David noticed Anson's brief pause. After two decades in Hollywood, an eighteen-year-old was as transparent as crystal—easily read at a glance. Yet his own emotions remained undisturbed.
A pretty face? Nothing wrong with that.
Hollywood was never short on pretty faces, but audiences were fickle. They always craved fresh ones—just look at Leonardo DiCaprio and Julia Roberts.
Then, Anson spoke.
"My theory is..."
Calm. Composed. Smiling. Nothing particularly special—no dramatic shifts in expression or tone, as if this were just an ordinary conversation.
David smiled faintly but said nothing.
He guessed Anson would spin some excuse or theory to justify himself, rambling until it became clear there was no actual performance to back it up. All talk, no skill—Hollywood had plenty of those. And don't underestimate them; they often succeeded.
"When parents divorce, they issue a statement."
David: ???
Something felt off.
But Anson remained smiling, utterly unruffled, as if simply sharing a personal story.
For a moment, David wasn't sure whether to interrupt. But before he could decide, Anson continued.
"When my parents told me they were separating, they said three things to me."
"First: It's not your fault."
"Second: It's not your fault."
"Third..."
His eyes were bright, his expression neutral. There was no particular shift in his tone—if anything, his smile even deepened slightly during the pause.
Yet beneath that light, effortless smile, David could taste a hint of loss and bitterness—something that effortlessly stirred his own memories.
He had been the same.
When his father and mother divorced, they called him in, announced their decision, and repeated it over and over.
"...It's not your fault."
David watched the words leave Anson's lips. He parted his own slightly, as if to speak, but no sound came out. He just froze.
Anson wasn't in a hurry. He met David's gaze, letting the silence stretch, allowing the emotions to simmer.
"The problem is, I didn't believe it."
Anson shook his head slightly, straightening in his seat with a long exhale.
"No child would."
"I've seen your wedding photos. You were so young, so beautiful in them—smiling at each other, your eyes full of happiness."
"But now you can't even stand to look at one another."
A soft laugh escaped him. His focused gaze seemed to dissolve into the air, not with any overwhelming emotion, just lost in memory.
Then, barely above a whisper—as if asking himself, or perhaps asking David:
"So what happened over the years?"
"I tried to think, to search. You wouldn't give me answers, so I had to figure it out myself. And finally, I did."
His scattered focus sharpened again, locking onto David's eyes. David could see the faint tremor in those clear blue depths, a flicker of something fragile.
"Me."
Anson said it simply.
David stiffened.
"I showed up."
"The only difference between then and now is me. I made my grand entrance, and I wore you down—made you tired, strange, irritable, anxious."
A pause.
Anson's lips twitched, as if trying to mask the slight tremor in his voice. He failed. Quickly, he lowered his eyes, drawing a steadying breath, tracing the patterns on the desk with his gaze.
"I made you lose hair. I made you gain thirty pounds. I kept you both so busy you were exhausted. And then... you lost the ability to keep loving each other."
David was silent—
His eyes couldn't leave Anson.
Suddenly, Anson looked up again. Their gazes collided, but before David could even process it, he felt a pang of guilt.
But why?
Why the guilt? The unease? Why did he want to look away?
David had no answer. Memories and emotions surged like a tidal wave—things he'd thought long forgotten, now vivid as ever. He could still see his parents' faces.
Anson's words felt like a conversation with his father, carefully opening up; yet also like a dialogue with his younger, wounded self, seeking reconciliation.
David felt dazed.
Then, Anson's voice—fragile at first, but regaining strength—reached his ears.
"So, about that statement... I have my own version."
"How about you tell me this instead?"
"First: Happiness is hard."
"Second: Don't make the same mistakes we did."
"Third..."
His voice trailed off.
David reflexively lifted his head—and was met with Anson's blue eyes, like listening to the surface of an ocean, waves and wind intertwined, tugging at him, trembling slightly as if about to vanish in the gale.
"...Fine. Maybe there's a tiny bit of your fault in it."
Calm. Light. But fragile.
David opened his mouth. He didn't even know why—just felt the urge to speak. But the words stalled on his tongue when he saw the resilience in those eyes.
Anson said:
"If you want my honesty?"
"Then you go first. Stop treating me like a child. Stop lying to me."
Bare. Sincere. And utterly exposed.
In that moment, it was as if all defenses had been stripped away, revealing something raw beneath. The collision of their gazes wove that purity seamlessly into his words.
The world fell silent.
David kept watching Anson, feeling his own breath, his own heartbeat. Sunlight streamed through the window, landing like butterflies on Anson's shoulders—warm, golden, tracing the sharp lines of his face. David's heart trembled.
Time seemed to pause, forgetting to move forward.
Then, Anson lowered his gaze. The tension in his shoulders eased, revealing a hint of exhaustion. But the curve of his lips lifted slightly, as if sensing the sadness slipping through his fingers. He let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh.
"Sorry. I'm sure my rambling about myself must've annoyed you."
Reality and performance blurred, then snapped back into focus.
That simple sentence yanked David out of his thoughts. His eyes sharpened as he studied Anson again.
Nothing seemed different—
Still composed. Still calm. Still smiling.
Yet the sands of memory had already slipped from his grasp, free-falling. David felt the weight of gravity again, his mind teetering on the edge of illusion and reality.
So what was real? What was performance?
But David was a veteran. Clarity returned.
Rather than Anson's performance being exceptional, it was more that he'd cleverly tapped into David's psychology, using his empathy to craft this atmosphere—like a magic trick, half performance, half manipulation.
If others had been present, the effect might've fallen flat. But Anson seized the moment, ensnaring David from the very first sentence.
That, too, was a skill.
His gaze remained on Anson, but now with a hint of amusement—
"So... that was your audition?"