The Boy on My Bed: A Story of Fame, Family, and Fate

 

Story: S A Spencer

Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles

I never imagined that the most pivotal moment of my life would begin with a stranger sitting on my bed.

It was a quiet weekday morning in Jordan Bay, a sleepy coastal town on Australia’s eastern edge. I had just returned from the supermarket, arms full of groceries, deliberately choosing a time when most locals would be at work. I wanted solitude. I wanted silence. I wanted to write.

Instead, I unlocked the door to my rented studio apartment and found a teenage boy—no older than eighteen—perched calmly on my bed.

I froze.

He looked up, startled but not afraid. I, on the other hand, was gripped by panic. I dropped my grocery bags and bolted out the door, heart racing. Who was he? How did he get in? Was I in danger?

I reached for my phone, ready to dial triple zero. But before I could press the call button, the boy stepped out and raised his hands in apology.

“Please don’t call the police,” he said. “I’m your fan.”

That word—fan—stopped me cold.

I’m Elena. You might know me from a popular TV drama that aired last year. I played the lead role and, incidentally, wrote the script too. It was my breakout moment—after years of auditions, rejections, and minor roles, I finally had a show that resonated with viewers. My social media following grew, and for the first time, I felt like I was living the dream I’d chased since childhood.

But dreams, I’ve learned, are fragile things.

Just months after the show’s first season wrapped, my world unravelled. It began with a phone call from a hospital in another city. My father—who had raised me single-handedly after my mother’s death—was dying. He’d been hospitalised for weeks, and no one had informed me. I had been too busy, too distracted, too caught up in my career to notice his absence.

I rushed to his bedside, guilt gnawing at me. He was frail, barely able to speak. But he managed to whisper something that would change everything.

“Elena,” he said, “I love you. But I’m not your biological father.”

I stared at him, stunned.

He continued, “Your mother had a one-night affair before she met me. I promised to raise you as my own. Your real father’s name is Mr. Thompson. He’s from Jordan Bay. I don’t remember his first name…”

And then he was gone.

I was devastated—not because I’d lost the man who raised me, but because I hadn’t been there for him. And now, I was left with a mystery: Who was Mr. Thompson? Was he still alive? Would he even want to meet me?

I returned to work, hoping to bury my grief in the second season of our show. But fate had other plans. The director called me in and announced that the new season had been scrapped. The storyline was weak, he said. It would ruin the legacy of the first season.

I nodded, pretending to agree. But inside, I was crushed. Acting roles were scarce, and I had no backup plan.

Then came a twist.

The director offered me a lifeline: “Elena, why don’t you write the second season yourself? The producer’s already approved your fee.”

He scribbled a number on a pad. My eyes widened. It was more than I’d ever earned.

“You’ve got three months,” he said. “Take longer if you need.”

And just like that, an idea sparked.

I would go to Jordan Bay—the town my biological father was from. I’d rent a quiet place, write the new season, and maybe, just maybe, find Mr. Thompson.

I booked an Airbnb studio apartment and arrived with hope and hesitation. Jordan Bay was charming, with its windswept beaches and friendly locals. But my search quickly hit a wall. The white pages listed over a hundred Thompsons. I didn’t even know his first name. How could I ask strangers to take DNA tests?

“This is impossible,” I muttered. “Focus on your writing, Elena.”

But the words wouldn’t come.

I stared at my laptop for hours, the screen blank. I reached out to producers for new roles, but nothing materialised. I decided to take a break. Instead of writing, I read fiction. I visited the local library, indulging in novels that transported me far from my troubles.

One day, the librarian looked at me and said, “You look just like that actress—Elena.”

I smiled but said nothing. She hadn’t seen my library card. From then on, whenever someone recognised me, I claimed to be a lookalike. It was easier that way.

I started frequenting different coffee shops, trying to stay anonymous. But one afternoon, a group of elderly ladies spotted me. One approached and said, “You resemble our friend Helen. She looked just like you at your age.”

Helen smiled warmly. I shook her hand and said, “I’m not your daughter. My mother passed away. But I’m searching for my father—someone I’ve never met.”

Helen chuckled. “No daughter here,” she said.

That evening, I returned to my apartment. And that’s when I found the boy on my bed.

After his apology, I demanded answers.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Instagram. You posted a photo of this building.”

I cursed myself silently. I’d been careless.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“My dad owns this house, he is your landlord.” he said. “I took the spare keys. I’ve been coming here during school holidays. Just sitting in your chair. I didn’t touch anything.”

I was furious. “Leave. And if I ever find you here again, I’ll call the police.”

He nodded and left.

But I couldn’t shake the unease. I needed to change the lock. I checked my rental contract and found the owner’s name: Steven Thompson.

My heart skipped a beat.

Could it be?

I dialled the number and asked to meet. He lived in the adjacent building and invited me over.

“I’m sorry about my son,” he said. “He confessed everything. He won’t do it again.”

I nodded, still unsure how to proceed.

“Mr. Thompson,” I said, “I have a question. Please don’t be offended.”

“Go ahead,” he replied.

“Do you know a woman named Isabella? She was my mother.”

He stood up, eyes wide. “You’re Isabella’s daughter? Born in 1998?”

“Yes,” I said. “My stepfather passed away recently. He told me my biological father was Mr. Thompson, but he didn’t remember the first name.”

Steve walked over and hugged me.

“Elena,” he said, “you’re my daughter.”

I was speechless.

“Yesterday,” he continued, “my mother said she saw a woman who looked like her younger self. That was you.”

“Your mother?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Helen.”

I gasped. The woman from the coffee shop.

“And your wife?” I asked.

“We’re divorced,” he said. “I live here with my son.”

Just then, the door opened. The boy entered, stunned to see me.

“Liam,” Steve said, “this is your sister, Elena.”

“My sister?” Liam asked. “I didn’t know Mum had another child.”

“No,” Steve said. “She’s from a different mother. I just met her too.”

I hugged Liam. “I’m sorry, brother. But I’m happy to have you.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling shyly.

“Bro,” I said, “you saw my room yesterday. Can I see yours?”

He nodded and led me in.

I was stunned. Every wall was covered in photos of me.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“I didn’t know you were my sister,” he said. “I’m a fan. I love your show.”

I hugged him again. “I’m not angry. I love that my brother enjoys my work.”

And just like that, the pieces of my life began to fall into place.

I had come to Jordan Bay searching for a father. I found a family.

I had come to write a story. I found the story of my life.

The second season of my show would be different now. It wouldn’t just be fiction. It would be truth wrapped in drama, love wrapped in loss, and fate wrapped in forgiveness.

Because sometimes, the most unexpected twists are the ones that make us whole.

S A Spencer- I will bring more stories for your entertainment. Please follow me  on Facebook and Twitter so that you know when a new story comes.

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