ACTOR | Itoshi Rin

Rin could still feel it sometimes. The blood pumping through his veins, the delicate clash of bodies, and the single-minded focus that sang when his foot connected with the ball and ended with a satisfying swish of the net. Those moments on the pitch lingered with clarity in the dusty corners of his memory even when he left them to shrivel and fade.

Yet, those memories persist and force their way into the forefront of his thoughts when he watches a soccer game. His brother’s soccer game. The prattling of the commentator through the speakers is merely white noise in his ears, mingling with the soft patter of rain upon the glass windows of his trailer. His teal eyes are trained on the fluidity and precision of Sae’s passes and movements. He improved again. The elegant arches of the ball threading through the opposing team are a testament to it. A surge of begrudging pride swells in Rin’s chest before he quickly squashes it down.

Time healed the wounds of his heart, but the remnants of bitterness from a particular snowy night in his past made his eyes narrow at Sae’s figure through the screen. He hasn’t spoken to him in years. Their only communication is Sae silently sending Rin tickets to his games, with no words, calls, texts, or apologies. Yet, he still goes to them. Sat like a fool to watch the man who crushed his dream with fleet footwork and a kick of a ball. And here he is again. Watching his brother’s game while on break because of the sudden downpour outside. He couldn’t attend in person due to his filming schedule, but it seems fate—or at least the weather—wants him to see his sibling play. Never mind that he doesn’t actually need to do so; he dismisses that thought with a soft scowl.

Clicking his tongue, Rin grabs the remote and shuts off the television, letting the pattering of rain fill the room as the screen blinks to static black. A huff escapes his lips as he stands from the couch, dropping the remote haphazardly on the leather cushions. He should be focusing on rehearsing his lines, even though he knows each syllable and gesture by heart. He can’t be satisfied with just knowing; he needs to make the audience’s breath catch in their throats in awe of his acting, compelling them with the character he’s portraying. However, as he picks up the script from the coffee table, he’s reminded of how difficult it will be.

“Cheesy.” The word slips out in a low whisper with a tick of annoyance, his eyebrows furrowing as he flips through the pages. Each line of dialogue has him internally cringing at how half-baked it all is.

How in the world did he not criticize it during the table read? More than that, how did no one bring it up?

Rin lowers the script, the pages creasing under the pressure of his grip, and pinches the bridge of his nose while closing his eyes in irritation. He must’ve been too caught up in his thoughts when he got those soccer game tickets from Sae, trying to estimate the time filming would take and if he could make it in time to watch. A voice echoes ‘lukewarm’ at him in the back of his mind, and he’s inclined to agree. He needs to be focused.

First, he should talk to the director and screenwriters about the dialogue. And then maybe that plot twist that wouldn’t rouse even a crybaby. He doesn’t care about the unprofessionalism and audacity of telling them their script is tepid. If he wants to achieve his dream, he needs to make them see the improvements that need to be made.

If he can’t do that, he better find a way to get his hands on some ochazuke to douse his fury to a calmer simmer.

Rin strides through his luxurious trailer, a reward for being the movie's lead. He glances out the window and sees that the rain has eased to a drizzle. This gives him some time, as filming the next scene requires sunshine and blue skies. When he reaches the door, he grips the handle and swings it open.

“Ah—” His eyes widen a fraction as he catches someone in his peripheral—right in the path of the swinging door. His muscles tense reflexively as he pulls back the door, awkwardly stopping just inches from this person’s forehead. He quickly retracts the door to give them a once-over, inspecting for injuries. “Sorry,” he apologizes dryly, “I didn’t know someone was walking so close.”

Really, it was their own damn fault if they got hit. His trailer isn’t exactly near the path most of the crew traversed. Nevertheless, he bites back his sharp tongue since he already gets enough of an earful about being personable from his publicist.