I looked at the screenplay one more time.
The Astronaut’s Promise.
Most scripts landed on my desk because studios wanted opinions before sending them to actors.
Over the past two months, I had read dozens of them.
Some were entertaining.
Some were terrible.
Most were…
forgettable.
This one refused to leave my mind.
I picked it up again, flipping through pages I had already read.
There wasn’t a single unnecessary scene.
Every conversation revealed something about the characters.
Every chapter moved the story forward.
The protagonist wasn’t trying to save the world.
He was trying to survive his own grief.
That felt…
Human.
Universal.
I checked the clock.
Three fifteen.
Timothy’s afternoon meeting with Clara had just ended.
If I wanted him to read it before tonight’s premiere, now was my chance.
Taking a slow breath, I stood up, straightened the screenplay against my palm, and walked toward the private lounge.
— The lounge was unusually quiet.
Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting warm streaks across polished wooden floors.
Timothy sat on the sofa near the window, his jacket folded neatly beside him.
His phone rested in one hand while the other absentmindedly stirred a cup of black coffee that had probably gone cold twenty minutes ago.
For the first time all day…
He looked relaxed.
Or at least…
As relaxed as someone could be before a worldwide movie premiere.
I knocked gently against the half-open door.
“Come in.” I stepped inside.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He looked up immediately.
“No interruption.” His eyes drifted toward the screenplay in my hands.
“What’ve you got there?” “I’ve been reading today’s submissions.” I walked closer.
“I think…
you’ll like this one.” He leaned forward, curiosity replacing the exhaustion on his face.
“Really?” I nodded.
“It’s different.” He accepted the screenplay, our fingers brushing for only a second before he looked down at the cover.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
The Astronaut’s Promise.
“I’ve never heard of it.” “The writer’s relatively unknown.” “That’s usually either very good…” He smiled faintly.
“…or very dangerous.” I couldn’t help laughing.
“Hopefully the first.” He opened the first page.
The room fell silent.
— I had intended to leave.
Instead…
I found myself sitting quietly across from him with my tablet, pretending to organize tomorrow’s schedule.
Pretending.
Because every few seconds, my eyes wandered toward him.
Not obviously.
Just enough to notice.
At first, he read casually.
The way people skim new material.
Then…
His posture changed.
He leaned forward.
His coffee remained untouched.
His phone buzzed twice on the table.
He ignored it.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The only sound inside the lounge was the turning of pages.
I watched subtle expressions cross his face.
His brow furrowed during one emotional confrontation.
A small smile appeared after an unexpectedly gentle conversation between the astronaut and his wife.
Then…
Silence again.
He wasn’t reading anymore.
He was living inside the story.
I’d seen that expression before.
Once.
During rehearsals for Eclipse.
It was the face Timothy made when he completely disappeared into another person’s life.
Actors didn’t simply memorize dialogue.
The great ones searched for truth.
And right now…
He’d found something.
— Nearly forty minutes later…
He closed the screenplay slowly.
Neither of us spoke.
He rested both hands on the cover, staring thoughtfully at nothing.
I waited.
Finally…
He looked at me.
“Where did you find this?” “It came in this morning.” “And no one mentioned it?” “It was buried beneath seven other scripts.” His gaze dropped back to the screenplay.
“They almost missed this.” “I think so.” Another long silence.
Then…
“What made you bring it to me?” I thought carefully before answering.
“It reminded me of you.” His eyes lifted.
“Me?” “Not because of the astronaut.” I shook my head.
“Because he carries grief quietly.” “He doesn’t ask people to understand him.” “He just…
keeps moving.” “He finds purpose through his work.” “And…” I smiled softly.
“You’ve always said the best characters feel like real people.” “I think Daniel Reeves does.” For several seconds…
Timothy didn’t respond.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he was thinking.
“I haven’t connected with a script like this in years.” His voice was almost a whisper.
“It doesn’t try to impress anyone.” “No.” “It just tells the truth.” “Exactly.” He leaned back against the sofa.
“I’ve spent the last few years playing heroes.” He laughed quietly.
“Soldiers.” “Detectives.” “Secret agents.” “Men saving everyone except themselves.” His fingers tapped gently against the screenplay.
“But this…” He looked down again.
“This man can’t even save himself.” “He has to learn how.” I nodded.
“And that’s harder.” “It is.” He smiled.
“You know…” He glanced toward me.
“You’re becoming dangerously good at this.” I blinked.
“What do you mean?” “Finding stories.” “Understanding characters.” He lifted the screenplay slightly.
“This isn’t luck.” “You saw something everyone else overlooked.” Heat rose to my cheeks.
“I just read it.” “No.” He shook his head.
“A lot of people can read.” “Very few can recognize something special.” Before I could answer…
He stood.
Determination replaced contemplation.
“Come on.” I frowned.
“Where?” He smiled.
“Clara’s office.” I realized what he intended almost instantly.
“You’ve already decided?” “I have.” “What if she disagrees?” Timothy chuckled.
“She probably will.” “At first.” He tucked the screenplay beneath his arm.
“But that’s why Clara’s good.” “She challenges every decision.” “And if this story survives her questions…” His smile widened.
“…then it’s probably worth making.” Together, we stepped out of the lounge.
The office buzzed with its usual afternoon rhythm.
Phones rang.
Printers hummed.
Assistants hurried between departments.
No one paid much attention as we walked toward Clara’s office.
Timothy knocked once.
“Come in.” Clara looked up from her laptop.
She had two monitors open, a tablet beside her, and what looked like three separate budget reports spread across her desk.
Her eyes moved from Timothy…
To the screenplay beneath his arm…
Then to me.
One elegant eyebrow rose.
“I assume this isn’t a social visit.” Timothy walked forward without hesitation.
He placed the screenplay gently on her desk.
“I want this.” Clara looked down at the cover.
Then back at him.
“The Astronaut’s Promise.” “I’ve just finished reading it.” “And?” “I don’t remember the last time a script made me forget my phone existed.” That earned the smallest hint of amusement from Clara.
“A strong endorsement.” “It is.” She picked up the screenplay.
Instead of opening it immediately, she looked toward me.
“You recommended this?” “Yes.” “Why?” I met her gaze.
“Because it’s honest.” She waited.
I continued.
“It isn’t trying to become the biggest movie of the year.” “It’s trying to tell the best story it can.” “And I think audiences feel the difference.” Clara remained silent.
She slowly opened the screenplay.
The room grew quiet.
Only the sound of turning pages filled the office.
The discussion…
Had just begun.