I Accidentally Became A Superstar

The lights dimmed slightly, and the cameras began rolling as the first pair stepped onto the stage.

Their keyword was shown on the screen.

LOVE TRIANGLE.

There was a very audible chuckle from the audience.

“Can’t have a triangle with two people,” someone whispered.

Zeno watched as Ian and Suho walked into place on the stage.

“You may begin,” Ari said into the microphone. The LED screen behind them showed a backdrop of a classroom.

Ian sat down dramatically, gazing across the virtual table, while Suho stood at a distance.

“I just…” Suho started, sighing heavily. “I can’t choose between you and—” He paused. “You.”

Ian sighed. “But I am me.”

“Exactly!” Suho cried, pacing back and forth. “You’re the only person in this triangle. And somehow, I’m still torn!”

Then Ian reached across the invisible table and grabbed Suho’s hand with intensity.

“Then choose me again,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Choose me… every day.”

Suho dramatically pulled away and ran his hands through his hair. “But how can I? You’re too available. I need someone more elusive.”

“Damn it, Suho!” Ian exclaimed, standing up and knocking over the invisible chair. “You can’t keep chasing imaginary people when I’m right here!”

Zeno raised one eyebrow. They went to this route? They could have written a love triangle where they liked the same person, but then again, they might have thought that was too common.

“I wrote you poems,” Ian continued, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a piece of paper. “I wrote you a haiku!”

“No,” Suho said, holding up a hand, but Ian had already started reading.

“Suho with the eyes.

Tears like discount bottled wine.

Please respond to me.”

There was a moment of silence before the audience burst out laughing.

Even Ari covered her mouth.

Polite applause followed. Someone in the back muttered, “What the hell did I just watch?”

“Well, they showed quite a range of emotions,” Bacon muttered as the two went off the stage.

Next up were Shin and Misha.

Ari looked at their script. “Shin and Misha, your keyword is Family.”

As they stepped up, the once comedic atmosphere turned serious.

Shin wore a button-down and glasses. Misha had her hair tied back with a messenger bag slung across her shoulder. They stood facing each other.

“You’re not ready to go,” Shin said, voice low and weathered. “The world isn’t going to care if you’re smart. Or talented. Or passionate. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I don’t care,” Misha replied, lifting her chin. “I need to fail on my own. I need to fall so I can get back up.”

Zeno leaned back in his chair. It was actually decent writing. They didn’t try too hard, so it was refreshing.

Shin stepped forward. “You’re just a kid.”

“And you’re just scared I’ll leave and never come back.”

“Like mom.”

Oof. That one actually stung a little.

“I raised you,” Shin said. “And if protecting you means I have to be the villain, then fine. I’ll wear the horns.”

“You’ve always been the villain,” Misha said, her voice cracking. “You just didn’t notice.”

It was tense and emotional. But along with that, it was also a little expected.

When the scene ended with Misha walking away and Shin standing alone on the stage, backlit like a sad dad in a soap opera, the applause was respectful.

They wrote safe, and some actors compared it to a specific genre of 2003 Asian movies, where parent-child discourse was quite common.

Still, both Misha and Shin looked satisfied with their work. Shin even patted Misha on the back like a proud father, which, to be fair, added an extra layer to the whole thing.

By the time the sixth pair was called, the room had calmed down again.

“Phoenix and Hero,” Ari said. “Keyword: Miscommunication.”

Zeno leaned forward. He wanted to see how Hero was with Phoenix.

The lights dimmed.

On stage, Phoenix stood in the center, pacing back and forth, holding his phone. Hero lay on the floor with a blanket over him, snoring obnoxiously.

“Hello?” Phoenix said into the phone. “You there? I’m calling to say I’m sorry. I know things got messy. I didn’t mean to hang up on you. I just… panicked.”

Hero snored louder.

Zeno squinted. Was that part of the script?

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Phoenix continued. “I know you’d never just ignore me when I was pouring my heart out. Right?”

Snore.

“Right?!”

Suddenly, Hero jolted awake and sat up, squinting into the distance.

“Sorry, I was in a tunnel,” he said.

“You were asleep!” Phoenix snapped.

“I was in a tunnel of dreams,” Hero replied.

Laughter erupted in the audience, but not in the good way.

It became clear their interpretation of “miscommunication” was literal. One was always on the phone, and the other one always had bad signal, dropped the call, or was asleep. That was the entire ten-minute skit. There was even a moment where they mimed being in an elevator, and both just stood there pretending to hit buttons and say, “Hello?”

“They’ve got the acting chops,” Risa whispered. “But…”

“They can’t write for shit,” Zeno added.

When it finally ended (thankfully), the silence in the room was louder than Hero’s snoring.

Phoenix bowed stiffly. Hero bowed with a bright grin.

As they returned to their seats, Zeno observed carefully. Phoenix didn’t even look at Hero. Hero, however, was humming to himself, unaware that they tanked their store.

Interesting. It seemed the two actually experienced miscommunication in this mission.

Zeno leaned back again, folding his arms.

Well.

That was six groups down.

Three more until their performance.

***

After all the performances so far, the viewing room had settled into an odd lull. It became obvious they came here to act, because, quite frankly, most of them weren’t good writers.

The seventh pair had just finished an overly dramatic skit involving a cheating plotline.

The eighth was even worse—a slow, confusing monologue about a dream within a dream within a play that ended with both actors staring at a blank wall for two minutes.

By the ninth performance, Zeno was on the verge of sleep.

Ari sighed audibly, her pen tapping against the edge of the table in tired frustration. “Any favorites yet?” Bacon PD asked beside her, his own notes looking increasingly aggressive—mostly filled with underlined words like “WHY?” and “Bad!”

“No,” Ari muttered. “They’re all writing like actors.”

Bacon PD raised a brow. “As opposed to…?”

“Actors writing like writers,” Ari replied.

He smiled at her statement. “You got it exactly right.”

Ari sighed again, letting her eyes skim the remaining names on the list. Just five pairs left.

Her gaze paused on the next.

Risa & Zeno.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Let’s see with the next one, though,” she said, her tone lightening ever so slightly.