The soft hum of my phone broke the quiet in my apartment. I reached for it and froze. Social media. Movie posters flashed across the screen, faces of actors who had clawed their way to the top, capturing my attention like magnets. I held my chest instinctively.
This will be me one day. Trust the process. This will be you, Venny.
Each image sparked a pulse of determination. I could almost feel the heat of stage lights on my face, the rush of being watched, the electric thrill of doing what I loved. It wasn't fame I craved—it was mastery, the kind of presence that made people lean in without realizing why.
But the thoughts didn't stop. My mind drifted, unbidden, to high school. The endless days of being invisible, the so-called friends who mocked me behind their whispers, the exclusion from every group and activity. Life had felt small, dull, like I was living someone else's story. I scrolled past some familiar faces, mutuals now, but nothing more. Ghosts of a past I didn't want to relive.
The screen blinked again. My mother's missed call. My finger hovered over the icon. I knew what she would say—how she'd insist I "choose a real career," how she'd try to talk me out of acting, gaslight me into doubt. I put the phone down. Not today. Not now. This is my life.
A ping from the group chat drew my attention.
Acting workshop today. Casting directors are looking for extras. Come prepared.
My chest tightened with excitement. My first real opportunity, a foot on the ladder I'd been dreaming about. I grabbed my bag, checked my outfit in the mirror, and whispered again,
You belong here, Venny. Confidence first, fear later.
Velinor Academy's streets were a blur as I walked briskly, anticipation tightening my stomach. I arrived at the workshop space—a small studio tucked behind the main building. The set was alive with motion: cameras on tripods, lights angled to perfection, assistants rushing with clipboards, people adjusting costumes. The smell of fresh paint mixed with coffee and the faint tang of something metallic. It was chaotic, but it was mine to navigate.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself: observe, adapt, learn.
I stepped into the crowd, and that's when I collided—quite literally—with someone.
"Oh!" a voice said sharply. I looked up and froze.
Rita Wills.
Tall, poised, and with an air that seemed to command attention effortlessly, she was older than me by a few years, a 24-year-old rising star whose name I'd read about in articles and on social media. Her expression twisted slightly at the collision, eyes narrowing.
"The hell is wrong with you?," she said, though the words were coated with a layer of practiced superiority.
"I am—sorry," I stammered, stepping back.
Her gaze flicked over me, assessing, and I could feel her judgment weigh heavy, almost tangible. First impression, first battle, I thought, clenching my fists briefly inside my coat pockets.
I forced a small smile. "I am Venny. I loved your recent performance in—"
"I don't care," she replied, voice smooth but icy, a subtle sneer hidden in the cadence. Then she turned on her heel, striding away like she owned the space, and immediately a group of assistants swarmed around her.
I exhaled, trying to steady the knot in my chest. This wasn't personal. The industry was brutal, and confidence was currency. Rita's attitude wasn't a wall—it was a challenge, a mirror to show me where I could grow.
I scanned the room, noting the extras rehearsing, the casting directors taking notes, the actors running lines quietly in corners. The energy was electric, intimidating, and intoxicating all at once.
I found a small spot near a camera, sitting quietly as the workshop began. My notebook stayed tucked under my arm, reminders scrawled across the pages: focus, breathe, presence.
I watched Rita move, commanding every corner of the room without a single raised voice, every assistant seemingly hanging on her gesture. She was skilled, and yes, infuriatingly good.
Yet as I observed, a spark lit inside me. That could be me. That will be me. My hands crossed over my chest unconsciously, whispering the words aloud this time, just in case the universe had ears: Always remember Venny, this is going to be you one day.
The casting director called everyone forward to perform a short scene. My heart raced as I stepped into the small marked area on the floor, lights hitting my face just enough to warm, not blind. I took a deep breath, channeling every ounce of energy from the posters, the social media inspiration, the memory of high school, the sting of exclusion.
Lines fell from my lips, willed, careful. I stumbled once, corrected myself mid-thought, and felt the weight of eyes on me—not judgmental, but curious, evaluating. I was alive.
When I finished, a small nod from one of the directors told me I'd been seen. Not praised, not criticized, just noticed.
I backed away, letting the next person take their turn, and glanced at Rita. She paused, watching quietly, expression unreadable. For a moment, it felt as though our eyes met, and I caught a glimpse of something—interest? Amusement? I couldn't tell.
I stepped back into the crowd, heart pounding, mind racing, but for the first time, I felt the tiniest taste of belonging. Not because anyone had told me I fit in, but because I had chosen to.
The workshop ended in a blur of applause and hurried conversations. Notes were scribbled, phone numbers exchanged. As I left the studio, I couldn't help but think of my chest pressed over my heart, whispering again: Trust the process. This will be you.
Rita's gaze lingered as I passed her. Whether she noticed me or not, I didn't know. But a quiet thrill hummed in my chest, the kind that told me this wasn't the last time we'd cross paths.
Velinor's streets felt different as I walked back. Bigger, brighter, alive with possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't just belong in my dreams—I belonged in the space where dreams were made.
In the chaos of lights, cameras, and whispered ambition, I realized: the journey had just begun. And nothing—not fear, not competition, not the memory of high school—would stop me.