Chapter Text
Aang was stressed.
Like, extremely stressed.
It was the kind of stress that sat between his shoulder blades like a knot, creeping up into his neck and refusing to leave no matter how many deep breaths he tried to take. The kind that had his mind bouncing from thought to thought so fast it was impossible to focus on any one thing for more than a second.
Which was ridiculous, because this was supposed to be the happiest moment of his career so far.
Everything he’d been working toward—every late night huddled over his laptop in coffee shops that were seconds from closing, every scrap of dialogue scribbled in the margins of old grocery receipts, every half-finished draft he’d thrown in the trash with a frustrated groan—had finally paid off. His first original play had been greenlit for a professional production.
The memory of telling Zuko and Mai about it still made his chest swell, even now. He’d practically burst into their apartment the second he got the call, grinning so wide his face had hurt. Zuko had looked up from his laptop with an expression that was half confusion, half suspicion, before Aang blurted the news.
“They said yes,” he’d told them, words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s happening. It’s actually happening.”
Zuko’s lips had quirked into one of those subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it smiles that said more than anything else he could have said aloud. Mai, curled into the couch beside him, had offered the dry, “Well… don’t screw it up,” which was about as close to a fireworks display as her congratulations ever got.
But now, just a week before auditions, most of that wild excitement had been replaced with an aching pit of anxiety.
The leads weren’t cast. In fact, nobody was cast. Sure, he’d tacked up flyers all over the city, flooded his social media with posts, and begged every theater contact he had to spread the word—but what if the right people didn’t show up? Or worse, what if nobody showed up? What if his story never made it past the page?
The thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten.
He needed to step away from his laptop, away from the pile of audition forms waiting for nonexistent names, and just… breathe. Somehow, that thought had led his feet to the front door of a small, corner diner he’d passed dozens of times but never gone into.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. The place smelled like coffee and grilled cheese, a warm, savory comfort that made you forget for a moment how overwhelming the world outside could be. A young hostess greeted him with a tired but polite smile, grabbing a menu and leading him toward a booth tucked near the window.
He slid into the seat, muttered a quick thanks, and let his elbows rest on the table, dropping his head into his hands. The cool surface pressed against his forearms, grounding him. His thoughts swirled—scenes from his play, half-formed lines of dialogue, imagined audiences that were either roaring with applause or sitting in bored silence.
A sign, he thought. That’s all I need. Just… something to tell me it’s going to work out.
He had barely taken a breath when a voice broke into his spiral.
“Rough day, huh?”
Aang looked up—and felt his heart stutter in his chest.
The waitress standing beside his booth had a presence that didn’t just draw the eye—it held it captive. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid that trailed over one shoulder, a few strands escaping to frame her face in a way that felt almost intentional. Her skin was warm in the glow of the diner’s low lighting, her eyes bright and… kind, in a way that hit him unexpectedly hard.
And then there were the earrings. Silver crescents, delicate but striking, catching the light every time she moved.
She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile playing at her lips. “You look like you either just lost everything,” she said, “or you’re about to win an Oscar and you’re terrified about it.”
It took him a beat too long to realize she’d made a joke, and another beat to remember that people generally responded when spoken to.
“I—uh—” He blinked, caught somewhere between laughing and staring. “Maybe a little bit of both?”
She laughed—soft, easy, genuine—and something in him loosened at the sound.
Aang had no idea who she was. But in that moment, with her looking at him like she’d known him forever, he had the strangest feeling that maybe, just maybe… this was the sign.
She tilted her head, her braid sliding over her shoulder, and a grin spread across her face. “Well, Mr. Potential Oscar Winner,” she said, “what can I get you to drink today?”
Aang leaned back slightly, still recovering from her earlier comment. “I’m guessing coffee is the safest bet,” he said. “Something strong enough to wake me up, but not so strong I start rewriting my entire play in the middle of the night.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So… something that keeps you functional without making you a danger to yourself?”
“That’s exactly it,” he said, smiling. “Do you read minds too, or is that just part of the diner training program?”
“Trade secret,” she replied with mock seriousness, pulling a pen from behind her ear and flipping open her notepad. “But if I did read minds, I’d guess you’re a latte guy. Maybe caramel? Definitely not black coffee—you’ve got too much optimism in your eyes for that.”
“Optimism?” he asked, amused. “That’s a new one.”
She shrugged. “Call it a hunch. You seem like the kind of person who still believes good things can happen.”
For a moment, he didn’t have a quick reply. Which was… unusual. “Maybe I am,” he said finally, “though right now I’m just hoping one of those good things comes in a mug.”
That earned him another laugh—warm, genuine, like they’d known each other far longer than a minute. She jotted something down on her pad, tucking the pen away again.
“I’ll be back with your drink,” she said, stepping away from the table. “Try not to lose the Oscar in the meantime.”
He watched her walk toward the counter, weaving between booths with practiced ease. Something about her felt familiar, tugging at the edge of his memory. It wasn’t just her face—though he was sure he would have remembered seeing someone like her before—it was something else. The way she carried herself. The way she spoke, like she’d been on a stage once and still remembered the rhythm of an audience’s attention.
And Aang couldn’t help but wonder… where had he seen her before?
He wasn’t able to give the thought much weight before she returned, sliding a steaming mug onto the table with the kind of casual grace that made it seem effortless.
“Caramel latte,” she said, the faintest curl of a smile on her lips, “your supposed ticket to keeping the play intact.”
“Perfect,” Aang said, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. But instead of taking a sip, he looked up at her and, almost without thinking, asked, “Can I get your name? Y’know, so I can thank the genius barista who just saved my opening night.”
Something in her expression shifted—her confident grin faltering for just a beat before returning. She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m actually supposed to introduce myself at every table,” she admitted, “but I guess I forgot. Oops.”
“And here I thought you were being mysterious on purpose,” he teased.
Her smile turned a little sheepish. “It’s Katara.”
The name hit him like a bell being struck—sharp, resonant, impossible to ignore. His eyes widened, his whole face lighting up with sudden recognition. “Wait… Katara ? You were in that production of The Winter Orchard a couple years back! The college put it on in the main theater—you played the lead.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, and before she could respond, he kept going, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You were amazing. Seriously. You completely owned the stage. I remember sitting there thinking, ‘Wow… she’s going places.’”
A faint pink blush crept into her cheeks, and she ducked her head for a second before turning it into a playful deflection. “Alright, Mr. Oscar Winner,” she said, leaning her hip against the edge of the booth, “what’s your true name?”
He grinned. “Aang.”
She blinked. “Wait a minute—you told me you’re writing a play right now?”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his head, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s, uh, my first professional one.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in that searching way people do when they’re pulling up a memory. Then her face brightened, and she snapped her fingers. “I knew I’d seen your name before! You wrote that short piece for the student-run fall festival—the one about the guy who collects broken clocks!”
Aang laughed. “Guilty. That one was mine.”
“That was good, ” she said, pointing at him with her pen like she was awarding him a prize. “A little weird, but good. I still remember that one scene where the main character fixes the clock and just… waits for it to tick. I swear the whole audience held their breath.”
“Guess I’m lucky they didn’t start checking their watches,” he replied.
Her grin widened. “You’re better than you give yourself credit for.”
“Funny,” he said, leaning slightly closer over the table, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
She tilted her head, her braid slipping forward again, and there was a glimmer in her eyes that matched the teasing lilt in her voice. “Careful, Aang. I might start thinking you’re trying to butter me up for something.”
He smirked. “Depends. Is convincing you to audition for my play considered ‘buttering up’?”
“Maybe,” she said, tapping the notepad against her palm. “But if it is… you’re doing a pretty decent job so far.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything—just that small, shared smile holding them in place until she finally pushed off from the booth.
“I should let you enjoy your latte,” she said, stepping back. “But something tells me I’ll be seeing you again soon, Mr. Playwright.”
“Thanks, Katara,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
She gave a little wave of her notepad before heading toward another table, and Aang finally took a sip of his caramel latte.
It was good. Really good.
But even as the sweetness and warmth rolled over his tongue, his thoughts kept drifting back to her. Katara. She wasn’t just talented—she was phenomenal. There was a confidence in the way she spoke, a natural rhythm to her presence that you couldn’t fake. It wasn’t just that she had been good in The Winter Orchard —she had owned it. She had the kind of performance that made you forget you were watching a student play at all.
What the heck was she doing here waiting tables?
His gaze drifted toward the big diner window, the steady hum of the city passing by outside. The thought gnawed at him, tugging harder with each slow sip. Finally, when she glanced his way again, he caught her eye and crooked a finger in a subtle “come here” motion.
She arched a brow, but a small smile tugged at her lips as she crossed the room toward him, her steps confident yet unhurried. And just like earlier, something about the way she moved made his stomach do a little flip.
“What’s up?” she asked, stopping at the edge of his booth.
Aang set his mug down, looking up at her with genuine bewilderment. “What are you doing here?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Um… working?”
“No, I mean—” he leaned forward, earnest now, “with the talent you have, you should be on Broadway. Or in movies. Something big. Not just here taking orders from guys like me.”
A hint of color rose in her cheeks, and she glanced toward the counter like she was buying herself a second before answering. “That’s… nice of you to say,” she murmured. Then her tone shifted, softer, more matter-of-fact. “But being an actress is… hard. If you don’t fit exactly what someone’s looking for—down to your look, your height, even the way you laugh—you’re out. No second chances. And auditions?” She gave a small shrug. “They don’t pay the bills. Gigs do. So… here I am. Waiting tables between auditions.”
Something in her expression dimmed just a little, and she exhaled through her nose. “Honestly? I think I might be done soon. Clearly the fact that I haven’t landed anything in over a year is the universe telling me my prime’s over.”
Aang shook his head before she’d even finished speaking. “No. Absolutely not. You’re way too good to just… stop.”
She gave a small, skeptical smile. “Says the guy who’s never seen my failed auditions.”
“I don’t care,” he said, leaning in more. “You need to come audition for my play— This Side of Tomorrow. ”
That made her laugh under her breath. “And what’s This Side of Tomorrow supposed to be about?”
“It’s about two people who reconnect after years apart,” Aang began, his voice warming as he slipped into the rhythm of a story he knew by heart. “They meet at this point in their lives where the big dreams they had when they were younger don’t look quite the same anymore. And over the course of the play, they realize that maybe the future isn’t about chasing what they thought they wanted—it’s about building something new, together.”
Her expression shifted as she listened—something in her eyes softening, as if the words were hitting closer to home than she expected.
“I’m telling you, Katara,” he said, his tone almost urgent now. “You’d be perfect for the lead. Just come to the audition. Even if it’s just for practice. No pressure. But… I think you’ll surprise yourself.”
She tilted her head, studying him for a long moment. “You’re really selling this, you know.”
“That’s because I mean it,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And because I’m right.”
Her blush deepened just slightly before she pulled her notepad from her apron again, pretending to jot something down. “I’ll… think about it,” she said, but her voice had that lilt that made him suspect she already had.
“That’s all I can ask,” Aang said with a small smile.
Katara gave him one more of her quick, almost shy grins before heading off to check on another table, leaving him alone with his latte and his thoughts.
He leaned back in the booth, fingers curling around the mug again. The caramel sweetness was still warm, but something else had shifted—something lighter settling in his chest. For the first time in weeks, the tight knot of worry about the auditions loosened, just a little.
If he could land someone like her to be his lead actress… someone who could command a stage the way she had back in college, who could make an audience believe every single word she said… then he knew— knew —this play could be something special.
Maybe even more than he’d hoped.
When she finally returned, it was with the bill in hand. “Here you go,” she said, sliding it onto the table with an easy smile.
Aang pulled out his wallet, tucking enough cash inside to more than cover the meal—plus a thirty-dollar tip. Her eyebrows arched slightly when she saw him pull the bills from his wallet, but before she could comment, he reached into his bag and pulled out a folded flyer.
He set it gently on top of the bill and slid it toward her.
She picked it up, her gaze flicking between the flyer and the cash inside the billfold. “Wait…” she said slowly, still staring at the tip like it couldn’t possibly be real. “Is this your way of bribing me into auditioning for your play?”
“No,” Aang said quickly, shaking his head. His voice softened. “It’s for giving me hope. About my play. About the future. And for giving me the best service I’ve ever had in a diner.”
Her lips parted slightly, and he nodded toward the flyer still in her hand. “The audition date, time, and location are on there. Please, Katara… just give it a chance.”
She looked down at the paper, then back at him, and for a second, neither of them spoke. The hum of the diner filled the space between them, along with the faint sizzle of the grill.
“Alright, Mr. Playwright,” she said finally, her voice quiet but warm. “I’ll think about it.”
He smiled, gratitude and possibility intertwined in the curve of his lips.
The goodbye they shared at the door wasn’t long—just a few words, a glance held a fraction too long—but neither of them seemed eager to break it.
Then Aang stepped out into the street, the diner door swinging shut behind him. The city air felt different now, like the world had shifted a few degrees in his favor.
Katara finished up her shift at the diner, collecting her last tip of the night from a rowdy party of four who’d ordered more rounds of fully-loaded fries than she’d personally witnessed any table order in her life, but at least they’d left her a generous tip. Still not quite as generous as a certain charming playwright who clearly had far more charisma than he even realized.
A smile ticked up at the corners of her lips as she tucked the folded-up bills into the pocket of her jeans with the rest of her earnings, all except for Aang’s generous thirty-dollar tip which was kept neatly tucked away inside the folded edges of the flyer.
She called out a quick goodbye to her co-workers before pushing open the diner doors and stepping out onto the sidewalk, immediately taking in the lovely view of all the twinkling lights from the city buildings. She’d seen this view of the skyline and buildings and traffic lights countless times before, but it all felt newer at this moment. The start of something magical. If a talented playwright like Aang saw something special in her, that had to be a sign that her fledgling acting career was finally going to take a turn back in her favor. And it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time because auditions weren’t exactly fun. They were a means to an end to book the next gig and earn the next paycheck in hopes of being recognized for the next big role.
She’d always loved the craft of acting, of digging into a really great script and getting to know her character on the page and rehearsing with her co-stars. But those rewarding parts of being an actress—especially in this past year of failed auditions that had all led nowhere—were few and far between. There was a lot of hustling and even more rejections. She tried to remind herself never to take it to heart, that just because she hadn’t booked a substantial role didn’t mean she wasn’t talented. After all, Aang had said it himself, with her talent, she could be on Broadway.
Katara, a leading actress in a big Broadway production, at the center of the Big Apple itself. Far bigger than Republic City, where dreams only stretched so far and opportunities weren’t exactly knocking at her door. In a way, the idea of her becoming a big-name actress one day still seemed so absurd, so painfully far-fetched and beyond reach.
And yet, in another way, it didn’t seem so far-fetched at all, especially when Aang said it, not even as a way to flatter her, but in an “of course you can be on Broadway” type of way. Why couldn’t she? She had the tenacity and the passion. She just needed to believe in herself, to trust in her talent and keep pursuing her craft. As long as she didn’t give up, nothing could stop her. And for the first time in a long time, she had a really, really good feeling that this was a role she was born to play.
She decided she had to tell the exciting news to her agent.
Still walking briskly down the sidewalk, she reached into her bag for her cell phone, the grin on her face never once budging as she quickly pulled up his name in her list of contacts and tapped it with her thumb, her heartbeat picking up in anticipation. The phone rang only once before she heard his jubilant voice greet her.
“Katara, my favorite client, my own flesh and blood! What can I do for you this wonderful evening? Is this an agent call or an older brother call?”
She playfully rolled her eyes. Initially when Sokka had offered to be her acting agent, she was… skeptical, to say the least. For one thing, they were related, so there was a bit of a conflict of interest in mixing family with work. But her hesitations quickly went away with how confident Sokka had been that he’d be the right person to help her acting career flourish. He excelled at talking to people and always knew just the right thing to say to tip the scales in their favor when it came to finding auditions and opportunities. He always reminded her that any gig could be the gig, her next big break, and it was only a matter of time before she booked the perfect role.
He also kept her grounded when she needed it, reminding her that at the end of the day, show business was just that, a business, and that every no was just another step closer to a yes.
“It’s an ‘I-think-I-might-have-found-the-role-of-a-lifetime’ call,” Katara said, swept up by the sound of traffic surrounding her along with all the fast-paced pedestrians in a hurry to get somewhere. The frenetic energy of the city was usually something she easily tuned out, but now, she eagerly absorbed it all, adding to her excitement, the thrill of this new possibility.
“Hey, I’m supposed to tell you that type of stuff,” Sokka said, but not even he could sour her mood.
“I’m serious, Sokka,” Katara said, now waiting for the crosswalk. As soon as the light changed, she was off, boots clicking against the pavement with a renewed feeling of purpose. “I just met this playwright, Aang—”
“Wait,” Sokka cut her off. “Aang? That name sounds familiar… Is he the one who wrote that play about the broken clock collector guy?”
“Yes, that’s him!” Katara said, practically bouncing back onto the sidewalk with a quick, flourishing step in her sudden rush of giddiness.
“That’s a talented guy right there,” Sokka said, like he even needed to remind her. “I barely understood anything about the thematic elements of that play, and you know if I don’t understand something, it’s definitely a highly intellectual, well-written story. Did you get his autograph?”
“No, but I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Katara said with a chuckle. “Anyway, he’s putting on a new play, something called This Side of Tomorrow.”
“Great title. I—”
“—don’t understand it,” Katara said in unison with him. “Yeah, so, he’s going to be holding tryouts for it and he wants me to audition. What do you think? He says I’d be perfect for the female lead.”
“Well, have you read the script?” Sokka asked.
“No, but I’m telling you, it’s this gut feeling—”
“Katara,” Sokka said, and the way he said her name, not in his schmoozing, hyping-you-up agent voice, but in his seldom used, yet equally effective, stern older brother voice. “I’m sure you’d be great for the part, but I don’t want you to get ahead of yourself and start getting your hopes up.”
A languid breath slowly escaped her lungs, like a gust of lazy wind, deflating her energy ever so slightly. She knew he wasn’t saying that because he didn’t believe in her talent. He was saying it to bring her back to reality, to temper her expectations about a supposedly perfect role that wasn’t even hers yet.
“Yeah,” she said, quietly, as if already admitting defeat. “I know. I’m sure there are so many other actresses who’ll be just as good for the role. Maybe I won’t go.”
“Hey, I’m not saying don’t go,” Sokka said appeasingly. “I’m just saying… Maybe do a little more research first. Start by asking your roommates, see what they think. I just don’t want you to be disappointed again. I’m only looking out for you.”
“Are you saying that as my agent, or as my brother?” Katara asked with a teasing hint to her voice.
“Your agent,” Sokka specified. “As your brother, I always believe in you no matter what. You can shoot for the stars and land the whole moon.”
“That’s… not how that expression goes at all,” Katara said bluntly.
“Hey, I’m improvising, work with me here,” Sokka said, and Katara let out another soft but genuine chuckle.
“Fine,” she finally conceded. “I’ll do some more research first. And I’ll ask my roommates.”
Suddenly Sokka got this tone to his voice, this supposedly casual, slyly curious tone that Katara saw right through as he went on to ask, “Hey, uh, speaking of your roommates… How’s that one roommate of yours doing?”
Katara hummed, coincidentally now approaching the block where her apartment complex was located.
“Which one?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” Sokka said with a self-deprecating, you-caught-me type of chuckle. “Did she say anything about me?”
“Maybe,” Katara said coyly, very much enjoying teasing her brother about his obvious crush on her roommate. “Unfortunately, I can’t remember right now. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
“You’re killing me here!” Sokka said through a groan, only to add with sudden conviction, “Actually, you know what? I like the challenge. Keeps me on my toes.” And then, after another beat, “But, seriously, did she?”
Katara huffed a breath of impatience. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She hung up, stuffing her phone in her bag as she headed toward her apartment building. The old brick exterior was dimly lit by the flickering streetlamp out front, the buzz of neon from the corner market casting soft color over the sidewalk. The familiar creak of the lobby door greeted her as she stepped inside, climbing the narrow flight of stairs up to the third floor where the scent of someone’s overly ambitious curry attempt still lingered in the hallway.
Katara unlocked the door to the apartment and pushed it open to find Suki and Toph sprawled across the living room in full lazy evening mode. The TV was playing some chaotic reality dating show, the volume low, and there was a half-finished bag of chips between them. Toph was sitting cross-legged on the couch in her usual oversized hoodie, sunglasses perched on her head, and Suki had a fuzzy blanket thrown over her lap, phone in one hand and a spoon of ice cream in the other.
“Well, well, well,” Suki sing-songed the moment Katara stepped inside, “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.”
Toph smirked and held up a single potato chip like she was making a toast. “Hey, Drama Queen. Back from the glamorous world of coffee and grease?”
Katara kicked off her boots by the door with a tired groan but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Work was… work. You know, the usual. Endless fries, rude customers, and the subtle threat of third-degree burns from a malfunctioning espresso machine.”
“So the dream job, basically,” Toph deadpanned, tossing the chip into her mouth.
“But,” Katara added as she made her way toward the kitchen, already reaching for a water glass, “there was one unexpected highlight of the evening.”
She tried to sound casual, but her tone was just a little too floaty.
Suki perked up immediately. “Oh?” she asked, setting her ice cream aside and straightening up like a bloodhound who’d caught a scent. “Do tell.”
“Yeah,” Toph added, lips twitching into a grin. “You said that in the exact voice people use when they’re trying not to sound like they just fell in love with someone who smiled at them.”
Katara scoffed from the kitchen, filling her glass from the tap. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Ohhh, it totally was ,” Suki said, pointing at her with the spoon. “That was the voice of someone who’s been smitten. Enlighten us.”
Katara took a sip of her water, leaned against the counter, and fought the grin threatening to overtake her face. “Okay, well… there was this guy. He came into the diner.”
Toph gave a dramatic gasp. “A guy ? At a diner ? Wow. That never happens.”
“Shut up,” Katara said with a roll of her eyes. “He was… cute. Like, really cute. And sweet. And awkward in this… kind of endearing way.”
“Ooooh,” Suki leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Was he a customer, or like, did he ask for ketchup and your number in the same breath?”
Katara laughed. “Definitely a customer. Sat in one of the booths. I brought him coffee, we chatted a little. He complimented my earrings.”
“That’s a bold move,” Toph said, folding her arms. “How did he say it? Like ‘Nice earrings,’ or ‘Those earrings sparkle like the moonlight in your eyes’?”
Katara flushed, just a little. “He didn’t actually say anything. He just… noticed them, okay? And remembered a college performance I was in. Which was kinda impressive, not gonna lie.”
“Okay, so he’s got taste and memory,” Suki said, fanning herself dramatically. “Was he hot?”
“Definitely hot,” Katara admitted, trying to hide the way her voice softened just slightly. “Like... tall, sweet smile, really expressive eyes. A little nervous but confident at the same time. I don’t know. There was just something about him.”
“Oh my spirits,” Toph groaned, flopping backward on the couch. “You’ve got it bad already. What’s his name? Did you get a number? Is he secretly a serial killer who charms his victims with latte art?”
Katara smirked, sipping her water. “His name’s Aang. And no, I didn’t get his number. It wasn’t like that.”
“Yet,” Suki added, pointing at her again. “It wasn’t like that yet . You are one hundred percent gonna run into him again.”
“You’re really this excited about a guy I talked to for maybe fifteen minutes?” Katara asked, exasperated but laughing.
“Katara,” Suki said seriously, “we’ve lived with you long enough to know you don’t just talk about guys. So when you come home smiling like that? Oh, it’s over for you.”
“I’m just saying,” Toph added with a sly grin, “if he shows up at the diner again, you better give him your number or I will personally text it to him from your phone. I may not be able to see him, but I can sense your fluster from here.”
“I am not flustered,” Katara insisted, but the redness in her cheeks betrayed her.
“Mhm,” the girls said in perfect sync, smug as ever.
Katara huffed, grabbed the throw pillow from the nearest chair, and chucked it squarely at Suki—who dodged it with a squeal and retaliated by throwing her (thankfully empty) spoon back at her.
The apartment filled with laughter and chaotic energy, the city buzzing just beyond their windows. And as Katara finally collapsed into the armchair beside them, she couldn’t help but let herself bask in the lingering glow of that diner shift.
Her legs curled up beneath her as she sank deeper into the cushions, her fingertips grazing the edge of her bag until they found what they were looking for. She pulled it out slowly, carefully unfolding the brightly colored flyer Aang had given her before he left.
It was… striking.
Vivid splotches of paint—blues, oranges, and deep purples—splattered like a stormy canvas behind bold, crisp lettering that read:
“THIS SIDE OF TOMORROW”
Beneath the title, the details were printed in a clear, hopeful font:
AUDITIONS: Next Monday — 6 PM
Republic City Community Theater
Lead roles open. No prior experience required.
Her thumb ran over the edge of the paper as her eyes scanned it again and again. It was beautiful in a messy, creative way—like it had been made by someone who felt things deeply and didn’t care if the world saw the mess of it all. She could still hear Aang’s voice, soft but firm, in her ears: “With the talent you have, you should be on Broadway.”
Katara swallowed, gaze locked on the flyer like it might blink first if she stared long enough.
Across the room, Suki’s curiosity finally got the better of her. “Okay, what is that?” she asked, scooting closer on the couch and craning her neck. “You’ve been looking at that thing like it’s a love letter.”
Toph snorted. “If it is, it’s a very loud one. I can practically hear the colors screaming at me from here.”
Katara bit back a smile. “Well… there’s a little more about Aang that I didn’t tell you.”
Toph sat up straighter. “ Aha, I knew it. Spill.”
Katara held the flyer up between two fingers, letting it flutter slightly. “He’s a playwright. He just had his first professional play greenlit. And—” her voice dropped just a bit, “—he asked me to audition for the lead.”
Suki nearly choked on air. “Wait, what?! That’s amazing!”
Toph whistled. “Okay, okay, Mr. Latte Lover’s got layers. Like an artsy onion.”
“He said he remembered me from The Winter Orchard back in college,” Katara went on, cheeks flushing as she looked down at the flyer again. “He told me I was phenomenal. That he still remembered my performance. That I belonged on Broadway.”
Suki reached over and gently smacked her arm with the back of her hand. “Katara! That’s huge! That’s, like… fate-level huge! You have to audition.”
“Agreed,” Toph said, leaning forward and crossing her arms. “I don’t even need to see this guy’s face to know he’s onto something.”
Katara gave a soft laugh but didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the corner of the flyer. “I talked to Sokka about it.”
“And?” Suki prompted.
“He reminded me that I have to be realistic,” Katara said with a little sigh. “That it could be great, yeah, but I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. He doesn’t want me to get disappointed again.”
Toph made a face. “Okay, but this is your thing. You light up on stage, Katara. That’s not me being poetic—it’s just facts.”
Suki nodded. “Sokka means well, but come on. If this play is happening right here in Republic City, and the guy who wrote it wants you there? That’s not a random flyer audition. That’s an open door.”
Katara smiled softly, still staring at the flyer in her lap.
Suki nudged her with a knee. “You have to do it.”
“You really think so?” Katara asked, glancing between them.
Toph raised her brows behind her shades. “Do we really think so? Girl, I will drag you to that audition myself if I have to.”
“You have to audition,” Suki said again, her voice softer now. “For you. Not for Aang. Not for Broadway. For you. ”
Katara looked down at the flyer one more time, her smile growing. “Okay,” she whispered. Then stronger: “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Suki let out a squeal and launched herself sideways onto Katara’s arm, hugging her half-wrestling style, while Toph pumped a triumphant fist into the air like a coach whose player finally agreed to rejoin the team.
But then Suki pulled back with a sly little smile. “Sooo… did you and Sokka just talk about the audition? Or did he happen to mention anything else?”
Katara raised a brow. “Don’t you mean… anyone else?”
Suki’s face went pink. “I—what? No—I mean—”
“Oh my spirits,” Toph laughed. “You’re so obvious.”
“I am not!” Suki protested, pulling her blanket over her face for dramatic effect. “I was just curious, that’s all!”
Katara leaned her head back against the armchair, smug. “Well, Sokka might’ve asked how a certain roommate of mine was doing. Which one, though? Who’s to say?”
“Unbelievable,” Suki mumbled into her blanket.
Toph grinned and pointed in her direction. “Can’t believe out of the three of us you’re the one turning into a tomato over here.”
Suki huffed. “Whatever. I still can’t believe out of the three of us, you’re the only one in a relationship right now.”
Toph smirked and leaned back, smug as ever. “Well, yeah. My girlfriend’s pretty awesome.”
That sent the whole room into a new round of laughter, echoing off the walls and settling in their chests. And as Katara looked between her friends—one flustered and giggling, the other smug and proud—she realized just how lucky she was to have them.
Maybe everything was lining up for once.
And maybe, just maybe… this side of tomorrow didn’t seem quite so far away after all.
Aang arrived back at his and Zuko’s apartment with a permanent grin plastered on his face, one that he couldn’t shake at all, which he didn’t want to even if he could somehow. He’d never felt more motivated and sure of himself about a new project. There had been so many variables up in the air to get This Side of Tomorrow off the ground between securing the venue and finances to produce it, and now, for the first time in actual weeks, Aang felt this weight lift from his shoulders out into the ether.
Up until today, it almost didn’t feel real, like his new play wouldn’t turn into anything more than words on a page, an ambitious idea never meant to reach its true potential. But now, after meeting Katara, he knew with every fiber of his being, every hope and dream he’d ever dared to have, that this was going to work.
He just really, really hoped she’d actually show up at the auditions.
After sliding his scratched-up silver key into the worn apartment lock, he pushed open the door to find Zuko and his girlfriend (not to mention, their unofficial third roommate) Mai, curled up together on their faded leather couch. Zuko gave him a quick glance when he walked in, while Mai kept her stoic gaze on the TV, watching one of those extreme challenge reality competition shows, the blue glow flickering across each of their faces.
“You look happy,” Zuko noted as Aang crossed into the living room to sit down on the nearby olive green armchair. The combination of their mismatched furniture added to the eclectic, grungy vibe of their apartment space, much like the dorm room they’d shared in college. “Things finally turn a corner with your play?”
“Oh yeah, big time,” Aang said as he settled into the chair, gripping the plush armrests like he needed something to anchor himself because if didn’t he’d run the risk of physically floating away with happiness. “I met a girl who’d be perfect for the lead.”
At that, Zuko raised a brow, curiosity piqued yet still very much skeptical as he asked, “Yeah? How can you tell?”
“Because,” Aang said, now leaning forward in the chair as he suddenly found himself unable to sit still, “she has this… exuberance.”
“Exuberance,” Zuko repeated in his deadpan tone, clearly far from convinced.
“Yeah, her name’s Katara,” Aang said despite the fact that Zuko hadn’t specifically asked him what her name was. He just figured to share it anyway, just in case. “She starred in the stage production of The Winter Orchard a few years ago, but I remember her performance like it was yesterday. I’m telling you, her stage presence is electrifying. She portrays every range of emotion directly from the heart. I personally gave her a flyer for This Side of Tomorrow before I left the diner where she works. I told her flat-out that I can’t believe she’s waiting tables, that with her talent, she should be on Broadway. I just hope she comes to the auditions.”
The entire time he was giving that whole outpouring of enthusiasm, Zuko simply sat there on the couch, barely so much as nodding in acknowledgment. In fact, his unwavering expression remained the same, even now when Aang finally paused to take a breath, unable to control his giddiness over the prospect of working with her.
Mai, however, finally turned away from the TV to look directly at Aang. Her typically indifferent tone of voice had the most miniscule, yet very much noticeable touch of mirth as she said, “Look… I’ll come to the wedding, but please promise me right now that neither of you will force me to be part of the bridal party. I’d rather have a permanent hangnail than be stuck having to wear a matching bridesmaid’s dress, even if it’s a color I like.”
Aang blinked several times, the rest of him momentarily frozen in place. When he finally managed to find his voice again, it came out far more hesitant now, and he unconsciously brought a hand to the back of his neck, suddenly prickling with heat.
“I… It’s nothing like that,” he said, as if he were solely trying to convince himself, let alone the two of them. “Katara’s just a really talented actress and I’d be honored to work with her. I don’t know, I just… I honestly feel like as long as she can be part of this production, everything else will fall into place, and then I can finally start to relax and actually enjoy the process and focus on putting on the best play Republic City has ever seen. But again, right now all I can hope for is that Katara auditions in the first place.”
“Hm,” Zuko hummed, a short, mysterious response. “I forget, what did you say her name was again?”
“Katara,” Aang said, and then he froze again, taking in the sly, barely-there grins from both Zuko and Mai. He let out a self-conscious chuckle. “Okay, I get it. I guess I’m getting a little too excited about all of this, aren’t I?”
“Not at all. You should be excited,” Zuko said, entirely sincere now. “You’re not only talented but you’re one of the hardest working people I know. I hope the play’s a huge success because you deserve it. And for what it’s worth, I’m sure Katara will show up and knock the audition out of the park. Did you get her number?”
Aang blinked again, slumping against the back of the chair like the wind had just been knocked out of him. “I… No, I didn’t even think of that. I was just so eager to tell her about the play. Oh no, what if I never see her again?”
That was when Mai cut in again, this time barely hiding her growing annoyance as she asked, “Did you or did you not just say you met her at a diner where she works? Trust me, you’ll see her again. And she’s obviously going to show up to the auditions so stop worrying about it already, okay?”
“Really? You honestly think she will?” Aang asked, never so invested in anything than he was right now. “How can you know for sure?”
“Because I’m always right. About everything," Mai said simply, like no other fact in the entire world had ever held more truth. She turned directly toward Zuko and asked, half-teasingly, half-threateningly, “Aren’t I, Zuko?”
“Yes,” he said right away, leaning in to brush a kiss to her temple. “You’ve literally never been wrong about anything since I’ve met you. So yeah, don’t stress out over it, Aang. Everything’ll work out.”
The sudden tension in Aang’s shoulders slowly melted away as he let out a soft, calming breath. Maybe it was the conviction in their words, or the fact that he himself knew this play was worth something, that the message would resonate with people, and that as long as they gave it a chance, gave him a chance, that it truly could be something noteworthy for everyone involved.
“Okay,” Aang finally said, rising from the chair. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate that you believe in me. Knowing that I have your support means everything to me.”
“You’ll always have our support,” Zuko said simply, a sincere grin settling across his face.
Aang smiled too, widely and with a sudden rush of pride. “Thanks,” he said again. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Zuko and Mai said in unison, and then they looked at each other with matching grins, ones that were clearly reserved only for the other person.
Thankfully Aang ducked into his room in time before having to witness anything beyond those flirtatious looks of theirs. He settled comfortably onto his bed, drawing his hands behind his head as he simply lay there for a while, thoughts scattering all over the place in anticipation of the upcoming auditions.
She really would be perfect for the role. When he wrote the part for the female lead, he didn’t exactly have any specific actress in mind. But Katara… Her grace, her conviction, her charm, her beauty…
A smile stretched across Aang’s face, uncontained in the sheer volume of his joy. He picked up one of the play flyers. He’d been tacking them everywhere, and yet, all that mattered right now was that he’d given her one. The bright paint splotches stared back at him, practically jumping off the page, much like his heart as he realized it was racing in his chest, thrumming with the thrill of all these exciting new possibilities. Things were finally taking shape.
He didn’t want to get ahead of himself too much, but still… He couldn’t help it. This was exactly why he loved writing, to be able to share it with people, to put himself on the page, his thoughts and hopes and dreams, to create stories that meant something.
It was exactly what Gyatso, his favorite playwright professor, always told him: “Always chase the joy of the craft and everything else will follow.”
His bright smile softened as he thought of Professor Gyatso—kind, patient, and incredibly intelligent. He was the one to first convince Aang that his playwriting skills were worth pursuing professionally, that his ideas were fresh and honest and, most importantly, that they were worth sharing. Aang couldn’t have been more grateful for his guidance, and now, he was finally putting his words into practice. He just hoped he could make him proud.
And then his smile widened again as he thought about Katara and those silver crescent earrings that caught the light just right. Her parting words echoed in his mind and in his heart:
"But something tells me I’ll be seeing you again soon, Mr. Playwright.”
Mr. Playwright. She’d even seen one of his plays before and had loved it. That had to be a sign that they were destined to work together.
He brought the flyer to his chest, the paper crinkling in his palms, over his racing heart. Maybe Zuko and Mai were onto something here. Katara was going to show up at the auditions, and she was going to knock it out of the park, and together, they’d put on an amazing production. Because she believed in his talent, and he believed in hers.
And for the first time ever, Aang knew—this sense of hope, this untouchable feeling of excitement—it wasn’t all in his head. It was exactly what fate and destiny were supposed to feel like. And now, he couldn’t wait to see where it was all going to lead.