The shoot was happening.
It wasn't hypothetical anymore. There were cameras. Lights. A crew that included a guy named Birch who exclusively wore band tees and said things like "let's vibe into this angle."
Danny stood on a street corner in South Austin with a lav mic taped awkwardly to his chest, sweat forming in places sweat wasn't meant to form.
Sandy, the creative producer from Offbeat Austin, handed him a cold can of something coconut-adjacent.
"You good?" she asked.
Danny took a sip. Immediately regretted it. "Tastes like sunscreen."
"Yeah," she said. "The flavor's called 'Zen Burnout.' You ready?"
"Nope."
"Good. That means it'll be authentic."
The concept was simple: Danny would walk around Austin, talk to strangers, tell stories, eat things, fall occasionally, and be... himself.
The segment was called "Keep Austin Awkward." (His idea. Her approval. Zero expectations.)
First stop: a food truck called "Waffle & Rage." They served spicy chicken and poetry zines.
Danny stepped up to the window, camera rolling.
"Hi. What would you recommend for a guy with $14 and a long history of failure?"
The guy behind the counter didn't miss a beat. "The 'Therapist Special.' Comes with hot sauce and a free existential crisis."
Danny grinned. "Perfect. Hold the clarity."
They filmed for hours.
Danny told stories about getting fired from three delivery apps, about Mango the rage-cat, about the time he tried to impress Emily by doing stand-up at an open mic and ended up crying in the parking lot of a CVS.
People loved it. Not because he was polished. Because he wasn't.
By late afternoon, they wrapped outside a thrift store shaped like a giant cowboy boot.
Sandy clapped him on the back. "You're good at this. Not just funny—human."
"Gross," Danny said, grinning.
She pulled him aside. "We're gonna cut this together. If it hits, we pitch a full web series. You'd host. Your name. Your voice. Real deal."
Danny blinked.
"This could be your shot," she said. "You ready for that?"
He didn't answer right away. The weight of it hit harder than expected.
Was he?
He thought of Emily. Of the screenplay. Of Mrs. Beverly's broken porch light he still hadn't fixed.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I am."
Back home, he was greeted by a familiar sight: Mrs. Beverly sitting on his stoop, holding a Tupperware and a lukewarm bottle of Pinot Grigio.
"You look like you saw a ghost," she said.
"I think I saw a future."
"Ooooh. Existential dread wine it is."
He sat beside her. They passed the bottle back and forth like a weird communion.
"You ever think... maybe you're not meant to win big? Just meant to keep trying loud enough so people think you are?"
She looked at him. "Kid, you're asking the wrong person. I once did karaoke with a broken foot because I didn't want to lose my spot."
"Did you win?"
"No. I passed out mid-'Tainted Love.'"
Danny laughed.
Then, softer: "I think I want this."
"I know you do."
They sat in silence.
Crickets chirped. Lights buzzed. Somewhere, a car alarm had a mental breakdown.
"I saw Emily," he said.
"I figured. You have that 'I'm fine but not fine' look."
"She's happy."
"And you're not?"
"I'm... getting there."
Mrs. Beverly nodded. "Then keep going."
He looked up at the stars again. They looked back, impersonal but present.
He whispered, "Please don't let me screw this up."
Then he went inside, opened his laptop, and typed:
> INT. SET – AUSTIN – DAY
A man steps into frame. Awkward. Unsure. Real.
For once, the camera doesn't blink first.