The stew was cold by the time Jason finally ate it. He had spent the last few hours sitting at his kitchen table, staring blankly at the stack of bills and headshots, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. Mrs. Franklin's small act of kindness had temporarily lifted his spirits, but as the night wore on, the weight of reality came crashing back down.
After finishing the stew, Jason washed the bowl and set it on the counter, his movements sluggish and automatic. The apartment was eerily silent, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside. He walked over to the couch and collapsed onto it, grabbing his phone off the armrest. He knew what he was about to do wasn't going to help, but it had become a habit he couldn't break.
Scrolling through social media, Jason was bombarded with images of success. Actors he had once called friends were posting behind-the-scenes shots from set, sharing stories of their experiences, and boasting about upcoming projects. It was like everyone in his circle had managed to find their way into the industry, while he was stuck in the same place he'd been for years—on the outside looking in.
He clicked on one post from an old classmate, Lisa, who had just landed a recurring role on a hit TV show. Jason remembered when they had both auditioned for the same commercial five years ago. She had been nervous, unsure of herself, and Jason had tried to give her a pep talk. She hadn't gotten the commercial, but within a year, she was booking small roles, gaining momentum, until now, where she had finally made it big.
He stared at her post, feeling a mixture of pride for her and a hollow ache in his chest. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. He wanted her to succeed, but each new milestone in her career felt like a reminder of his own stagnation. He had been there at the beginning, sharing the same dreams, but somewhere along the way, their paths had diverged. Hers had gone up. His had gone nowhere.
Jason locked his phone and tossed it onto the couch. The familiar wave of self-pity washed over him, but this time, it was heavier, darker. He had always believed that if he worked hard enough, he'd eventually get his chance. He had heard it from every mentor, every coach, every casting director: "Just keep at it, and one day, something will click." But after years of keeping at it, nothing had clicked.
The memories flooded his mind, uninvited and relentless.
He remembered the first time he told his parents he wanted to be an actor. He had been sixteen, filled with excitement and naivety. His mother had smiled, encouraging his passion, while his father had offered more pragmatic advice: "It's a tough business, Jason. Make sure you have a backup plan." But Jason had brushed it off, confident that he didn't need a backup plan. He was going to make it, no matter what.
His parents had supported him at first, helping him move to Los Angeles, scraping together enough money to help with his rent while he got on his feet. Jason had assured them that he'd start booking roles right away, that he wouldn't need their help for long. But as the months turned into years, and the rejections piled up, the phone calls home had grown less frequent, his confidence fading with each one.
Eventually, his father stopped asking about auditions, and his mother's tone had shifted from supportive to concerned. "Maybe you should come home for a while, Jason," she had said during their last conversation. "Take a break, regroup. There's no shame in starting fresh."
Jason had told her he was fine, that he just needed more time. But now, sitting in his dark apartment, he wondered if they had been right all along. Maybe it was time to come home. Maybe it was time to stop fighting for something that wasn't meant to be.
He stood up and walked over to his desk, pulling open the drawer where he kept his most treasured possession—a faded, dog-eared letter from a casting director he had met during his first year in LA. The letter had been a lifeline back then, a small spark of hope in a sea of rejection.
"You have real potential, Jason. I see something in you that could take you far in this industry. Keep working, keep grinding, and don't give up. Your time will come."
He had clung to those words for years, using them as motivation whenever the doubts crept in. But now, as he stared at the letter, the ink faded and the paper crinkled from age, the words felt hollow. That casting director had moved on, working with bigger names and bigger projects, while Jason was still exactly where he had been all those years ago.
His phone buzzed on the couch, pulling him out of his thoughts. He walked over and picked it up, half expecting another rejection email. But it wasn't. It was a text from his mother.
"Hey, honey. Just checking in. How are things? We miss you. Call when you can. Love, Mom."
Jason stared at the message for a long time. The temptation to pack up and leave LA gnawed at him, pulling him toward the safety of home, the comfort of giving up. It would be so easy to leave. No more auditions. No more rejections. No more struggling to pay rent in a city that didn't care if he succeeded or failed.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, something inside him resisted. Giving up meant closing the door forever. And despite everything—despite the years of failure and disappointment—there was a part of him, buried deep, that wasn't ready to do that. Not yet.
Jason sat back down on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. He knew he couldn't go on like this forever, but he also knew that if he left, he'd never forgive himself. He had come too far to quit now, even if the odds were stacked against him.
The night dragged on, and Jason found himself lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His eyes grew heavy, and the sound of the city outside began to fade. As he drifted off to sleep, his mind buzzed with the familiar ache of uncertainty, of dreams that seemed just out of reach.
The world spun slowly around him, and before he knew it, everything went dark.