The campus buzzed with the usual late-morning rush.
Caffeine-deprived students dashed across the walkways, plastic folders flapping like wings in their arms. Undergrads in crisp uniforms and perfect haircuts tried to look mysterious and professional, clearly out to impress.
Among them, Sky Wongravee, a third-year film major with a minor in insomnia and emotional damage, wove his way through the crowded hallway of the Arts and Sciences Building. A flannel hung loose over his bold graffic tee with artistic letters. A camera bag was slung across one shoulder, and his face screamed: I hate morning rush.
Some students greeted him as he passed. He offered lazy waves in return, half-aware. He spotted a few others furiously flipping through notes, clearly in panic mode.
Ahh, right. Exam season, he thought, glancing at the stack of papers in his own hands, notes and assignments given earlier during his first class of the day, Film Directing. He had briefly skimmed through them and sighed. The workload was brutal, yet again.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a voice message from his manager, Nook:
> "Sky, the new project's script just arrived. Check your email. We'll talk later, but for now, read it through. There might be minor changes, but run through the draft. I'll update you later! Also... drink more water. You looked half-dead in your last selfie."
Sky rolled his eyes at the end but smirked. "Noted, P'Nook," he muttered, quickly replying with a voice message. Turning into one of the side hallways, he made his way toward a small theater room tucked at the far edge of the building, climbing the stairs two at a time with newfound enthusiasm.
He loved acting. Reading scripts, analyzing scenes, falling into stories—it was what kept him sane.
Since he was a kid, Sky had dreamed of writing his own stories—of creating a world that felt like home. That's why he chose filmmaking. But dreams, he realized, didn't always come clean and in a gift-wrapped. They hit you, bite you, chew you up. Instead of romanticizing his craft, he now found himself buried under paperwork, deadlines, and caffeinated survival.
Today, he had three classes left: Screenwriting Fundamentals, Directing Workshop, and Asian Cinema Through the Ages. But none of that mattered right now.
What mattered was the email.
The script.
Sky found an empty lecture room, flopped down on one of the creaky theater seats, and opened his tablet. Subject: New Script — 'The Last Light of Summer'.
He skimmed the description:
Genre: Slice-of-life, coming-of-age, romance
Setting: University
Role: Supporting character "Sky Worshire" — best friend of the main lead and comedic relief
He snorted. "Wow. Well, that's perfect," he said dryly, amused that his character had the same name as him.
Still, he clicked on the attachment. The script document opened, and as he scrolled through the pages, Sky's brows furrowed.
It started out okay. The typical university fluff, some witty banter, a clumsy love triangle, and fluffy love confessions. But the further he read, the more uncomfortable he felt. Something felt... off.
He returned to the character list, this time reading it carefully instead of skimming.
And then, he found it.
Character: Nani
Description: Cold, reserved. Minor recurring character.
Development: None.
Purpose: Passive background element. "Symbol of emotional distance." Friend of the female lead.
Sky blinked.
"...Excuse me?" He snorted.
He flipped back to the scenes where Nani appeared. Sparse dialogue. Vague motivations. Disconnected moments with the female lead.
One moment, Nani was sketching silently during a group activity. The next, the plot moved on without him. Like he wasn't even there.
No backstory. No closure. Not even a reaction during the climax—when every other character was breaking down, grieving, confessing, Nani simply... disappeared. Faded out like a forgotten draft line.
Sky leaned back, biting his lower lip. "This is garbage," he muttered.
He reread Nani's final scene. Just one line:
> "...Yeah. I'm used to it."
Sky's gut twisted.
"You're telling me this guy just exists to be a sad prop for half the novel and then vanish?" He stood, pacing the empty room now. "You even gave the ex a redemption arc but not a single thing in him?! What kind of emotionally bankrupt author—"
He cut himself off, breath sharp.
Because he knew this character. He'd met people like Nani. Soft-spoken. Overlooked. Misread. Hell, he was that kid growing up. Always orbiting louder voices. Always wondering if his story mattered to anyone.
Something about Nani clung to his chest like an old dream he forgot he once had.
But there was more. He could feel it. Plot holes surrounded Nani's character—missing cues, chopped dialogue, unnatural fades. It was as if the story had intentionally edited him out.
Not bad writing.
Intentional neglect.
Sky sat again, jaw clenched. He whispered, "Who hurt you?"
That night, Sky stayed up reading the rest of the script in his apartment. Full-blown analysis mode. The city glowed in the distance, car horns and neon buzz leaking through the half-open window.
Sky scribbled notes across a worn notebook:
Why doesn't anyone react when Nani disappears?
Where's his arc?
What if he had one? What if he mattered?
He couldn't accept it.
Characters die all the time. But to be erased? Forgotten without even a proper ending?
Frustration tightened in his chest. He wasn't even part of the main cast, but here he was—aching for a fictional stranger.
At around 3 a.m., a notification pinged on his phone:
Script Revision: FINAL DRAFT.
A linger of hope that maybe the God's heard his annoyance
He opened it.
And stared.
Nani's name had been removed.
Sky frantically flipped through the entire document, searching for any trace of him—a line, a cameo, a memory.
Nothing.
Even the emotional scene where he once comforted the female lead? Gone. Given to someone else.
He's Gone. Deleted.
"No," Sky whispered. "No, no, no. You can't just—"
He stood too quickly, breath racing. Grief? Anger? Guilt? He couldn't even name the feeling.
The final page of the revised script read:
> "Some characters are better off forgotten."
Sky slammed the tablet shut.
The room swayed.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. It felt like something had been carved out of him.
He collapsed backward onto his bed, lightheaded, vision tunneling. The city lights blurred into darkness. The city noise started sounding like static in the background.
His last conscious thought:
If I could rewrite this... I'd make sure he knew he was never a footnote.