helpful than that translator's."
Leon chuckled. "My rates are a lot higher than a translator's, you know."
"I'll owe you," Scarlett teased, her usual playfulness returning. "I'll pay you back with our next 'morning check-in.'"
The conversation naturally shifted to lighter topics.
She started griping about the overly complicated smart toilet in her Tokyo hotel room, the unsatisfying portions of Japanese set meals, and the struggle of finding a cab in the rain.
Leon, in turn, shared stories from his set: how James Wong lost it over a misplaced prop, or how Anne Hathaway took half a day to shake off an emotional breakdown scene, looking like a startled bunny.
They chatted about the little details of their days, as if they were in the same room.
The phone became a bridge connecting two different worlds, two different moods.
He was basking in the LA sunlight, navigating the chaos of newfound fame; she was soaked in Tokyo's rain, grappling with the growing pains of her craft.
But in that moment, they belonged only to each other.
"The rain's letting up a bit," Scarlett said suddenly, the sound of it indeed fainter in the background.
"I feel… a lot better. Really. Thanks, Leon."
"Anytime, Scarlett," he replied, his voice warm but steady.
"I should go read the script," she said, her tone brimming with renewed determination.
"I'm gonna try reading it in that 'ghost' mindset you talked about. Tomorrow, I'll take on Sofia and her fancy adjectives."
"Go for it. Remember, you're Scarlett Johansson—the woman who's gonna make Oscar take notice. A little rain and some abstract concepts won't stop you."
"Ha! I love that," she laughed. "Good night, Leon. Or, I guess, good afternoon?"
"Good night, Scarlett. Sweet dreams."
When the call ended, her final, laughter-laced "good night" seemed to linger in the receiver.
The apartment fell silent.
Leon set the phone down and walked to the window.
The Los Angeles sun was still blazing, but he could almost see the heavy, rain-soaked clouds hanging over Tokyo—and the girl beneath them, picking herself back up.
There was a strange satisfaction in this long-distance, almost mentor-like support.
It wasn't the same thrill as Saw crushing it at the box office—it was something quieter, more intimate, a deeper kind of connection.
He wasn't just building his own career; in some small way, he was helping shape Scarlett Johansson's future.
He thought back to the state she'd described—detached, like an observer, floating like a ghost.
Wasn't that, in a way, his own reality in this era?
A soul from the future, watching, analyzing, and trying to steer the course of everything around him.
Maybe he and Scarlett were more alike than he realized.
Both were searching for their truest, most powerful place in a world that felt both familiar and alien.
He picked up the Final Destination script from the table but didn't open it.
Outside, the sunlight cast long shadows across the floor.
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