The words echo across the set for the fifteenth time today, and I've stopped flinching at the clapperboard's snap. Fifteen times. That's how many takes it's taken for the lead actress to nail a single tearful glance out a window.

This isn't my drama. It never is.

I sit to the side, elbows resting on my knees, chin propped on my fists as I watch. The lead actress—some rising starlet whose name I've already forgotten—tilts her head just so, letting the studio lights catch the single tear tracking down her cheek. The director leans forward in his chair, breath held.

It's beautiful, really. The way she transforms. One moment she's scrolling through her phone between takes, complaining about the craft services tea. The next, she's a heartbroken empress watching her lover ride away.

I could watch this forever.

A tap lands on my shoulder, light but insistent. I turn to find a production assistant clutching a clipboard, her lanyard swinging with every movement. She's young, maybe early twenties, with a perpetually frazzled look and a headset perched lopsided on her head.

I push myself up, my knees cracking from sitting too long. The crowd scene. Right. I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to be a peasant in the background of the emperor's procession. Not exactly a starring role.

But as I make my way past the cables and light stands, past the gaffers adjusting reflectors and the sound guy holding his boom pole like a fishing rod, I catch the lead actress's eye through the window. She holds my gaze for half a second.

Then the clapperboard snaps again, and she's someone else entirely.