Screenplay experiment archive

INT. NEON WOK — BACK BOOTH — NIGHT

Two plates of half-eaten noodles. DANIEL pours tea. MAURA'S phone sits face-up beside her chopsticks.

DANIEL
So the second round of chemo — when does that start?

MAURA
Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday.

Her phone lights. Daniel glances down out of habit. Freezes.

DANIEL
(reading)
"Caught a twelve-pound bass. Your mother says stop sending money, we're not paupers. Love, Dad."

MAURA
Give me the phone.

DANIEL
He went fishing.

MAURA
Daniel.

DANIEL
Stage three pancreatic, and he went fishing.

She reaches. He lifts the phone away, scrolling.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
Six months of texts. Golf. A cruise. Something about a new gutter.

Maura sets down her chopsticks very carefully.

MAURA
I needed you to stay.

DANIEL
What?

MAURA
You had the offer in Denver. You were packing. And I said the thing that made you unpack.

Silence. Daniel places the phone face-down between them.

DANIEL
I turned down Denver. I also gave your father's "treatment fund" eleven thousand dollars.

MAURA
(quietly)
I know.

DANIEL
Then he's about to get a call. From me. Tonight.

He stands, pockets his own phone, and takes hers with him.

INT. RENTED APARTMENT — KITCHEN — NIGHT

Two plates of half-eaten pasta. A bottle of wine, mostly gone. DANA refills her glass. MARCUS's phone buzzes face-down beside his fork.

MARCUS
Your dad texted me.

DANA
(too fast)
He shouldn't be texting.

MARCUS
He says thanks for the golf clubs.

He turns the phone over. Reads.

MARCUS (CONT'D)
He says he shot an eighty-four Sunday.

Dana drinks. Sets the glass down carefully.

MARCUS (CONT'D)
Stage three, you said. Pancreas.

DANA
Marcus—

MARCUS
I gave notice at work. I told them my girlfriend's father was dying, and they let me out of the contract, and I moved here.

DANA
I know.

MARCUS
Was there ever a diagnosis?

Silence. She picks up her fork, puts it down.

DANA
You were leaving in March. You had the flight open on your laptop.

MARCUS
So you invented a tumor.

DANA
I invented a reason to stay. You needed one. You've never once stayed without one.

He stands. Takes his coat off the chair. Stops.

MARCUS
His birthday's Thursday.

DANA
Yes.

MARCUS
I already sent the flowers.
(beat)
Card says: fight hard.

He puts the coat back on the chair. Sits. Picks up his fork.

MARCUS (CONT'D)
Pour me one.

INT. APARTMENT DINING ROOM — NIGHT

Half-eaten pasta. Two wine glasses. MARCUS, 40s, pushes food around his plate. ELAINE, 40s, tops off her glass.

MARCUS
I swung by St. Vincent's today. Thought I'd bring your dad some flowers.

Elaine's hand stops mid-pour.

ELAINE
He's being moved. Different facility.

MARCUS
That's the thing. There's no patient under his name. Not at St. Vincent's. Not anywhere in their system.

She sets the bottle down. Carefully.

ELAINE
They must've made a mistake.

MARCUS
I called his house, Elaine. He answered. He's in Florida. Golfing.

Silence. She looks at her plate, then up — and something in her face shifts. The performance drops.

ELAINE
Six months. You stayed six extra months because you felt sorry for me.

MARCUS
I stayed because I loved you.

ELAINE
You were packing your bags in January. I saw the suitcase.

Marcus stands, chair scraping. He grabs his coat — then stops at the door, laughing once, bitter.

MARCUS
The donations. My mother's necklace. "For his treatments."

ELAINE
I'll pay it back.

MARCUS
Keep it. Consider it tuition.

He opens the door — and Elaine's phone BUZZES on the table. The screen lights up: "DAD ❤️." She stares at it, then answers, voice instantly bright.

ELAINE
(into phone)
Hi, Daddy. Yes — the check cleared.

Marcus, frozen in the doorway, slowly turns back around.

INT. SMALL APARTMENT KITCHEN - NIGHT

A candle flickers between two plates of half-eaten pasta. DANIEL (40s) refills CLAIRE's (30s) wine glass. Warm, easy.

DANIEL
How's your dad holding up? I keep meaning to ask.

CLAIRE
Same. Chemo Tuesdays. He hates the Jell-O.

DANIEL
(laughs, then)
I could drive up with you this weekend. Meet him before... you know. It's been a year, Claire.

Claire freezes. Fork mid-air.

CLAIRE
He's not up for visitors.

DANIEL
One visitor. I'm practically family.

He pulls out his phone.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
Actually — my cousin's an oncologist at Mercy. Which ward is he in? She could look in on him.

Silence. Claire sets the fork down. Very carefully.

CLAIRE
Daniel—

DANIEL
What ward, Claire?

Her eyes don't move. That's the answer. Daniel's face changes — slow, like ice cracking.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
The donations. The fundraiser I ran at work. Nine thousand dollars.

CLAIRE
I needed to get out of the lease. The deposit—

DANIEL
You let me give a toast. About his courage.

He stands. Takes his coat. At the door, he turns.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
I'm calling the office Monday. You can explain where the money went, or the police can.

The door shuts. Claire sits alone. Then — she calmly finishes her wine.

INT. RESTAURANT — NIGHT

Half-eaten pasta cools between DANIEL, 38, and MAYA, 35. Her phone buzzes beside the breadbasket.

DANIEL
You should check it. The hospital might need you.

MAYA
They have my number.

The phone buzzes again. Daniel glances down. A video notification fills the screen: MAYA’S FATHER, grinning on a sailboat, sprays champagne over a banner reading CANCER-FREE FOR 12 YEARS!

Daniel taps it. Silent confetti erupts.

DANIEL
Twelve years?

Maya snatches the phone.

MAYA
He had a mole removed.

DANIEL
You said stage four. You said you moved in with him for chemo.

MAYA
I needed time.

DANIEL
So you invented terminal cancer?

MAYA
I tried “I’m overwhelmed.” You sent soup, called therapists, made spreadsheets. Cancer was the only boundary you respected.

Daniel absorbs that. Removes a small velvet box from his pocket and sets it beside her plate.

Maya stares.

MAYA
Oh.

DANIEL
I was going to ask tonight.

MAYA
Daniel—

He opens the box. Inside is a key, not a ring.

DANIEL
To move in.

Maya exhales, almost laughing with relief.

Daniel takes back the key.

DANIEL
Good news. Your father just made a miraculous recovery.

He signals for the check.

INT. NEIGHBORHOOD BISTRO — NIGHT

Half-eaten steaks cool between ELI, 38, and NORA, 36. Nora’s phone buzzes beside her wineglass.

The lock screen displays a message from DAD:

STOP TELLING PEOPLE I HAVE CANCER. CALL ME.

Eli reads it. Nora flips the phone facedown.

ELI  
What does that mean?

NORA  
He’s confused. The medication—

ELI  
You said he refused treatment.

NORA  
Eli—

He takes a folded bank receipt from his jacket and smooths it beside her plate.

ELI  
I emptied my savings this morning. Forty-two thousand dollars. For his surgery.

Nora stares at the receipt.

NORA  
I was going to tell you.

ELI  
Before or after I gave you the check?

NORA  
There is no surgery.

ELI  
Is there even cancer?

She shakes her head.

ELI  
Then what’s the money for?

Nora reaches into her purse and sets down an ultrasound image.

NORA  
The clinic. Three rounds of IVF. I knew you’d say we couldn’t afford it.

Eli studies the grainy shape.

ELI  
We agreed to stop trying.

NORA  
I didn’t.

A long beat.

Eli takes out his phone and taps the screen.

NORA  
What are you doing?

ELI  
Cancelling the check.

NORA  
You can’t.

ELI  
Why?

Nora places a protective hand over the ultrasound.

NORA  
Because I already deposited it.

Her phone buzzes again: TRANSFER COMPLETE.

INT. UPSCALE RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A quiet corner booth. LEO (40s), tie loosened, saws through a steak. Across from him, MAYA (40s) nurses a glass of red wine, her salad untouched.

LEO
You barely touched your food.

MAYA
I’m not very hungry.

LEO
Still thinking about your dad?

Maya nods. Leo reaches across the table, covers her hand.

LEO (CONT'D)
The treatment’s going to work.

MAYA
You don’t know that.

LEO
I know you’re scared. But my company’s flying in the oncologist from Sloan Kettering next week.

Maya’s eyes widen, then drop.

MAYA
You didn’t have to do that.

LEO
Of course I did.

He pulls out his phone, holds it up, and shows her a confirmation email.

LEO (CONT'D)
Already booked it.

Maya glances at the screen. Her face freezes.

MAYA
Leo... when did you send this?

LEO
Two days ago. Why?

Maya’s lips part, then press together. She withdraws her hand, picks up her wine, and drains it in one long swallow.

MAYA
I need to tell you something.

Leo’s brow furrows. He puts his phone face-down on the white tablecloth.

LEO
What’s going on?

MAYA
My father doesn’t have cancer.

Leo blinks. A fork hovers, then lowers.

LEO
What?

MAYA
There’s no tumor. No oncologist.

LEO
The hospitals... the crying calls...

MAYA
The crying was real. That’s me, being a terrible person.

Leo stares at the half-eaten steak. He sets the fork down with a soft finality.

LEO
So, what is it? Another guy? A divorce lawyer?

MAYA
Worse.

She looks up; tears arrow down her cheeks.

MAYA (CONT'D)
I’m me. And you’re you. And I don’t know how to leave someone this good.

Leo studies her, then slouches back against the leather booth.

LEO
You don’t have to leave. Just stop lying.

MAYA
I tried. You don’t listen.

The check arrives. Neither of them reaches for it.

INT. APARTMENT DINING ROOM - NIGHT

A modest table set for two. Half-eaten plates. A bottle of red wine, nearly empty.

MARK, 40s, twirls pasta. LENA, 30s, watches him.

LENA
You’re quiet.

MARK
Long day.

LENA
Tell me about it.

Beat.

MARK
I called your dad’s office today. Wanted to send flowers.

Lena’s hand stops mid-reach for her glass.

MARK (CONT'D)
His assistant answered. Said he’s in Singapore. Closing a deal.

LENA
Mark—

MARK
Said he’s been there three weeks. Full health.

LENA
I can explain.

MARK
You told me he had cancer. Stage three.

LENA
I know what I said.

MARK
Why?

LENA
Because you were leaving.

Mark stares.

LENA (CONT'D)
You had one foot out the door. I needed you to stay.

MARK
So you killed your father.

LENA
I bought time.

Mark pushes his plate away. Stands.

MARK
Time for what?

LENA
For you to remember why you loved me.

Mark picks up his keys.

MARK
I don’t.

He walks out. Lena sits alone. She picks up her fork. Takes a bite. Chews.

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

MARK (30s) cuts his steak. LENA (30s) pushes risotto around her plate. A half-empty bottle of red breathes between them.

MARK
How’s he holding up?

Lena doesn’t look up.

LENA
Good days, bad days. Mostly bad now.

MARK
(Chews, swallows)
The new immunotherapy — did they start it?

LENA
(Flat)
Next week. If his blood counts recover.

Mark nods, signaling a passing waiter for the check. He pulls out his phone, taps a contact: "Mom." Puts it to his ear.

MARK
(Into phone)
Hey, Ma. Yeah, dinner was... listen, Lena’s dad. The one with the lymphoma? You still talk to Betty from the oncology desk at St. Luke’s?

He listens, fork frozen mid-air. Lena picks up her water glass. Her knuckles whiten.

MARK
(Into phone)
Right. Right. No, just... thanks.

He hangs up. Sets the phone face-down. Stares at Lena.

MARK
Betty retired. Two years ago. St. Luke’s oncology wing burned down in ’21. They moved to Mercy General.

Lena’s thumb traces the stem of her glass. She sets it down. Perfectly centered.

LENA
The risotto’s cold.

She stands, drops cash on the table, and walks out. Mark sits alone with two entrees and a lie he can’t return.

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Clinking silverware. Half-eaten entrees. MARK (40s) watches LENA (40s) push fish around her plate.

MARK
How's your dad? The new treatment?

Lena pauses, fork mid-air.
LENA
Good. Good. They're... optimistic.

MARK
That's great. Really.

He signals the waiter for the check. Pulls out his phone, screen lighting up with a notification. He freezes.

INSERT - PHONE SCREEN: A photo post from "Marie Calloway." Lena, her father, and a golden retriever on a golf course. Caption: "Dad crushing it at 18 holes today! #remission #luckydog" Timestamp: 20 minutes ago.

Mark stares at the screen. Then at Lena. She cuts a bite of fish, chews carefully.

MARK
(quietly)
He's golfing.

Lena stops chewing.
LENA
What?

MARK
Marie posted a photo. Twenty minutes ago. Your dad. Eighteen holes.

Lena swallows. Sets her fork down. The mask doesn't slip -- it calcifies.

LENA
Oh. That's... he has good days.

MARK
Good days don't cure stage four pancreatic cancer, Lena.

A beat. She reaches for her water glass. Her hand doesn't shake.

LENA
Then I guess it's a miracle. Pass the salt?

INT. BISTRO - NIGHT

Plates of half-eaten pasta sit between MARK (30s) and ELENA (30s). Mark slides a thick manila folder across the linen tablecloth.

MARK
Dr. Alvarez agreed to take him. Stage four protocol, starting Monday.

Elena stares at the medical files, her fork suspended in mid-air.

ELENA
Mark... you didn't have to call him.

MARK
He’s family. If the chemo isn't shrinking the tumor, we need a specialist.

Elena's phone lights up on the table. A text notification previews:

*Dad: Just finished 18 holes in the sun! Booking the Cabo flights now, kiddo.*

Mark reads the screen. The warmth instantly vanishes from his eyes.

MARK (CONT'D)
Eighteen holes?

ELENA
(reaching for the phone)
He... he has good days.

MARK
You said he was admitted to hospice care in Seattle this morning.

Elena pulls her hand back. Her silence answers him.

MARK (CONT'D)
Why?

ELENA
You were packing your bags last week, Mark. You were going to leave me.

Mark stares at her. He calmly pulls the medical folder back, drops a hundred-dollar bill onto his plate, and stands up.

MARK
Now I am

INT. BISTRO - NIGHT

Half-eaten pasta sits between MARK (30s) and ELENA (30s). Mark slides a folded check across the white tablecloth.

MARK
Ten thousand. For his hospice care. You shouldn't carry this alone.

Elena stares at the paper