Alyssa Nasser, “A Sleep”
March 2nd, 2025
4:27 p.m.
Los Angeles, CA
Micah’s favorite part of driving with someone he doesn’t know is the silence. He enjoys being able to look out the window, losing himself in his fantasies. But now, speaking to the driver might be his only excuse to hang up the phone. “I’m on my way,” he repeats, tapping on the windowsill, watching the mirage of cars jammed up in front of him. His skin feels sticky with the California sun, his makeup already smudging.
“I said four, so I expect you at four,” his manager says. Micah rolls the window down, grateful for some air, even if it’s uncomfortably warm. “Just because you’re in the ceremony doesn’t give you an excuse to be late.” From his coat pocket, Micah takes out the pack of Marlboro cigarettes and the jade lighter he sneaked in. “Everyone else is early. Even Noah’s already there.”
Micah’s grip on the lighter tightens, metal digging into his skin. Venom grows under his tongue, and his attempts to swallow it down are futile when he speaks. “Maybe you should just take him on instead,” he says, lighting his cigarette.
“You would’ve been a C-lister serving coffee for people like Noah if it weren’t for me, so watch your tongue.” Micah rolls his eyes.
“Fine, sorry,” Micah says, smoking his cigarette, the ashes falling on the road. “I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up. Silence washes over him for less than a second before the onslaught of notifications from his phone ambushes him. Messages from his manager (growing exponentially), his co-stars, even old friends. But only two messages stand out to him.
One message is from his mother, waiting in a nearby hotel by the TV. A selfie, captioned ‘You’ll do great’. The other is from an old contact saved as Noah 🙂 . It reads: ‘Good luck’.
Micah bites the inside of his mouth. If he scrolls up, he’s sure he’ll find years of identical messages.
You too, he types, and puts his phone on silent. It doesn’t matter–Noah knows not to respond.
January 12, 2014
7:33 p.m
Denver, CO
“I’m on my way,” Micah called, scrawny legs pushing up against the ground. Calves burning, his breath came out in hot puffs, snow slipping into his boots.
Noah, taller and built from years of athletics, ran faster. “Catch up, then,” he laughed, already beating Micah to The Lake–a sacred spot, heaven tucked in the corners of suburbia–glistening at night, a pool of black ink with stars swimming under the surface. Distracted by the sight, Micah tripped on a rock, landing with his knees buried in the sand.
“Loser,” Noah snorted, but extended his hand.
“I hate you,” Micah deadpanned, purposely sinking his nails deep in the arm of his friend to prop himself up.
Standing at the edge of The Lake, freezing waves crashed against their boots. “Was coming here really necessary?” Micah asked. Denver was too cold in Winter, they could’ve just as easily practiced in the daylight or at their properly heated houses.
Noah frowned. “Of course it’s necessary,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Haven’t you heard of method acting? Lancaster and Theodore met by a lake, we need to understand how that feels.”
Micah nodded, feeling suddenly stupid for not thinking of it first. He kicked a few pebbles into the water. “Sounds like a lot of work for nothing.”
“And that’s why I got lead and you didn’t,” Noah teased. Micah kicked more pebbles at Noah, laughing.
“Just wait,” Micah said. “When we’re in high school, I’ll get every lead, and you’ll just have to watch.”
When he realized that Micah was speaking seriously, Noah made sure to look away. A smile, teasing and confident, found its way to him. “Sure thing,” he said, holding out their scripts. “Can’t wait to see it.”
March 2nd, 2025
5:52 p.m.
Los Angeles, CA
Micah still remembers the first time he received his nomination to the Awards, how his fingers trembled on Noah’s shoulders. Yelling, jumping, so excited that sweat dripped from their bodies even in the cold of the spot right outside Noah’s house. He remembers his first time attending the Awards as well, the running, the searching for rooms. He and Noah found a balcony, and lingered there so long that they nearly missed the show. Now, his feet follow the familiar trail.
“Oh,” Micah says, as involuntary as breathing, when he sees Noah already standing at the balcony. Noah jolts, his shoulders tensing. He cranes his neck to see who the surprise guest is and relaxes at the familiar face. He makes sure to look away quickly after, turning his attention back to the yard instead.
“Happy Awards day,” he says. Micah waits until the silence grows loud enough that it buzzes in his ears. He clears his throat.
“Yeah, you too.” He approaches the railing, staring into the sunset, how the purple fights with the orange, how the clouds beat them both. Noah watches as Micah searches his coat pocket. He laughs when he sees the jade lighter.
“You still use it?” Noah asks. Micah shrugs, suppressing the embarrassment of using the old gift.
“Want one?” Micah asks, holding up the pack of cigarettes. Noah refuses.
“I’m trying to do better,” he says. Micah frowns as he brings the cigarette to his mouth. “Not that smoking means you’re doing bad,” Noah tries to amend, looking to Micah before quickly averting his gaze.
Micah slumps forward after lighting his cigarette, watches as the ash ripples down the balcony. “Tell me how you really feel.” The attempted joke falls flat. The atmosphere settles like a barrier between them. They watch as the sky gets darker by the second. It’s the end of something, and the night–the dark, the quiet, it will last a long time.
“Hey,” Noah starts, slowly, as if approaching an animal. “You know things like these don’t really matter. I watched your movie. You were amazing, we both deserve to win.”
The idea of Noah watching his movie made Micah feel sick. He’d laid a part of his bones down in that movie, spent hours digging up remnants of his soul from the back of his throat to put in the dialogue. And still, Noah would win. And still, Noah knew. “Don’t bother lying to me. We both need to win,” Micah snaps, allowing the pretense of friendship to rot. “The only reason you don’t care is cause you’re so used to winning that this competition’s beneath you.”
“Micah,” Noah tries. It sounds sincere, but then, Noah’s best roles have always been the emotional ones. “I’m sorry.”
That sentence, the one that had been stuck in both their hearts, an unspoken curse, spills like blood beneath them. Micah resents the way Noah’s voice sounds. Warbled–guilty. The worst part is knowing that Noah has no reason for guilt. Every victory has been deserved. Perhaps that is Micah’s true gripe. “I’m not sure it’s even my place to forgive you.”
November 8th, 2019
9:44 p.m.
New York City, NY
“You’re slow,” Micah complained, his feet up on the dashboard of Noah’s car. He stifled a sniffle, rubbing his hands together for warmth while the car began to heat up. “We should’ve just taken the metro.”
Noah, barely seventeen and the only one of the two who owned a car, scowled. “It’s dark out. Metro’s probably swarmed with drunkards.”
Micah scoffed, feeling the cold air enter his lungs. “Fine,” he said, resting his head on his palms. The music playing from the right speaker filled up the empty space in their silence. The pauses as the songs switched stared at them with an awkward patience. “So,” Noah tried. “How’s filming?”
Micah laughed. Noah’s eyes darted at his friend for a second before returning to the road. “You really couldn’t think of a better question?” They’d been filming together, their first official collaboration outside of school. They spent almost every waking hour together, and slept just one room away in hotels. It should’ve been easy for them to stay in touch.
Noah sighed, pressing the pedal harder. “Sorry. I don’t know. You’ve just been distant lately,” he said, his hands repositioning on the wheel, making sure to look anywhere except at Micah. “I know you’re there, but..I don’t know. Are you angry at me or something?”
“No,” Micah lied, not even able to look at Noah as he said it. Something disgusting churned in his stomach. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Ross likes you more, that’s all.”
“I’m the lead, so I guess that makes sense,” Noah joked. It was meant to be a joke. Micah’s fingers twitched on his jacket sleeve.
“How surprising,” Micah whispered, silently craving a cigarette. Noah didn’t seem to hear him. Noah prattled on about filming and the various people he’d met–the shenanigans their co-stars were up to. Micah nodded along, trying his best to bite back his envious remarks. When Noah took a sharp turn that landed them in a diner, he looked at Micah with a smile.
“Blueberry pancakes, right?”
Micah tried his best to smile back when he nodded, but it fell short. Despite himself, he wondered–if Noah was ever upset, if he ever needed to smile when he didn’t feel it, would he fall short too?
March 2nd, 2025
6:59 p.m.
Los Angeles, CA
The earthy taste of cigarette smoke lingers when Micah gets back to his table. His manager glares as Micah sits down. “I’ll deal with you later,” he mumbles so the reporters can’t hear him. Micah nods and pushes his chair inwards, looking around as the lights start to dim. From across the room, Noah sits down. He is greeted with a gratuitous pat on the shoulder from his manager and laughter from his co-stars. Micah’s chest feels heavy from it, a familiar, tired contempt overwhelming him.
The actors next to him are drinking. He hails a waiter over just as the ceremony begins, and asks for something strong. When the waiter leaves, he notices that Noah is staring at Micah. Even from afar, the guilt in his eyes is obvious. Micah looks away.
He wants to feel hopeful. Maybe nervous, excited, anxious even. But as the announcer makes her way down the stage, all Micah feels is a dreadful certainty. He already knows what will be written on her cards.
From under the table, he texts his mom.
‘I’m sorry.’
The ceremony begins.
Micah closes his eyes and prepares for the storm.
February 13, 2021
11:27 a.m.
Micah spent over seven minutes in the rain contemplating his options before he resigned himself to entering the cafe. Pushing open the door, his hair soiled and boots muddied, he felt nauseous. The feeling only worsened with the sickly sweet scent coming from the kitchen.
Noah was scrolling on his phone in a corner booth with a plate of half finished eggs and an untouched plate of blueberry pancakes in front of him by the time Micah arrived. “Sorry for being late,” Micah said, sitting down on the opposite side. “Got caught up in something.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Noah set his phone down. “How’ve you been?”
Micah half heartedly talked about his life, the big project he was working on. He was set to star in a movie releasing a month later than Noah’s. Noah nodded and added along excitedly, cutting up parts of his food as they talked. Micah barely picked at his plate. “Aren’t you gonna eat?” Noah asked around a mouthful of eggs.
His stomach trembled, and still, Micah shrugged. “I’m not that hungry.”
Noah frowned. “You’re hugging your stomach. You only ever do that if you’re hungry.”
Shouldn’t it feel nice to be known? Micah laughs, and doesn’t mean for it to be as bitter as it is. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But aren’t you hungry? If you’re hungry you should eat.”
Micah felt his teeth instinctively digging into the side of his mouth. Noah was still supposed to be his friend. He was still supposed to be able to tell him anything. “The agency wants me to lose weight,” he finally mumbled. “They think it’ll be a selling point.”
Something disgusting overtook him when Noah stared as if he couldn’t understand. How could he be confused, when all of this–all the meal plans and breakdowns–were just to keep up? “You’re already underweight,” Noah said. “That can’t be healthy. At least have some of my eggs.”
As Noah was about to start shoveling food on Micah’s plate, his hand was swatted away. “I told you already, the agency wants me to lose weight.”
“So?”
“So I have to lose weight,” he said, and it came out like a sigh, something frustrated and bitter. Noah looked away. Micah went back to picking at his food.
Eventually, Noah cleared his throat. “You don’t have to listen if it’s hurting you,” he said simply. Micah felt as he dug his fork into the ceramic of the plate, the way his teeth clenched in his mouth. Of course Noah would think that. He would have no reason not to, right? Everything was always his choice–always could be, too good at his job for his agency to lose him. Too talented.
“Sure,” he said, unconvincingly.
“I’m serious. I know that you want to get ahead or whatever–” Micah stopped listening. To hear his desperate attempts to catch up described so casually? It was nearly blasphemous.
Noah continued to speak. Every word echoed in Micah’s head like a bullet until he couldn’t take it any longer. “I get it okay? I get it, you’re so kind and nice and mighty and everyone loves you–and you don’t have to listen to the agency if you don’t want to,” he said, mockingly. “I get it. Just stop acting like we’re in the same situation.”
Noah blinked. “What are you even talking about?”
The worst part was that he sounded genuinely confused. Like it hadn’t ruined Micah’s life. Like he wasn’t even aware of the power he held. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he was practically yelling. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” —because you have to know–you have to, or I’m even more behind than I thought I was– “You’re the Golden Boy, you’re given every goddamn role on a silver platter and your head is never on the chopping block. Have you seriously never realized it?” –have you never seen the way I’m treated?– “The rest of us have to work for it. We have to listen, and work, and bleed, for just a fraction of what you’re given.”
Micah felt like blood was coursing through his hands, his body heavy with it. He couldn’t help the anger he felt just by looking at Noah. How calmly he put his fork down. “Is that why you haven’t been talking to me? You’re angry over that?”
Before he could think about it, Micah was slamming the table. A waiter nearby startled. Micah didn’t care. “Of course I’m angry.” His voice cracked at the edges. “Do you know how hard I’ve been working?”
There was something like remorse on Noah’s face. He looked away, making sure not to catch Micah’s eye. Micah scoffed at it. “Don’t bother being guilty now. It never actually bothered you, did it?” All the jokes he made, all the times he rubbed dirt all over Micah after every lead.
“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that way,” he said.
“No you aren’t,” Micah accused. Noah still refused to look at him. Maybe it was better that way. “Do you know how hard I’ve been working?” He repeated, but it landed more like a question now. His voice began to crack under the pressure. “I spend hours looking for whatever the hell it is that makes you so much better. Do you know how many meals I’ve skipped? Days I’ve gone without eating?” At that, Noah looked up. Micah pretended not to see the look of guilt in his eyes. “I thought things would change if I just outworked you, if I just–” he cut himself off. He held his head up with his hands, balled his fingers into tight fists. He wouldn’t let himself cry, not in front of Noah. He couldn’t lose. Not again. Not at this. “It never matters,” his voice went quiet. “I can’t escape you. I can’t. Nothing I do will ever be enough. Even if I’m on the podium, you’re always ahead of me. You always will be.”
The rain was loud. It was too cold. He wished it could be warm, maybe somewhere in Los Angeles, where he could miraculously escape Noah.
Noah had his hands wrapped deeply around themselves, his face hardened. “Thats what you think of me?” He asked. Micah couldn’t tell if it was something bitter or sad, maybe both. Regardless, Micah kept his mouth shut. Noah laughed. “Really? All of these years that I thought we were friends–that I thought you cared about me, and you just saw me as someone to beat?”
How could I not?
“It just isn’t fair. I work so hard–”
“You think I don’t?”
And Micah laughs. An honest to god laugh, the kind that burns in his chest. “You were born with talent, you can’t deny it. And yea, sure, you work. But not as hard as I do.”
In that moment, under the scrutinizing stare that Noah was giving him, Micah felt small. Noah opened his mouth, and closed it again, as if the words were escaping him. As if he could’ve never suspected this would happen. “I work hard, too,” he lands on, and it sounds sad. “You would know that if you weren’t so intent on hating me because you think I’m lucky.”
Micah bit the inside of his mouth and thought about it until his anger slumped into resignation. “No. It’s not that. It’s nothing either of us can control,” he said. “It’s the way it is. Maybe I was insane to ever think I could surpass it.” Micah stood up. I’m sorry for yelling, he thought, but didn’t say. Noah looked at the floor. I’m sorry for hating you, he thought, walking away, leaving Noah with a plate of cold pancakes.
I’m sorry that it could only ever be like this.
March 2nd, 2025
7:33 p.m.
Los Angeles, CA
“—Noah Raymond!” The announcer cheers, the crowd follows.
Noah makes a show of acting surprised while Micah claps and raises his glass. This was the only way it could have gone. He gives his speech. It’s beautiful. Well rehearsed.
He makes sure not to look at Micah as he gives it.
