As soon as he sat down, the red sofa seemed to open its gaping maw and swallowed Anson whole, leaving only his golden head visible, like a mushroom.
But Anson didn't resist. He sat quietly in the sofa, awkwardly and stiffly curled up, his head tilted back to stare at the ceiling, his mind completely blank—
Not that he had no thoughts.
Quite the opposite, his mind was flooded with too many thoughts, tangled and jumbled, rushing up all at once, making it impossible to sort them out.
He didn't know what was going on with his father. He really didn't want to go to school today. Would Lucas arrive on time? What if his father slipped away unnoticed? Would he get a warning for being late to school? What classes were there this morning? Mr. Rous' office actually had cobwebs. If Mr. Rous asked for his parents, should he call his father in?
It seemed like he didn't have a choice.
Chaotic thoughts emerged one after another, disappearing before he could unravel them, like a tangled ball of yarn, losing the thread the moment he tried to follow it, leaving him in a state of blankness.
No sadness, no disappointment, no pain, no irritation, no anger.
Nothing, just emptiness.
He stared at the ceiling, patiently waiting for Mr. Rous to scold him.
Time stood still at that moment.
Harris watched the camera lock onto Anson, the shot completely fixed, silently capturing time flowing over Anson's shoulders.
No movement, no expression, just Anson's profile, yet somehow it felt inexplicably sorrowful, like a butterfly perched delicately on a flower.
Golden sunlight poured over the butterfly's wings, bright and brilliant, yet fragile, so dazzling but so delicate, as if a mere touch could shatter it, making one hold their breath and keep their distance, not daring to get too close.
Alex turned his head awkwardly, hastily rubbing his eyes.
Eric noticed but did nothing.
Eric focused intently and quietly on the blonde boy not far away—
He understood, he understood it all.
Those trivial worries, those heavy emotions, that faint sorrow, not earth-shattering disasters, nor the pain of life and death, but still so real, even if they seemed insignificant to those truly suffering, even if too ashamed to speak of.
But they were real.
Like a gentle stream, flowing slowly and quietly, passing over ankles, shins, knees, silently wrapping around the body, pulling it underwater, and by the time you realized the water had reached your chest, it was too late, slipping into the deep blue.
The unfathomable deep blue.
He tried to breathe, tried to struggle, tried to shout, but had no strength.
Sometimes, he wondered, would youth ever end?
He was utterly weary of being seventeen. Why did it feel so endless, like he would never escape this gloom?
Slowly, slowly disappearing.
That blonde boy was him, yet not him, just another small soul trapped in youth.
Eric blinked, thinking he might cry.
But he didn't.
His eyes were dry, no tears, no warmth, nothing.
Just a sense of confusion.
The camera, like time itself, like their seventeen years, remained still, frozen in place.
One second, two seconds...
Thirty seconds, sixty seconds...
Gus stared intently at the monitor, watching Anson sitting on the sofa, breathing quietly, without any words or movements, yet the character and story began to breathe, suddenly coming to life.
This was a cinematic moment—
Breaking through time and space, freeing itself from the plot and dialogue, allowing the camera and actor to collide, letting the audience breathe with the camera, feeling the heartbeat.
Audiences often crave climaxes, whether from the plot, performances, or the energy released by special effects; but what truly tests a director are those moments that slow down, calm down, where the pulse is felt.
A certain atmosphere. A certain state.
Finally, Gus got what he was waiting for.
The entire set was silent, everyone watching Anson's breathing.
Actually, Anson had just zoned out for a moment, completely unaware of the passage of time, briefly lost in his thoughts, letting his mind wander into nothingness, his body falling into the abyss.
Then.
Without warning, he snapped out of it, returning to reality.
He adjusted his posture, trying to sit up straight, his gaze calm as he looked at Mr. Rous.
Anson expected Mr. Rous to speak.
But he didn't.
Mr. Rous crossed his arms, leaning against the desk, watching Anson.
Neither spoke.
Mr. Rous noticed the unease and nervousness hidden behind Anson's calm eyes. The words he was about to say got swallowed back down, a hint of helplessness showing between his brows.
Mr. Rous straightened up, lowered his arms, then turned to move behind his desk, standing behind his chair, his expression a mix of helplessness and frustration.
After a brief struggle, Mr. Rous finally looked at Anson.
"Go to class."
"But don't be late for detention after school again."
Harris' camera focused on Mr. Rous.
Off-camera, Anson struggled to his feet, still lost in his thoughts, heavy footsteps passing in front of the camera, eyes fixed on the ground, nodding slightly, not knowing if he'd heard.
Harris' camera naturally followed Anson's footsteps out of Mr. Rous' office.
Once outside, Anson took a deep breath, refocusing, seemingly returning to normal—
The teacher's office was full of people, both teachers and students.
"Excuse me, ma'am, we need to sign out."
In front of him was a campus couple, the "It" crowd. If Anson remembered correctly, the boy was on the school's football team, and many girls had crushes on him.
Obviously, Anson didn't want to attract any attention.
What to do?
Anson looked around, found a lame excuse to cover himself, "Hey, where was that photo taken?"
Anson pointed to a landscape photo on the wall, asking the busy teacher.
"Hawaii. On Maui."
Anson felt a bit awkward, fiddling with his hair and clothes, trying to hide his discomfort, deliberately taking another admiring look at the photo, "Wow, beautiful!"
The teacher noticed Anson's odd behavior.
She walked over, "Need any help?"
Anson paused, then suddenly remembered, "Oh, right," he pulled out a set of keys from his pocket, "My brother will be by to pick these up later."
Teacher, "Okay."
Anson, "He'll be here around eleven-thirty."
The teacher pulled out a manila envelope, "Put them in the envelope, then write your brother's name on it."
"Luca, oh, Lucas, his name's Lucas."
The camera subtly moved forward—
Leaving Anson behind.
Harris panned across, capturing the entire teacher's office, everyone still talking and busy.
"Cut!"
Gus' voice broke the silence, but there wasn't a sound in the room, hearts still stopped.
Wait, was there another take needed?