The Feeling
1268 Words
The morning sun spilled over the sprawling soundstage complex just outside Burbank, casting long golden shadows across the pavement. Serena stepped off the shuttle van with her satchel slung over one shoulder, heart racing with the same anxious rhythm it had beaten the day she sang her first cover in a smoky bar. But this was different. This was real.
The gates of Studio 8 loomed ahead, flanked by palm trees and crew members already buzzing about with coffee in hand and walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. She checked her phone again—yes, this was the place.
"Serena Wen?" a voice called from the check-in booth.
"That’s me," she said, pushing forward.
The speaker was a round-faced man in his forties, dressed in cargo shorts and a hoodie that probably had the production logo on the back. “Hey, I’m Daniel Moss, assistant director for Before the Fall. Welcome aboard.”
She nodded quickly. “Thanks. First time on a real set.”
Daniel grinned. “You’ll do fine. Come on, let me show you around.”
The studio complex was a city of its own. Set designers moved massive backdrops, grips dragged cords across the pavement, and extras stood around in costume waiting for their cues. Daniel led her through the maze, occasionally stopping to shout directions or wave at someone he knew.
“We’ve got a full day ahead. The director, Chris Carter, is a stickler for nuance. Just a heads-up.”
Serena made a mental note. Chris Carter: tough guy, likes nuance.
They reached one of the primary shooting areas—a recreated 1920s street scene, complete with old-fashioned lampposts and brick storefronts. It looked like something out of a time capsule.
“Here’s where we’re shooting this afternoon. Take a seat and go over your script. You’ll be up later,” Daniel said, handing her a packet of sides.
Serena took a seat by a makeup tent and flipped open the script. Her character—a streetwise drifter—was to confront the female lead with a cryptic warning. A handful of lines, but just enough to show range. She read them again and again, already running through how she might deliver them—voice low, steady, just a touch of mystery.
A sudden splash echoed across the lot, followed by a loud “Cut!”
Serena looked up. They were filming on a different set across the lot—an artificial lake bordered by fake cliffs. A young blonde woman in a soaked gown stumbled out of the water, shivering and visibly annoyed. Crew rushed forward with towels.
“Again? That’s the third take!” came a sharp voice—Director Chris Carter, no doubt. He looked frustrated, his arms folded across his chest.
He turned toward Daniel. “We need someone who can actually hit the emotion. Find me someone else to try that scene—someone with grit.”
Daniel gave Serena a subtle nod. “Your shot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She wasn’t sure if it was nerves or caffeine fueling her as she followed him to the water set. They gave her a fresh costume—nothing fancy, just jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots—and she quickly changed behind a portable screen.
The camera rolled. The director shouted, “Action!”
Serena stepped into the scene. The fake rain poured down, and she pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, locking gazes with the lead actress, who stood on the opposite side of the dock. She delivered her lines—quiet, direct, layered with just enough emotion to make the words stick.
“Cut.”
Chris squinted at her. “What’s your name again?”
“Serena.”
He nodded once. “Not bad. You’ve got presence. Let’s keep going.”
They ended up filming several more versions of the scene with Serena in different roles, testing her out. She didn’t ask questions—just followed cues, adapted, gave it her all. Hours passed in a blur of movement, rewrites, and lighting adjustments.
During a break, she sat on a bench near the food truck, sipping water and letting the adrenaline wear off. A young man—tall, casually dressed, with a hint of mischief in his grin—sat down beside her.
“Hey. I’m Evan. You killed it back there.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I think I still have water in my ears.”
Evan chuckled. “That means it’s going well.”
They chatted for a bit—he was cast in one of the supporting roles and had been on the show since the pilot. He gave her a quick lowdown on the crew, who to avoid, and who always had gum.
By sunset, the shooting wrapped for the day. Chris Carter stood before the group, clipboard in hand, his expression lighter than earlier.
“Nice work, everyone. We’ll review the footage tonight. If you’re called back tomorrow—congratulations.”
There was a murmur of polite applause from the cast and crew. Serena clapped along, still processing everything. It was surreal—only a few hours ago, she was just hoping to deliver one decent scene without tripping over her words. Now she had been in multiple shots, soaked to the bone, screamed into the wind, even pulled off some emotional close-ups. Her body ached, but her chest felt light.
As she packed her things, Daniel caught up with her.
“Hey. Just so you know—Foster was impressed. You might get a callback, or even better. We’ll be in touch.”
Serena blinked. “Seriously?”
He smiled. “You’ve got a look, and more importantly, you listened. That’s rare.”
She nodded quickly, trying to play it cool. “Thank you. Really.”
“Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She boarded the crew shuttle out of the studio and switched buses downtown. By then, the orange sky had faded to purple, the streets washed in twilight and flickering streetlights. The city outside her window felt slower than usual—like it was waiting for something too.
Serena leaned against the glass of the half-empty bus, her satchel clutched in her lap, and let herself breathe.
For the first time in a long while, the silence wasn’t heavy.
She thought back to that moment in the rain-drenched scene, when the director called “action” and the world narrowed into focus.
The fake storm, the floodlights, the tension in the air—somehow it had felt realer than the life she lived day-to-day. Not just a job, not just pretending. For that brief stretch of time, she hadn’t been the struggling daughter of a sick mother, or the stand-in who was used like a bargaining chip.
She had been someone else—someone who mattered.
And yet, strangely, it didn’t feel like she was running away from herself. It felt like she had stepped into something. Like a version of herself that had always been there, waiting quietly in the wings.
Her reflection ghosted back at her from the window: damp hair, smudged eyeliner, lips curved just slightly at the corners. She didn’t look glamorous. She looked tired, real, alive.
A small smile tugged at her mouth.
“I could get used to this,” she whispered.
Not to the cameras or the fake tears—but to the feeling. The feeling of doing something real.
Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever the agent or Louis or anyone else threw her way—she had this.
And for once, that was enough.
- Writer
