Jason pulled his apron over his head, adjusting the straps until they sat neatly against his shoulders. The reflection staring back at him from the mirror in the breakroom was a far cry from the ambitious actor who had moved to Los Angeles all those years ago. He looked like any other waiter now, blending in with the rest of the staff in their worn uniforms and tired eyes.
The restaurant buzzed with the early lunch crowd, tourists and locals alike piling in for overpriced salads and sandwiches. Jason moved through the routine mechanically—taking orders, refilling drinks, plastering on a polite smile that barely reached his eyes. The tips were small today, adding another layer of frustration to an already dismal week.
Every table he approached felt like an interrogation, his mind racing with silent questions: Do they see me? Do they know what I've been through? Do they care?
Of course, they didn't.
The sounds of laughter from a group of college students at the corner table grated on his nerves. They were carefree, excited about something he no longer understood. Maybe it was youth, maybe it was the promise of a future that still felt wide open for them. For Jason, that door had been slamming shut for years, and now he could feel the lock turning.
"Jason, table four needs a refill," his manager, Carol, called from behind the bar, breaking him out of his thoughts.
He nodded, grabbing the pitcher of water. Carol was one of the few constants in his life. She had hired him when he first arrived in LA, back when his dreams still felt fresh and possible. Now, she seemed to sense his growing exhaustion, though they rarely spoke about it.
As he approached table four, a couple in their mid-thirties was discussing a new show they'd started watching. Jason caught snippets of their conversation as he poured the water.
"Did you see how amazing the lead actor was? He's going to blow up. I heard he's already been signed for a movie deal."
Jason felt his stomach knot at the mention of another rising star. It wasn't that he begrudged anyone their success—he knew how hard the industry could be—but hearing about it, day after day, while he served tables felt like twisting the knife.
He plastered on a smile and finished filling their glasses. "Enjoy your meal," he said, his voice strained with the effort of pretending everything was fine.
As he turned to leave, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, focusing on the task at hand, but the familiar knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. Rejection had become such a normal part of his life that he didn't need to check his phone to know what it was.
By the time his shift ended, Jason's feet ached, and his mood had sunk even lower. The sun was already setting, casting long shadows over the streets of downtown LA as he stepped outside. The city, with its towering buildings and bright lights, had never felt more indifferent. People rushed past him, each caught up in their own lives, their own aspirations.
Jason pulled out his phone, bracing himself for the inevitable disappointment. Sure enough, a new email notification sat at the top of his inbox. The subject line read, "Thank you for your interest" —the same cold, impersonal line he had read dozens of times before.
He opened the email, skimming the familiar words:
"Dear Jason,
Thank you for auditioning for the role of Matt in our upcoming web series. While we were impressed with your performance, we have decided to move forward with another candidate who more closely fits the role we envisioned. We appreciate your time and effort and wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors."
Jason stared at the screen, his grip tightening on the phone. "Impressed with your performance"—those words meant nothing. If they were impressed, they wouldn't have passed him over. The email was just a nicer way of telling him he wasn't good enough, again.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started walking, no destination in mind. The city around him blurred into a mass of lights and sounds, each step bringing him closer to some edge he couldn't quite see. He had lost count of how many times he had auditioned for roles just like that one—small parts, low-budget productions, anything that might get him noticed. But no matter how hard he tried, the doors kept closing.
Jason found himself in front of a small café he used to frequent when he first arrived in LA. Back then, he had sat in these very seats, scribbling down notes for potential roles, preparing for auditions with a heart full of hope. He had believed, truly believed, that it was just a matter of time before his big break came.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
Taking a seat at one of the outdoor tables, Jason pulled out his phone again, scrolling through the endless feed of success stories. Actors he'd once shared casting rooms with were now starring in films, getting invited to award shows, living the life he had once dreamed of.
"Maybe it's time to quit," he thought, the words heavy in his mind. He had heard it so many times—friends and family gently suggesting that he come back home, find something more "stable." But every time he considered it, his chest tightened with a mix of fear and regret. Quitting meant admitting he had wasted the last decade of his life. Quitting meant letting go of the one thing he had ever really wanted.
He glanced down at his reflection in the café window, the city lights casting a faint glow around him. His brown hair hung loosely around his face, his blue eyes dull from exhaustion. He didn't look like someone on the verge of making it. He looked like someone who was lost.
But deep down, Jason knew he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. There was still a small part of him, buried beneath the layers of rejection and failure, that believed he could make it. That maybe, just maybe, there was a role out there with his name on it.
He would keep going, for now. But how much longer could he hold on?