David noticed Anson's brief pause. Having been in Hollywood for twenty years, he could read an eighteen-year-old like a crystal, transparent and easy to see through; but his emotions remained unchanged—
A vase, nothing wrong with that.
Although Hollywood never lacks vases, the point is that the audience is always fickle, constantly craving more new vases, just look at Leonardo DiCaprio and Julia Roberts.
Calm, straightforward, smiling, nothing special, no change in expression, and no exaggerated gestures, everything was as it had been before, as if it were just an ordinary conversation.
David smiled but remained silent.
He guessed that Anson would likely find an excuse or theory to defend himself, explaining a lot but ultimately delivering no solid performance—no talent, just talk, a type not uncommon in Hollywood; and never underestimate them, they often succeed.
"When parents divorce, they issue a statement."
Something wasn't right.
But David looked at Anson, still smiling, still calm, as if he were just sharing his story.
For a moment, David wasn't sure if he should interrupt, but Anson continued.
"When my parents told me they were separating, they said three things."
"First, it's not your fault."
"Second, it's not your fault."
His eyes brightened, his expression remained calm, and there was no significant change in his tone. Even during the pause, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted into a smile.
However, behind that faint, light smile, David could detect a trace of loss and bitterness, easily awakening his own memories.
He was just like that—
When his father and mother divorced, they called him over, informed him of their decision, and repeated over and over again,
"…it's not your fault."
David watched as the words came out of Anson's mouth, slightly opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, leaving him frozen in place.
Anson wasn't in a hurry. He exchanged a glance with David, letting his thoughts and emotions burn fiercely in the silent air. Content originally comes from novel·fıre·net
"The problem is, I don't believe it."
Anson shook his head gently, straightened up, and exhaled deeply.
"No child would believe it."
"I've seen photos of your wedding, you were so young, so beautiful, smiling at each other with eyes full of happiness."
"But now, you won't even look at each other."
Anson chuckled softly, his focused gaze slowly diffused into the air, with no surge of emotion, as if he were just lost in his own memories.
Then, in a soft whisper, as if asking himself, or perhaps asking David,
"So, what happened over the years?"
"I tried to think, to search for answers. You wouldn't give me any, so I had to find them on my own. In the end, I finally figured it out."
The scattered focus in his eyes reassembled, and then Anson's gaze locked with David's. David could see a faint smile in those clear, deep blue eyes, a flicker of light trembling slightly.
"The only difference between those photos and now is me. I made my grand entrance, I made you both tired, weird, irritable, and anxious."
Anson tugged at the corners of his mouth, trying to mask the unintended tremble in his voice, but he failed. He quickly lowered his gaze, took a deep breath, and began to trace the patterns on the desk with his eyes.
"I made your hair fall out, I made you gain thirty pounds, I made you both so exhausted that you lost the ability to love each other."
David remained silent—
He couldn't take his eyes off Anson.
Suddenly, Anson looked up, and their gazes collided again. But before David could think, a wave of guilt washed over him.
Why did he feel guilty, why was he anxious, why did he look away?
David had no answer because the memories and emotions in his mind were churning like a storm. The times he thought he had long forgotten were still so vivid, he could even see his parents' expressions.
Anson's words seemed to be in conversation with his father, cautiously opening his heart; yet they also seemed to be speaking to the younger, wounded version of himself, trying to reconcile with him.
David felt a bit dazed.
In his ears, Anson's voice, having recovered from its earlier vulnerability, regained strength.
"So, regarding that statement, I have my own thoughts."
"Why don't you tell me?"
"First, happiness is hard."
"Second, don't repeat our mistakes."
The voice trailed off.
David instinctively looked up and was met with Anson's deep blue eyes, as if he could hear the sounds above the ocean, the crashing waves and the wind intertwining, pulling at him, trembling slightly, as if they could disappear into the raging storm at any moment.
"…Alright, maybe it really is a little bit your fault."
Calm, light, but fragile.
David opened his mouth, unsure why, but he wanted to speak. Yet, as the words reached his lips, they halted, because he saw the strength and resilience deep within those eyes.
"If you want me to be honest?"
"Fine, then don't treat me like a child and continue to deceive me with lies."
Straightforward, sincere, and unguarded.
In that moment, it was as if all defenses and armor were stripped away, cautiously revealing the truth within, and in the exchange of glances, a pure and simple quality quietly blended into the words.
The world fell into silence.
David continued to quietly watch Anson, feeling his breath and heartbeat. The sunlight streaming through the window fell lightly on Anson's shoulder like a butterfly, warm, the golden glow slowly outlining the sharp, crisp lines of his face, and David's heart trembled slightly.
Time paused, as if it had forgotten to move forward.
Then, Anson lowered his gaze, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, revealing a hint of fatigue, but the curve of his mouth lifted slightly, as if sadness was slowly slipping away from his fingertips, and he let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
"Sorry. I suppose my constant rambling about myself must have annoyed you."
Blurring the lines between reality and performance, seamlessly transitioning from one to the other.
A simple sentence snapped David out of his thoughts and back into reality. He quickly looked up, once again studying Anson closely.
Nothing seemed to have changed—
Still straightforward, still calm, still smiling.
Yet the sands of memory had slipped through his fingers, falling freely as gravity took hold, and David once again felt the weight, his thoughts teetering between the borders of reality and illusion.
So, what is real, and what is performance?
But David, seasoned as he was, gradually regained his clarity.
Rather than saying Anson's performance was excellent, it was more accurate to say that Anson had skillfully grasped his psychology and used their shared resonance to create this atmosphere, like a magic trick, half performance, half psychology.
If there had been others present, the effect might have been greatly diminished; but Anson had cleverly seized the opportunity, drawing David into his trap from the very first word.
This, too, was a skill.
David's gaze remained on Anson, but now there was a hint of amusement—
"So, was that your audition performance?"