Wei-Wei
I walk into the studio building with Pim chatting nonstop beside me, like usual. She's explaining something about the catering and how the director likes his coffee (like I care?!), but I'm only catching every third word. My stomach is doing that tight, nervous thing I hate. It feels like a horde of butterflies is going to explode out of my tummy at any moment. It is not a good feeling. I'm trying to look normal. Calm. Like I belong here. I don't - I am unmistakably not an actor.
Big Rock and Slightly Smaller Rock are hovering just outside the entrance, doing their best to look like regular people instead of two very large men who are definitely my bodyguards. They're failing quite spectacularly. And I am deriving an unhealthy amount of joy from the fact that it's not only me who doesn't fit in. One of them is pretending to check his phone while the other is staring at a potted plant like it might try something. Like, come on, Rocky, the plant will probably be the victim, not the aggressor.
We step into the big conference room, and I feel it immediately. I am a painter who has accidentally wandered into someone else's drama. I seriously don't know how everyone managed to talk me into taking on this role. The long table is already half full of people who look like they do this every day. Real actors. Crew members with headsets. Someone is laughing at a story I don't understand. Everyone seems to know where to sit.
I spot the name cards. My name is there. Thank goodness, now I at least know where to go. Right next to Prinya's. Oh no!
My stomach does some complicated flip-thing like an acrobat.
Prinya is already sitting at the table. He looks up when I walk in. Our eyes meet for a second longer than they should. He gives me a small nod. I nod back, quick and awkward, then look away fast. My heart is beating stupidly loud. I can feel it in my ears.
I pull out the chair with my name on it and sit down, clutching the script packet as if it might save me. (I think it is well established at this point in time that no amount of paper booklets is going to save me.) Pim squeezes my shoulder once before she disappears to talk to someone important. Uhm, hello, Pim? Please don't leave me! She doesn't hear my internal call for help.
Okay. Table read. Just words on paper. No big deal.
I am lying to myself. It already feels like a very big deal.
****
Everyone finally sits down. The director, a sharp-looking woman with glasses perched on her head, welcomes us all with a quick smile and says something about how excited she is for this project. I nod along like I'm excited too. I'm mostly trying not to throw up.
We start the read-through.
The first few pages are fine. Normal stuff. Then the script starts describing Tawan, my character, and I feel my stomach drop straight through the floor.
He's a musician. He processes everything through his art. He falls for a controlled, emotionally closed-off man who doesn't know how to accept love. There are lines about music getting through walls. About someone who listens like they're hearing something they didn't know they needed.
I keep reading my lines out loud, trying to sound normal, but inside my head, it's complete chaos.
This is not about me. This is a fictional character. This is not about me. Why does it feel like someone sat down and wrote my diary as a script? Why is the universe doing this to me? I am a painter. I paint. I do not need my fake drama life to be this specific. I have enough problems.
I glance across the table at Prinya. He's reading Sirawit's lines calmly, voice composed, like this is just another day at work. Meanwhile, I'm over here quietly losing my mind because the script keeps saying things that feel way too close to whatever is happening between us that I'm still pretending isn't happening.
One line in particular makes me want to crawl under the table: something about the way the closed-off character starts listening differently when the musician plays. I read my response, and my voice sounds almost normal. Inside, I'm screaming.
This is not about me. This is not about me. Wei-Wei, this is not about you!!!!
I feel like it's definitely about me.
I force myself to keep reading, smiling politely when someone makes a comment, but my brain is spiraling so hard I barely hear the rest of the scene. I am a painter who accidentally auditioned for the role of his own emotional disaster. Fantastic. Really love that for me.
****
We get a short break after the third scene. I'm still attempting to calm my brain down when someone slides into the empty seat next to me.
"Hey. Nanon," he says, offering a small smile. "I'm playing Tawan's bandmate in a few episodes."
I turn and recognize him from the table read. He has a calm, observant kind of energy. Not loud. Just... present.
"Wei-Wei," I say. "Or Xiao Wei. Either works."
We start talking carefully at first. Safe stuff. How the script feels, how weird it is to read lines out loud with a room full of people watching. Then we get to the scene where Tawan plays a new piece for the band, and something changes. I describe how the composer wrote the melody, as if it's trying to say something the character can't put into words. Nanon's eyes light up a little.
"You actually know music," he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "Most actors just pretend."
I can't help it. I start talking about the piece, how the phrasing feels a bit like early guqin influence mixed with modern minimalism. I get a little too into it. Nanon listens, nods, and asks a follow-up question that shows he's actually following.
At one point, he says, "I have a playlist for this kind of vibe. Quiet stuff that sneaks up on you. I'll send it if you want."
My brain immediately saves that information. I already know I'm going to steal that playlist and never admit it.
While we're talking, I feel eyes on us. I glance across the table. Prinya is watching. Not obviously. Just... looking. When our eyes meet, he looks away first, turning back to his script like nothing happened.
My heart does a stupid little jump.
Nanon doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps talking about music, easy and warm in that low-key way of his, and for the first time since I walked into this room, I feel like maybe I'm not completely out of place here.
****
We go back to reading. The scenes keep coming, and every few pages the script decides to kick me in the ribs again. I feel like I need some heart-saving pills just to get through this day.
There's a quiet moment where Tawan plays something soft on the piano, and Sirawit just listens, like the music is saying things neither of them knows how to say out loud. I read my lines, and my voice sounds normal enough, but inside I'm losing it. This is not about me. This is a made-up story. Why does it feel like it's describing exactly what I'm trying very hard not to think about?
I keep stealing small glances at Prinya across the table. He reads Sirawit's lines calmly, steady as always, but I catch the way his fingers tighten slightly on the script when Tawan says something vulnerable. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Probably imagining it. I hope I'm imagining it.
Then we hit the scenes where the tension starts building. The almost-touch moments. The long looks. The kind of romantic stuff that's going to have to happen on camera. With him.
That realization lands properly somewhere in the middle of a page. I'm going to have to act like I'm falling for Prinya while I'm actually... whatever this is that I'm doing with Prinya. On camera. In front of other people. While feeling real things that I have no idea what to do with.
My stomach does a slow, nervous flip.
What did I get myself into?
The scary part is how much I don't hate it. There's this quiet, reluctant excitement underneath the panic, like my stupid heart is already leaning toward the edge even while my brain is yelling at it to back away from the railing.
I force myself to keep reading the next line, as if everything is fine. Like I'm not sitting here quietly, realizing that the next few months of my life are going to be a very specific kind of emotional obstacle course.
Yip, Wei-Wei is a totally screwed dumpling.