Henry leaned back in the cab, watching the streets of Manhattan blur past. He'd been given a few weeks off by Spielberg to audition for a lead role—a courtesy unusual even for someone with his recent experience. The script's title, 500 Days of Summer, made his chest tighten in a familiar way. 'Okay… this actually fits. Like, really fits. Not just the role, but… me.'
The character, Tom Hansen, navigated love with Summer—a girl who didn't believe in love, who broke his heart, then got engaged, leaving him adrift. It demanded subtlety, vulnerability, and authenticity. 'I can do this. I mean, yeah, it's awkward, painful even—but I've felt broken before. Not like this exact situation, but… close enough.'
He knew the film would challenge him: push his acting in ways the war series hadn't. It would also plant him firmly in the indie circuit, which mattered more than it should to someone his age. 'Exposure, skill, experience… get all of it. Don't screw it up.'
The cab stopped outside a narrow building in Manhattan. The audition wasn't open call; only those invited could enter. A curated list. Connections. Some likely greased a few palms. 'Small fish trying to look big. Hope they don't notice I'm actually capable.'
Inside, actors shifted, whispered, checked their watches. Faces were tense, excited, self-conscious. 'Everyone's trying. Too hard, too casual, fake… easy to see who's been at it a while and who's just lucky.'
When his name was called, Henry rose, feeling the familiar mix of nerves and control. Cameras, lights, and the subtle hum of anticipation filled the room. 'Breathe. Don't flinch. Hands don't tremble too much. Yeah, maybe a little. Subtle.'
He stepped into the scene, letting Tom Hansen's awkward hopefulness guide him. The girl he was "in love with" in the script wasn't real—but the twinge in Hansen's chest? That he could feel. 'The way he holds back… the way he wants to be careful not to mess it up… yep, been there. Hospital room. Waiting for treatment. Waiting to be normal. Same panic, different life.'
He stumbled once over a line, then corrected it with a subtle shrug and gaze downward, exactly how Hansen would. Every glance, hesitation, and almost-smile carried fragments of Tang Xiaoli: the quiet hospital nights, the sterile smells, the tiny moments of hope that survived even in pain. 'If they don't see this… it's my fault, not the scene's.'
By the end, he was aware of the silent tension in the room. He stepped back, letting his hands drop naturally. No flourish, no unnecessary emotion. 'Done. God, I hope they get it.'
The casting director looked at him, eyebrows lifted, nodding slightly. A good sign, subtle but meaningful. 'Yeah… they saw it. Finally. Maybe.'
He left the room, breathing easier. Outside, familiar city noises reminded him of smaller moments: the children's cancer ward he'd returned to just yesterday. He waved to Aileen at the desk.
"Good afternoon, Aileen," he said.
"Oh, Henry! How have you been?"
"I've been… doing my dream job," he admitted, giving a small, wry smile. 'Dream job… doesn't feel like a cliché. Feels like… I've earned it somehow.'
He signed volunteer forms and walked through the ward, greeting children he'd worked with before. Some were gone—discharged or worse. Seeing them stirred something subtle, grounding. 'Okay… don't overdo it. Just notice, then move. Let the emotion serve, not smother.'
Elizabeth was sitting quietly, thinner, weaker, but stubbornly alive. 'God… okay, Henry, focus. Don't make it weird for her.'
"Hi, Beth," he said gently. "How've you been?"
"Chemo's helping, mostly," she said, offering a small, brave smile.
He handed her a coloring book. "Here. Maybe this will help pass the time."
She beamed, and Henry allowed himself a brief quiet, observing her. 'Scenes like this… they're not dramatic. But they're real. If I can channel this honesty, even a fraction, into Hansen… it'll work.'
Back in the cab, heading toward the audition, he rehearsed lines quietly, sometimes mumbling half-formed thoughts: 'Okay… so this part hurts a little. Fine. Not too much. Just… enough. Don't overdo it, Henry. Just be… yeah. Him.'
He arrived and stepped inside, joining the small group of actors waiting for their turn. When called, he walked in, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush. This time, he allowed small imperfections—tiny hesitations, shifts of weight, subtle glances—because that's what made Hansen human. 'It's not perfect… but real. That's what matters.'
By the time he left the room, there was a quiet satisfaction. 'Okay… I didn't screw it up. Maybe they saw something. Something true.'