Waking Up Late!

As Liam headed to bed, his body felt heavy from the day's exertion, but his mind buzzed with excitement.

He placed his phone on the bedside table, its screen dimming as he let out a long sigh.

Stretching briefly, he settled under the covers, his eyes fluttering shut.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he thought about the director's words.

You've got real talent, kid. Keep it up.

Just as sleep was beginning to calm him, the buzz of his phone broke through the quiet of the room. His eyes snapped open, irritation flaring briefly as he reached for the device. "Who's texting me at this hour?" he muttered under his breath, fumbling for the phone.

The screen lit up, revealing a new message. His brows furrowed as he tapped to open it, still half-drowsy.

Director Charles:

Come tomorrow, 9:00 am sharp. Location is...

Liam read the message twice, his irritation fading almost instantly. His exhaustion seemed to lift as excitement bubbled to the surface once more.

"Director Charles," he murmured, a faint smile forming as he stared at the message. Even though it had interrupted him from almost falling asleep, he couldn't bring himself to get upset.

Instead, he felt a swell of pride. I am destined to rise as an extra, Liam though.

He quickly noted the location in his mental checklist, double-checking the message to make sure he had it right. "9:00 am sharp," he repeated to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "Got it."

Placing the phone back on the table, Liam leaned back into the pillow. His gaze lingered on the faint glow of the screen as it dimmed and went dark again. He turned his head, staring at the ceiling as his mind began to wander.

"Tomorrow's another chance," he muttered, the smile still on his face. "Another chance to prove myself."

Instead of frustration, the interruption felt like a reminder of how far he'd come. Liam closed his eyes again, the excitement in his chest making it harder to fall asleep.

...

The next day arrived with a golden hue peeking through the blinds of Liam's small apartment. He stirred in bed, stretching lazily as the warmth of the morning sun-brushed against his face.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips—sleep had been unusually good.

'That sleep was...too good.'

His eyes snapped open, a wave of panic hitting him like a freight train.

"Shit! What time is it?" he shouted, scrambling for his phone on the bedside table.

His fingers fumbled as he grabbed it, the screen lighting up with an innocuous number:

6:50 AM.

For a moment, he stared at the screen, frozen. Then it hit him—the location was two hours away, and he needed to be there by 9:00 AM.

"Damn it! I'm going to be late!" he shouted, throwing the covers off as he sprang to his feet. His half-asleep body wasn't ready for the sudden movement, and he stumbled, nearly crashing into the bedside table.

"Great start," he muttered, steadying himself.

The clock was ticking, and he had exactly ten minutes to wash up, get dressed, and make some breakfast.

"No time for thinking, just go!" he told himself, darting into the bathroom. He turned the tap on full blast, splashing cold water onto his face. The shock made him yelp, but he powered through, grabbing his toothbrush and attacking his teeth with a speed that would make the Flash question his existence.

After that, Liam flung open his closet, his hands grabbing at random hangers.

"No, too wrinkly… too formal… what is this, a pyjama top?" he groaned, tossing clothes onto the floor. Finally, he settled on a plain white shirt and jeans, yanking them on in record time.

He hopped on one foot as he tried to shove his sneaker onto the other, nearly losing his balance again. "This is like trying to put socks on a cat," he muttered, gritting his teeth as the stubborn shoe finally slipped on.

The kitchen was the next battlefield. "Breakfast! I need breakfast," he mumbled, tearing open the fridge.

A block of cheese stared back at him accusingly.

"Of course, you again," he grumbled, grabbing it along with a slice of bread. He slapped the cheese onto the bread with the finesse of a toddler making mud pies.

As he stood there chewing the sandwich, he glanced at his reflection in the microwave. A piece of cheese dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth.

"Real classy, Liam," he said, swallowing hard as he shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

"Water! Where's the water?" he shouted, spinning in circles. Grabbing a bottle, he chugged half of it, droplets running down his chin. "Hydrated and ready to panic," he muttered, stuffing the bottle into his bag.

By 7:00 AM on the dot, Liam was bolting out the door, backpack slung over one shoulder and phone in hand.

"Two hours… I can make it. I can make it," he repeated, sprinting toward the bus stop. His shoes slapped against the pavement, his shirt flapping in the wind like a discount superhero cape.

As Liam reached the bus stop, the familiar roar of the engine and screech of the brakes met his ears. Relief flooded him—until the doors hissed shut, and the bus began to pull away.