He laughed bitterly. "Eventually I realized no one was going to hand me anything. So I wrote my own script. Spent months pouring my soul into it. But I had no money—not even enough for a decent meal on most days, let alone to hire actors or rent filming gear. I took on all kinds of low-end work just to survive—lugging heavy equipment, cleaning sets, doing grunt jobs no one wanted.
I tried borrowing cameras, begged friends for favors, but no one really helped. No gear. No crew. No studio. Still, I was desperate to bring my story to life. So I sent the script to every studio I could find—big or small. Most ignored me. A young graduate without connections didn’t matter to them.
A few actually replied, including one from a big studio. I truly thought my time had finally come. But when I got there, it turned out they weren’t interested in me directing at all—just the script. And mind you, the entire budget for the film was mere penny for them. Can you believe it? They offered me just eight hundred bucks for the full rights.
Rex raised an eyebrow. "And you said no."
"Of course I did. This isn’t some cash grab. This is my work—something I’ve bled into for the past two years. Every scene, every line, every choice—I’ve continuously poured my soul into shaping it, refining it, until it felt alive. I’ve studied, scrapped, reworked entire segments just to get it right.
This isn’t just a script—it’s me. My name, my heart, my damn soul on the line. I want to direct it myself. Not hand it over just so some studio can gut it or shelf it forever," Aren said with conviction, his tone thick with the frustration and passion he had carried all these years.
He leaned forward, eyes intense, trying to make Rex feel the weight of his dream. "That’s why I’m out here—chasing any opportunity I can get. I heard about this party and bribed a waiter, slipped him a wad of crumpled bills I couldn’t afford to spare, borrowed the clothes, and snuck in hoping to find someone in that glittering crowd of power brokers, top directors, executives and producers, who’d actually listen, see me. See my work.
Aren’s fingers clenched into fists on the table. "I kept thinking maybe–just maybe—the bigwigs at the top would have a better eye than the low-level lackeys I’d been dealing with so far. The assistants who rolled their eyes, the readers who skimmed a page or two before tossing it aside.
People who judged based on connections, clout, and name tags rather than merit.Maybe someone in there would recognize the worth of what I’d created. I mean... I wasn’t asking for a handout. Just a shot.I hoped someone here might recognize the worth of what I’d created."
He exhaled sharply, jaw tight, his voice dipped, laced with a quiet ache. "But even after sneaking in, trying to talk to people, I was ignored. The moment they hear I’m a nobody, they dismiss me. Or worse—mocked. Treated like a pest. A joke.
Even after trying again and again—smiling through the condescension, nodding through lectures from people who hadn’t even opened my script, enduring their ridicule, mockery, and insults—it never worked out. Every time someone made a show of tossing my script onto a side table like trash. I just kept hoping—next one, the next person might actually look.
But they never did. I kept getting burned and I kept going back. Not because I’m a glutton for punishment, but because I don’t know how to stop. This story, this film—it’s all I’ve got. It’s everything."
Rex, who had remained silent until now, leaned back slightly in his seat. For the first time that night, the gleam in his eyes dimmed into something more contemplative. He’d seen desperation before—heard plenty of sob stories—but this wasn’t just desperation. This was obsession. This was someone who’d crawled through glass, again and again, thinking maybe the next hallway wouldn’t be lined with razors.
He looked at Aren differently now. Not as another eager wannabe, but as someone who, despite all odds, was still standing, bloodied but unbroken. Rex didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Instead, he sat back in his chair, eyes lingering on the determined young man across from him. A thought crept into his mind—quiet at first, but growing louder with each breath.
Maybe this is why some people succeed.
Not because they’re the most talented, best connected, or born into privilege, not because they had the perfect timing or the right last name. But because they just refuse to give up. They pour everything—every last drop of their soul—into their dream, knowing full well it might never amount to anything.
And yet... they keep going. Not out of naivety or arrogance, but because they don’t know how to quit. While others give in when the world says no, people like Aren double down. They endure the humiliation, the dismissals, the laughter behind their backs, and still they return, fiercer than before.
Unlike most people in this world who give in far too easily. The first rejection, the first failure, and they folded. They lost heart. And instead of owning that weakness, they masked it—blaming the system, their bad luck, the so-called ’gatekeepers’ with money and connections. They told themselves the game was rigged, that success was for the privileged few. But deep down, it was just easier to believe that than to face the truth: they didn’t have the fire? Not really. They lacked the stubborn resolve to keep clawing forward when everything screamed for them to quit.
People like Aren....they were rare. Because they chose pain, rejection, and relentless effort over excuses. Over comfort. They keep trying—harder and harder—until something finally cracks.
And strangely, Lena’s face surfaced in his mind—uninvited, yet undeniably fitting. She had that same fire. That same maddening defiance in the face of rejection. She’d been turned away so many times, it should’ve broken her. But each ’no’ only seemed to make her more relentless. She sharpened herself with failure, like someone forging a blade in the flames of disappointment. And the world hadn’t noticed—yet.
Maybe that’s the only difference. People ... they just need a single shot. One real chance. And once they get it—they soar.
He didn’t know which side of that divide he stood on. Not yet.
But maybe, just maybe... it was time to find out.
Thinking about it, he couldn’t help but reflect on his past life. Maybe... instead of blaming his parents who had abandoned him, instead of cursing the world for being unfair, or the people who looked down on him, maybe what truly held him back was... himself.
The refusal to try again after each failure.
He remembered those long nights alone, resenting everyone who had moved ahead, who had succeeded. He convinced himself they had connections, wealth, family support. That the game was stacked against people like him. And maybe parts of that were true—but deep down, wasn’t it just easier to believe that than to admit he hadn’t given it his all?
They hadn’t had it easier—in fact, they might’ve had it worse. But they didn’t stop. They didn’t make excuses. They kept moving forward, bleeding for every inch they gained.
He clenched his jaw, the weight of the realization settling deep in his chest.
Maybe that’s why he had been given this second chance—not to coast through it with the same bitterness, but to finally see the difference. And maybe, just maybe, to become something more.
To do it right this time.