Henry hated waiting.
Not the dramatic kind—the pacing, nail-biting, staring-at-the-phone kind—but the quiet waiting. The kind where nothing happens, where your mind fills the empty space whether you want it to or not.
It had been two days since the final audition.
Two days of nothing.
No calls. No assistants "checking in." No polite updates. Just silence—deliberate, professional silence. The kind that meant decisions were being argued over in rooms Henry would never step into.
He lay on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes, listening to the low hum of the apartment.
The phone rang.
Henry froze.
He let it ring once more before reaching for it, steadying himself.
Jeff.
"Alright," Henry muttered as he answered, sitting up. "Let's hear it."
"Henry," Jeff said immediately, voice even in a way that made Henry straighten, "I need you to listen."
"That's never a good sign."
"There were discussions," Jeff said. "Long ones."
Henry nodded. "Okay."
"They liked you."
Henry closed his eyes.
Liked meant nothing on its own.
"But," Jeff continued.
There it was.
"They're leaning toward another choice."
Henry exhaled slowly. "Let me guess. Safer. Familiar."
Jeff didn't deny it.
"Eisenberg?" Henry asked.
"Yeah."
Henry leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He didn't feel crushed—just quietly disappointed. Like missing a step you were sure was there.
"Alright," he said. "That happens."
"It does," Jeff agreed. "But this isn't finished."
Henry frowned. "Meaning?"
"They haven't signed anything," Jeff said. "And someone asked to review your audition again this morning."
Henry sat up. "Someone who matters?"
Jeff paused, letting the weight of the answer settle.
"Columbia Pictures," he said. "An exec."
Henry let out a slow breath. "You're serious."
"I don't joke about studios," Jeff replied. "Especially not one like Columbia."
Silence stretched between them.
"So what do I do?" Henry asked.
"Nothing," Jeff said. "You stay available. You stay professional. This isn't about starpower—it's about trust. They're deciding who they want to work with."
Henry nodded. "I can do that."
"Good," Jeff said. "Because this doesn't make you anything yet. It just puts you in the room."
He hung up.
Henry sat there, phone resting in his hand, suspended between outcomes. Not rejected. Not chosen. Just waiting.
The phone rang again.
Unknown number.
Henry stared at it for a moment—then answered.
"Hello?"
"Henry Amberstein?" a woman asked.
"Yes."
"This is Laura Meyers from Columbia Pictures."
Henry stood up so quickly the coffee table rattled.
"Yes," he said. "Hi."
"I'll be direct," Laura said. "We went back and forth quite a bit."
Henry smiled faintly. He'd expected nothing less.
"There were strong performances across the board," she continued. "But ultimately, we asked ourselves a simple question."
Henry held his breath.
"Who surprised us?"
"That was you."
The words didn't explode. They settled.
"We'd like to offer you the role," Laura said. "Pending final contract negotiations, of course."
Henry closed his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you. I'd be honored."
"Your agent will handle the details," she replied. "We look forward to working with you."
The call ended.
Henry stood there, phone still in his hand, staring at the wall.
Then he laughed.
The phone rang again.
Jeff
"Well?" Jeff asked.
"They offered it," Henry said.
Jeff let out a sharp laugh.
Henry leaned against the wall. "What happens now?"
"Now," Jeff said, "you work. This role doesn't make you known. It just gives you the chance to be." Henry nodded.
"I'm ready," he said.
Jeff paused. "You don't sound surprised."
Henry looked out the window at the city—bright, indifferent, full of people chasing the same dream.
"I've learned what regret feels like," Henry said. "I'm not interested in it anymore."
Jeff smiled through the phone. "Good. Because this industry rewards people who last."
Henry exhaled.
This wasn't the breakthrough.
Not yet.
But it was the step that made everything else possible.