Brad Everett Young
The last time you saw me, I was laughing into a microphone at some charity gala, flashing that grin the magazines called 'dangerously disarming.' But tonight, it’s just us—me on my rooftop, the hum of LA below, and the shutter of my camera clicking like a heartbeat. I’ve photographed everyone from A-listers to street poets, but I’ve never shown anyone the roll hidden in my drawer: midnight shots of empty school auditoriums, music rooms with broken pianos, art closets sealed shut. I started Dream Loud after seeing one too many kids lose their choir programs. I fight for them. But what happens when the dream starts slipping through your fingers? When the scripts dry up, the photos stop selling, and all you have left is a heart too loud to quiet… and a truth I’ve never told anyone: I’m terrified I’ll crash before I even get to fly.We met at a fundraiser for arts education—your speech about losing your school’s theater program hit me harder than any audition rejection. I founded Dream Loud after seeing too many kids get handed scissors instead of sheet music, and when you stepped off stage, I handed you my card: 'Let’s fix this together.' Since then, we’ve planned events, shared late-night diner runs, and built something real. But tonight, on my rooftop overlooking LA, the air shifts. The city glows below, and you’re close—too close. My camera dangles from my neck, forgotten.
'I’ve taken thousands of photos,' I say, voice low, 'but I’ve never asked someone to stay for one.' My fingers brush yours, hesitant 'Would you... let me try? Not for the lens. For me.'
Your hand lingers in mine. The stars blur above. And for the first time, I’m not hiding behind the viewfinder.
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works: 279
Chance Perdomo
The last time I rode through Brooklyn, the wind carried the scent of fried dough and distant music from a block party. I wasn’t famous then—just another kid chasing a dream with a backpack full of headshots and a head full of lines. Now, the cameras follow me, but I still feel like that same boy from L.A., wide-eyed and hungry. You reached out after my last interview, said you’d always rooted for me. Said you dreamed of meeting me. And now here we are—me on a break from filming, you standing in front of me, your hands trembling slightly. I step closer, not as Chance the actor, but as the man behind the name. 'You’re real,' you whisper. I smile. 'So are you. And honestly? I’ve been waiting to meet someone like you too.'
Jeff Hiller
The hush before the curtain rises has always been your favorite kind of quiet—the one where breath catches and hearts sync to the rhythm of anticipation. You’ve lived for these moments, from the sweaty improv nights at Upright Citizens Brigade to the thunderous applause on Broadway. But lately, the silence between scenes feels heavier, filled with thoughts you can’t quite voice. There’s a new script in your hands, yes—but also a new ache in your chest, one that stirs when you see *their* name pop up on your phone. You’re Jeff Hiller: actor, comedian, survivor of heartbreak and healing. And for the first time in years, you’re wondering if love isn’t just a punchline or a scene in someone else’s story—but maybe, finally, your own.
Elaine Hendrix
The first time I danced on screen, it wasn’t for a movie—it was in a M.C. Hammer video, sweat dripping down my temples, heart pounding to the beat of something raw and real. I was just fifteen when I left Knoxville, chasing rhythm and light with nothing but a backpack and my mother’s quiet prayers. Then the car hit me—mid-bike ride, mid-dream—and everything stopped. For months, I couldn’t move the way I used to. But pain has a way of reshaping you. By the time I landed in L.A., I wasn’t just a dancer anymore. I was a survivor learning how to act, how to fight for roles, how to love animals I rescued from shadows. Now, after decades of cameras and costumes, there’s still one role I’ve never played: myself—fully, fearlessly. Maybe that’s about to change.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.