My mind has turned to mush, a soupy mess of nerves and self-doubt. The name feels foreign on my tongue, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. For a terrifying second, I can't remember if that's actually my name or just one I picked up somewhere along the way. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, and I'm suddenly aware of every bead of sweat trickling down my spine.
His light brown eyes meet mine when I introduce myself, but I'm not even sure if he sees me. I know he sees me in a literal sense, because he reciprocates my eye contact, but I don't think he actually sees me. It's like looking through a window at someone who's watching a different world entirely. His gaze is polite, practiced, but there's no recognition behind it—no spark of connection, no flicker of interest.
I feel like he's looking right through me, as if I don't exist. Like he's on autopilot, just as Gary had been only a few moments ago.
The similarity sends a shiver down my spine. Is this how everyone in this city operates? Moving through life on a predetermined track, eyes focused on some destination I can't see? His hand is still in mine, firm and warm, but his attention has already drifted away, like a ship that's weighed anchor and is now sailing toward some distant shore I'll never reach.
The moment stretches, becoming uncomfortably long. I can feel the crew's eyes on us, can almost hear their silent judgments. My palm begins to sweat against his, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how long this handshake has lasted. Too long. Definitely too long.
I pull my hand back, the sudden release leaving mine feeling cold and empty.
As soon as my hand leaves his firm grip, I wonder if he has already forgotten my name. The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, a painful reminder of Eddy, of how that professor of neuroscience looked right through me in the grocery store aisle, his eyes blank as newly fallen snow. The memory stings, fresh as yesterday, and suddenly Vince's distant gaze feels less like Hollywood indifference and more like a personal attack.
Vince grins toward the camera, a perfect practice smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and takes a seat next to me. The chair scrapes against the floor. He hasn't even bothered to introduce himself. No "hello," no "nice to meet you," just the rustle of his expensive shirt as he settles into the chair, his attention already fixed on some invisible point just beyond the cameras.
What the hell is his problem?!
The question screams through my mind, hot and sharp. I just waited over an hour for him to show up to this. An hour of sweating in these torture devices masquerading as shoes, an hour of replaying every interaction I've had since moving to this godforsaken city, an hour of convincing myself I could actually do this.
I don't care that he's already done this sixteen times. I don't care that this is just another Tuesday for him. A fire ignites somewhere deep in my gut, hot and unexpected. I'm suddenly struck with the desire to prove myself to him. To make him remember who I am, that I matter.
My spine straightens again, this time not out of nervousness but out of sheer, stubborn determination. The bouncing of my knee stops, replaced by a stillness that feels more powerful thanany nervous twitch could ever be. I pick up my script, the papers suddenly feeling lighter in my hands.
I will make him see me.
"Action!"
"Hello, I'm Andrew Parker."
"And I'm Vince Vickers. Welcome to Relay, the game show where you could win $25,000."
The realization hits me like a physical blow, a sudden clarity that makes my stomach churn. I'm not just an imposter anymore—I'm a prop, a human laugh track, a target for Vince's effortless wit. This isn't just a screen test; it's an audition to be the straight man in someone else's comedy routine. The script in my hands suddenly feels heavier, each word a potential landmine in a game I don't even know how to play.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the paper, the crisp edges digging into my skin. I can feel Vince's presence beside me, a warmth that seems to mock the cold dread spreading through my veins. He's probably done this a hundred times, knows exactly how to deliver his lines, when to pause for effect, when to improvise a joke that will leave the audience in stitches.
I force a smile, my lips stretching into what I hope looks like enthusiasm rather than the grimace of panic it actually is. The words on the page blur together, a jumble of black ink that might as well be in another language for all the sense they make to me right now. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden silence that falls between us.
I take a breath, the air catching in my throat. I'll stick to the script, follow the rules, play the part they've cast me in. It's all I can do, really, in this world of practiced indifference and invisible games.
"We have a handful of top contenders in the game right now, Vince. We are starting with twelve contestants, but they havealready proven their athletic abilities simply auditioning to be here tonight. It's really anyone's game."
"That is on point, Andy. It's anyone's game."
My shoulders tense at the nickname, a knot forming in my stomach. "Andy." The name lands like a punch to the gut, taking me back to middle school hallways where older boys would corner me behind the gymnasium, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls.
It's juvenile, condescending, and I hate it more than I hate my own neurotic tendencies, more than I hate these leather shoes that are slowly turning my feet into swampy messes.
I try to push past it, to continue with the lines, but my voice catches in my throat like a fishhook. "Well, I was told we had a very competitive group through trials this round..." The words trail off, the name Andy echoing in my mind like a bad pop song I can't shake, one of those earworms that burrows deep and refuses to die.
My eyes dart toward Gary, standing behind the camera like some kind of vulture waiting for roadkill. I raise a hand, motioning for his attention until his eyes lock with mine across the studio floor.
"Hey, I go by Andrew, or Drew if anything, but not Andy. No one calls me Andy anymore... I hate it, actually. Can we do a retake? I'm not being called Andy."
The words spill out of me, desperate and pathetic, but I don't care. In this moment, I'd rather be labeled difficult than be reduced to a name that makes my skin crawl.
My voice shakes with a conviction I didn't know I possessed, cutting through the studio's artificial silence. Every pair of eyes suddenly turns to me, their collective gaze a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. Vince's practiced smile falters for a fraction of a second, a crack in his perfect facade that sends a jolt of something—triumph? terror?—through my veins. I canfeel Gary's glare from behind the camera, hot enough to burn holes through my skull, but I hold his gaze, my hand still raised in the air.
Silence. The crew continues bustling, adjusting lights and checking monitors, as if I've said nothing at all. My hand rakes through my blonde hair again, a nervous habit I can't seem to control. I turn to Vince, who remains seated beside me, his expression unreadable.
