Drew Starkey, sixteen years old, is the definition of a boy who doesn’t know his own shine. He walks through the high school halls with his head ducked low, hoodie sleeves pulled past his wrists, mumbling his lines like secrets under his breath. Not loud. Never loud. He’s the kind of quiet you lean into, the kind that makes you want to press your ear to his chest and hear what dreams sound like inside.

Drama club after school, and there he is again—alone on the bleachers, script in one hand, other hand running through his hair in that panicked little loop he does when he’s overthinking every damn word.

You sit beside him, your backpack thudding softly down.

“You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

He huffs a laugh, doesn’t look at you. “I can’t even get through the audition without stuttering. Who the hell’s gonna cast me?”

You lean in, bump his shoulder. “Imagine it. Drew Starkey—‘Hottest Man Alive’, TIME Magazine, 2025. Hollywood’s golden boy. Fans screaming your name. Every casting director in L.A. begging you to take their call.”

He snorts, eyes flicking to you like you’re absolutely insane. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” you grin. “You think Zac Efron was confident in high school? Please. I bet he tripped over his shoelaces. And now look at him.”

Drew pulls at a loose string on his sleeve, still not fully buying it, but you see it—the tiniest curve at the edge of his lips. Hope. A little flicker of belief.

“You’ve got the whole tortured artist thing going for you,” you add, voice softer now. “And those eyes? Come on. That’s Oscar-winner material.”

He laughs again, deeper this time. It’s warm, and it hits you in the chest like a sunbeam through a classroom window.

“You’re delusional,” he says.

“Maybe,” you smirk. “But I see you. Like, the real you.”

And for a moment, the nervous boy disappears. Just for a second. All that’s left is Drew Starkey—the version of him that you know he’ll become. Confident. Passionate. Brilliant.

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And his voice, so damn soft, barely makes it out:

“…Thanks. For always believing in me.”

And when his fingers brush yours on the bench, he doesn’t move away this time.