CHAPTER 67: SPILL IT

Almost an hour later, Director Lennard’s call came in. Her stomach flipped. Already?

She swiped to answer. "Good evening, Mr. Crewe—"

"Stop. Don’t ’Mr. Crewe’ me," he interrupted, his voice pointed but not unkind. "Makes me sound like an accountant. It’s Lennard. Or, if you must be formal, ’Your Grace of the Hinterland,’ but I wouldn’t recommend it. Terribly outdated title."

Erisia blinked. "Right... Lennard."

"Good," he said briskly, papers rustling faintly in the background. "So. Your self-tape."

She straightened instinctively. "Yes?"

"I watched it twice. Once as a director, and once as a very tired man with a glass of whiskey. The director loved it; the tired man felt mildly emotionally assaulted — in a good way."

Erisia let out a small, nervous laugh. "That... sounds like a compliment?"

"It is. Don’t ruin it by overthinking." There was the sound of him pacing, maybe in a large room — she could almost hear his shoes clicking on hardwood. "You did something rather interesting — you let silence breathe. Not many actors can resist the temptation to fill it. You didn’t. That’s good. Shows trust in the moment."

She smiled, warmth curling in her chest.

"However," Lennard continued, dragging out the word like a scalpel about to make an incision, "You start the scene as if you know what’s coming. But Maren doesn’t know. She’s not grieving, she’s... drifting."

Erisia frowned slightly. "Drifting?"

"Yes, yes." His tone sharpened with excitement. "She’s a woman standing on the edge of a memory that won’t let her in. You’re playing awareness — but she hasn’t earned that yet. She’s trying to stay functional, not feel. You see the distinction?"

"I think so," she said slowly.

He didn’t seem convinced. "Hmm. Think of Subtext and Inner Life. That’s where you need work. You understand the emotion, but you’re telegraphing it — giving the audience the roadmap when they should be lost in the fog with you."

Erisia nodded slowly, opening the cap of her pen with her mouth and jotting something in her notebook even though he couldn’t see her. "So... more subtlety? Less showing?"

"Not less showing. Less declaring." His tone sharpened slightly, then softened just as quickly. "Think of it like this: the line isn’t ’I miss him,’ it’s ’I can’t find the salt.’ But underneath, your body’s remembering every second of loss. The words lie, the body tells the truth. That’s subtext."

She hesitated. "So... she’s lying to herself?"

"Yes! Yes, finally!" Lennard’s voice lit up, sudden and theatrical. "She’s pretending she’s fine — she’s been pretending for years. The line about the barn? Perfectly done. But you almost smiled at the end — like the thought of him coming back was comforting. No, no, no — that line should feel like swallowing glass. You say it because if you don’t, you’ll scream."

Erisia was silent, absorbing his words.

"And one more thing," Lennard said after a moment. "The phone. When you picked it up, you did it like you were answering a call from your agent. Too clean. Try it again sometime — pick it up like you already know bad news is waiting on the other end."

Her pen hovered midair. "Got it. Thank you."

There was a pause. Then, in typical Lennard fashion, he added dramatically, "You’re like tea without sugar — good, clean, strong. But next time, let it steep a little longer. Let it get darker before you sip."

Erisia blinked. "...I drink normal tea, actually."

"Yes, yes, of course you do," he said absently, as if she’d confessed a personal flaw. "Anyway — this is good work, Erisia. Truly. But don’t act like you know the ending. Not yet. Let the story discover you first."

Before she could reply, he hung up.

Erisia stared at her phone, a slow grin spreading across her face. Eccentric didn’t even begin to cover him — but God, she could see why actors would kill to work under his direction.

She set her phone down, her mind already replaying his notes. Subtext and inner life. He was right — she’d played the truth too cleanly. But next time... next time, she’d make it haunt.

But... why did it feel like she was missing something?

Wait..! The information she wanted to ask about.

•••

Rita came back late that night, shoulders slumped, the sound of her key scraping tiredly against the lock. As soon as she stepped into the apartment, she nudged the door shut with her hip and let her tote bag fall onto the couch. It landed with a dull thud, spilling a pen and a half-empty sanitizer bottle.

She groaned, collapsing onto the cushions like someone who’d been fighting gravity all day.

From the kitchen came the faint clatter of a pot lid, followed by Erisia’s voice. "You’ve arrived."

Rita cracked an eye open. "Yeah."

"A lot of work?"

"More than ever." She let out another groan. "One nurse went on emergency leave, and another collapsed and got admitted—added to the patient list. Can you fucking believe that?"

Erisia bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "Now you know how your colleagues feel when you’re the one taking fake off days."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Rita muttered, turning her face into the couch cushion. Her voice came out muffled. "Please tell me there’s dinner."

"There is. I just finished cooking."

"M’kay."

Erisia dried her hands on a towel and leaned against the doorframe, watching her friend’s half-buried figure. "Rita?"

"Hm?"

"Get up. Go freshen up, change your clothes, then come eat."

"Uh, what?" Rita’s muffled voice came again, followed by a dramatic sigh. Then she turned her head just enough to protest. "No. I’m tired!"

Erisia sighed, walking over. "Come on. I’ll help you up."

"Right," Rita muttered, but didn’t resist when Erisia hooked an arm under hers and hauled her off the couch.

The two of them shuffled down the short hallway like mismatched roommates in a sitcom. The air smelled faintly of rice and ginger from the kitchen, and a single lamp by the door cast bright white light over the space.

Rita mumbled something about quitting her job as Erisia pushed open her bedroom door. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, bed a mess of crumpled sheets and a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.

"Go shower," Erisia ordered gently, crossing her arms. "And change into something that doesn’t look like it’s been through a twelve-hour shift."

Rita shot her a look that was halfway between exhaustion and betrayal. "You sound like my mother."

"Then listen to me like one."

That earned a snort, but Rita trudged toward the bathroom anyway. The sound of running water soon filled the silence.

Erisia smiled faintly, shaking her head before heading back to the kitchen. She set the table — two bowls of rice, vegetable stir-fry, and a pot of soup — then poured herself a glass of juice.

By the time Rita reemerged, hair damp and wearing an oversized T-shirt and shorts, the apartment smelled comforting. She flopped down into her chair with a sigh of genuine relief.

"God, I needed that shower."

"I told you," Erisia said, placing a bowl in front of her.

"Mm-hm," Rita hummed, digging in. Halfway through her first bite, she glanced up. "So... what did you do today? You look suspiciously pleased with yourself."

Erisia’s lips curved slightly. "You could say that."

"Oh, here we go," Rita said, leaning back, chopsticks paused midair. "Spill it."

"Well," Erisia began, settling across from her, "remember that director I told you about — the one I sent my portfolio to?"

Rita’s eyebrows lifted. "Lennard something?"

"Lennard Crewe," Erisia said with a little spark of excitement in her tone. "He called me last night. Said he reviewed my portfolio. Then he sent me a scene and told me to record a self-tape — a monologue which is actually for the first round of auditions."

Rita blinked. "Wait, wait, the first round of auditions? Does that mean he is already considering you?"

Erisia nodded, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. "I guess you could say that but there are two more audition rounds so..."

Rita gaped, chopsticks still poised midair. "It’s alright, Eri. You’re definitely going to be picked. What role?"

Erisia hesitated for a second, then said, "The protagonist."