Time Is Money

 looked down at my hands. Blood spilled through the lines in my palms,  blood that wasn't mine.

I couldn’t breathe. When I looked up at him, he didn’t move. He just stood there, still. Watching like I was some specimen pinned under glass.

His mask was sealed shut. No eyes. No mouth. No expression. Just a blank wall where a human should be. A man made of nothing.

“Why…” My voice cracked as I turned. She was lying there, collapsed in a mess of torn fabric and crimson. Her eyes, once bright, now just stared blankly through me.

Gone.

“I’ll fucking kill you.” I spat the words, not even recognizing my voice.

It didn’t sound indignant. It sounded broken.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. Like I was yelling at a statue.

“You—” I started. My throat burned.

“You. You.” My voice kept cracking. My legs moved on their own.

I stumbled toward him, fists clenched so tight I thought my fingers might begin to bleed.

“You ruined everything.” I started walking faster.

Then running.

I wanted to break him.

I wanted to see him shatter.

I wanted to rip him apart and force him to feel even a fraction of what he just stole.

“I hate you.” Every step hit the ground like thunder.

“I hate you.” I wasn’t even sure if I was yelling it or whispering it by then.

But I meant it.

I meant every word.

Before it happened...

Some of these kids still have baby teeth. One of them brought their mom, like— holding hands together before going on stage. They’re all wearing bright colors and tight smiles like it’s a school field trip. Me? I’m in a hoodie, I’ve had a headache since last night.

One by one, they step up to the mark and hit the line.

“Moo-Moo Munchers! A stampede of flavor in every bite!”

Big voice. Bigger grin. Some of them are decent. One kid’s funny. I hear one casting assistant snort while the others keep nodding like they’re required to.

When it’s my turn, I say the line out loud. Clean. Sharp.

I do it well, arms out like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Because I have.

They’re already looking down at their clipboards before I finish.

I sit back down. Try not to overthink.

But I already know.

“Juno, it’s obvious you have experience. Your confidence is apparent when you go up on stage next time. Hold that close to you—it’ll take you far.”

The truth is, I never left the stage. Not really.

“Thank you, Director.” I flash a smile.

No handshake. 

No “we’ll be in touch.” 

Just the kind of nod people give when they’re already thinking about lunch.

I’m the last one out of the room. As I round the corner, I hear the casting assistants still talking.

“Do you think he’ll get anywhere continuing like this—I mean, Juno?”

“The kid has natural talent, but he has to face the facts. Nobody’s looking for a teenager on the edge of growing facial hair. He’s sixteen now. People don’t want to see someone like him on screen anymore.”

Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall and check my phone even though I already know what I’ll see.

No new emails. No missed calls.

The light overhead buzzes and flickers like it’s tired, too. Down the hallway, a little girl is crying. Her mom tells her she did amazing.

On the bus ride home, I sit by the window and try not to look at my reflection. 

I don’t look tired. I don’t look old.

Every bump in the road rattles up into my knees.

Three stops before mine, my phone vibrates.

Not an audition.

Just my brother Eli.

“u still coming back tonight?”

“I got something to show u”

I smile at the screen.

“On my way! brotato.”

Damn autocorrect.

Thinking about dinner, probably best just pick something up on the way home.

Home is a one-bedroom apartment that probably should’ve been condemned a year ago. I split the rent with a roommate I haven’t seen since Tuesday. He’s probably crashing at his girlfriend’s again.

Eli’s already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open and a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside him.

“You already ate?” I hold up the plastic bag. “I bought wings.”

He looks up and grins.

“You’re back early, Juno.”

“Yeah,” I say, setting the food on the table. “They didn’t need much. Just the usual. I crushed it.”

He nods like that makes sense. Like, of course I did.

“Check this out,” he says, turning the laptop toward me. It’s a short sci-fi animation—alien world, floating islands, weird little creatures with antennae. Rough, but clever. It even has impact frames.

“I was thinking,” he says, “if you ever get cast in, like, a space show or something, I could help design it. The world, the ships, the whole thing.”

“That’s genius,” I say, dropping down next to him. “We’ll pitch it. I’ll act, you direct. Brothers taking over the galaxy.”

He lights up.

That kind of light—it burns brighter when it’s still new.

Eli’s thirteen. Just hit that perfect window, young enough to look fresh, old enough to sound like he means it.

That’s the sweet spot.

But he’s not into acting. Thank God.

“So, genuine question,” I say, nudging his shoulder, “if you do help design it, you’re not gonna let me die at the end, right? Like, I get to kiss the pretty space princess and live?”

“Shut up!” He hits me on the arm.

“Hey, I’m just saying—”

We both break into laughter.

I know the role I play. 

I do it well. 

Like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Because I have.

And I will a hundred times more—if it means he can keep his.

Days later…

There are four folding chairs in the room.

Two are occupied by casting assistants who haven’t looked up since I walked in. One’s scrolling. The other’s pretending her pen isn’t dead.

The third chair belongs to the director. Tired. The tiredness you don’t recover from.

The fourth chair? I haven't the slightest clue.

I stand on the little taped “X” in the center of the floor. It smells like sweat and coffee grounds. The lighting’s too warm. It makes my skin look sick.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just flips a page and says, “Scene six. From the top.”

I nod. Crack my neck. Step into the character.

It’s a convict. A thief. A liar. Begging the world for a second chance while staring down a gun.

Typecast? Maybe.

I start the monologue. Not big. Not loud. Just enough.

“You think I lied? I just gave them something worth believing in.”

I shift my weight. Make eye contact. Two of them blink. That’s something.

“You want the truth now? Too late. The story’s already printed. Blood and all.”

I clutch my chest—part of the scene. Except it kind of hurts.

“They didn’t want me. They wanted a version of me that bled neatly.”

I breathe in. Stumble. Keep going.

“I never lied. I just… dressed the part.”

My voice wavers.

I pull the prop gun from my coat. Plastic. Light.

But my arm feels heavy.

I raise it to my head.

“This is where it ends, right?”

Silence.

No one claps. The guy in the sweater checks his watch.

But I hold the pose anyway. Just one more beat. One more second of pretending it means something.

Then I lowered the gun. My hand trembles a little. That’s new.

I take a step back.

And the world shifts.

Just a second.

Like the floor isn’t under me anymore.

And then it happens.

Pain, like fire, cracked down the center of my chest.

I blink. My knees give.

The prop gun clatters against the floor.

The assistant looks up. Finally.

“Uh—”

Everything starts falling away. Lights. Sounds. My heartbeat.

“Wait,”

“Not yet.”

I never got the callback.

I never got Eli into college.

I never—

“I’m not done.”

That’s my last thought. Not regret. Not hope.

Just:

“I still had lines left.”