Sometimes if I'm in my head before a take, I'll just like to

Host: The film set was bathed in that strange twilight between dream and reality — a cavernous warehouse, the floor slick with dust and forgotten light. Cables coiled like serpents across the ground, monitors glowed in dim corners, and the air hummed faintly with the restless breathing of a dozen tired machines.

Outside, the sky was bruised purple — dusk sliding into night. Inside, beneath the buzz of lights and the director’s muttering, two figures lingered near the far wall, beyond the radius of movement and noise.

Jack, shoulders tense, paced slowly, running a hand over his face. His grey eyes looked distant — orbiting a thought he couldn’t quite capture. Jeeny stood a few feet away, quiet, still, watching him the way one watches a storm build over water.

Jeeny: “Timothée Chalamet once said, ‘Sometimes if I’m in my head before a take, I’ll just like to reach out to the closest thing to me — the wall or a sharp edge — and just push into it. That way, my physical experience is totally contemporaneous and not in the clouds.’”

Jack: pauses mid-step, smirking faintly “He pushes into walls to remind himself he’s real. I get that.”

Jeeny: “You would.”

Jack: leans against the concrete wall, presses a palm flat against it “It’s the actor’s curse — or maybe just the human one. Spend too much time thinking, and you start to forget your own body.”

Jeeny: “You mean you start to forget you exist outside of thought.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. You turn into smoke — all concept, no flesh.”

Host: The light from a nearby monitor flickered across Jack’s face, painting it in faint blue flames. Dust motes drifted in the air, catching the glow — tiny suspended worlds in motionless orbit.

Jeeny took a step closer, her shoes clicking against the concrete — one sharp sound cutting through the murmur of distant voices.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We call it acting, but the best performances aren’t performances at all. They’re anchors. It’s about staying here, not pretending somewhere else.”

Jack: “You mean presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Presence — the rarest form of truth.”

Jack: laughs softly “Presence? Truth? You sound like a meditation app.”

Jeeny: smiling “And you sound like someone running from both.”

Jack: turns to face her “Maybe. But think about it — this whole job, this whole life, it’s about illusion. Cameras, edits, words. You lose yourself enough times, you start confusing authenticity with artifice.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the art — losing yourself just enough to find something real on the other side.”

Jack: eyes narrow “Or just losing yourself.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled from somewhere far away. The faint vibration ran through the floor — an echo that seemed to hum beneath their conversation.

Jack’s fingers still pressed against the wall — steady, deliberate — as if confirming that the world hadn’t slipped entirely into fiction.

Jeeny: “You ever do that? What he described — grounding yourself with something tangible?”

Jack: without looking at her “Every day. Sometimes it’s the edge of a table, sometimes the cold of a doorknob. Sometimes… pain.”

Jeeny: softly “Pain?”

Jack: “Yeah. Just a little reminder that I’m not just a voice in my own head. That the world still resists me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of thought — it’s infinite, but it’s weightless. You can drown in something that has no substance.”

Jack: lets out a slow breath “Exactly. The deeper you go into your head, the less the world pushes back. It’s all reflection. No resistance. No wall.”

Host: The wind whistled faintly through a crack in the far window. The sound was thin, almost human, the kind that reminded you how fragile walls really were.

Jeeny sat on a crate, pulling her knees close, eyes fixed on him — steady, searching.

Jeeny: “You know, what Chalamet said — it’s not just about acting. It’s about living. We spend so much time trying to feel right that we forget to be real.”

Jack: “Being real is overrated. Reality’s never as cinematic as imagination.”

Jeeny: “No — but it’s honest. And honesty, even when it’s ugly, breathes better than illusion.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why I keep touching the wall. Because honesty needs proof.”

Jeeny: “Or because you don’t trust yourself not to disappear.”

Jack: half-smile “That too.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, the kind that hums with things that almost become confession.

The director’s voice echoed distantly: “Ten minutes to roll.” The sound bounced off the concrete, faded into air.

Jack’s gaze drifted upward — to the catwalk, the camera rig, the suspended lights — all those machines built to catch emotion and sell it as truth.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? They call it the take, like you’re taking something. But most of the time, it feels like you’re giving something away — a piece of yourself you won’t get back.”

Jeeny: “That’s why he grounds himself. So what he gives away doesn’t become everything he is.”

Jack: after a pause “You think that’s possible? To stay whole while pretending?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the pretending is part of being whole. The world’s full of walls — but some you push to feel alive, others to see what gives.”

Jack: glances at her, curious “And which one’s this?”

Jeeny: touches the wall beside him, lightly, almost reverently “This one? This one’s both.”

Host: The light above them dimmed as the crew powered down half the set. The shadows deepened, turning their faces into chiaroscuro — real and unreal at once.

For a brief moment, everything seemed still: the machines, the air, the beating rhythm of their breath.

Jack: quietly “Sometimes I wonder if actors are the truest liars alive — people who tell the truth through pretending.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re the only ones honest enough to admit that everyone’s pretending.”

Jack: grins faintly “So you’re saying we’re all just improvising existence?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we? Every day’s another take. Some good, some cut, some forgotten.”

Jack: turns toward the window, watching the night thicken “And the wall’s the only constant — something solid enough to push back.”

Jeeny: softly “Until one day, you don’t need to push anymore. You just stand still and feel.”

Jack: “And that’s presence?”

Jeeny: “That’s peace.”

Host: The camera light flickered on somewhere behind them — a red glow like a heartbeat against the dark. The crew began to move again, voices echoing, props shuffling, the machine of cinema grinding back to life.

But for a moment, the world within their quiet corner felt separate — realer than the reel.

Jack dropped his hand from the wall. Jeeny stood, her face illuminated by the soft light from the stage.

They said nothing — but the silence between them was alive, heavy with truth and pulse.

Host: The director called, “Ready?”

Jack nodded once. He stepped into the light, still carrying the weight of the wall on his palm — the imprint of reality pressed into his skin.

And as the scene began, he didn’t think. He didn’t drift.

He was there — entirely present,
flesh and soul aligned,
breathing in rhythm with the moment.

Because sometimes, the only way to find truth in a world of illusions
is to touch something real —
and remember that beneath every performance,
there is still a heartbeat
wanting to be known.