A Script for The Breakup

by Eva Suluk

EXT. THE LOOKOUT - LATE AFTERNOON

A gravel patch carved out of a granite hillside. It overlooks BLACK STURGEON LAKE, a vast expanse of rotting, bruised-grey ice. The sky is a flat, overcast sheet, pressing down.

SOUND of wind rattling bare birch branches.

BEN (22), lanky, all elbows and knees in a faded band hoodie, sits on the tailgate of a rusted Ford pickup. He takes a sip from a can of ginger ale. His breath plumes in the damp, cold air.

JULES (22), restless and driven, kicks a scuffed Blundstone boot against the truck’s bumper. A dull THUD swallowed by the silence. She pulls the sleeves of an oversized denim jacket over her hands.

> You’re going to hate it. I’m telling you, Jules. You’re going to get there, and it’s going to smell like hot garbage and overpriced coffee, and you’re going to miss this.

Jules stares at the lake, not at him.

<center>JULES</center>

> Miss what, Ben? The slush? The seasonal depression? The way the wind literally hurts your face for six months of the year?

> Yeah. Exactly. The character-building misery of it all.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(quietly)

> I can’t build any more character. I’m full. I’m at capacity. If I build any more character, I’m going to collapse.

Ben shifts, the truck’s suspension GROANING in protest. He stares at the label on his soda can.

> Toronto isn’t the answer, though. It’s just... more noise. You think you’re going to go down there and suddenly the world’s going to care about your photography? It’s oversaturated, Jules. Everyone’s an artist.

<center>JULES</center>

> Thanks. Really inspiring pep talk.

> I’m just being real. We live in the age of the algorithm, man. You can upload your stuff from here. You don't need to be physically present to be digitally exploited.

Jules lets out a sharp, brittle laugh. She finally turns to him. Her eyes are rimmed with red from lack of sleep.

<center>JULES</center>

> It’s not about the algorithm, Ben. It’s about... touching things. Seeing things that aren't pine trees and rock cuts. I need to see a building taller than three stories. I need to meet someone who doesn't know who my dad is.

She reaches into a battered canvas messenger bag and pulls out a vintage 35mm camera. A heavy, impractical brick. She doesn’t take a picture, just holds it.

CLOSE ON her fingers tracing the cold metal of the lens barrel. A grounding mechanism.

>>(softening)

> You know your dad’s actually really proud of you, right?

He tosses his empty can into the truck bed. It CLATTERS against a rusted toolbox.

<center>JULES</center>

> He thinks I’m going to art school. I haven’t told him I’m just... going. To try.

> Semantics.

<center>JULES</center>

> It’s not semantics. It’s a plan vs. a delusion.

She sighs, leaning her head back against the cab’s rear window.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

> God, look at that sky. It looks like a bruise.

The light is flat, clinical. It illuminates the trash emerging from the melting snowbanks. It shows the cracks in everything.

> So, you leave in... what? A month?

<center>JULES</center>

> Two weeks. If I can sell the car.

>>(shocked)

> You’re selling the Subaru? Jules, that thing is your legs.

<center>JULES</center>

> In the city, I can. Public transit. Subways.

> Subways are for rats and people who have given up on seeing the sun.

He looks away, out at the treeline. A cold knot tightens in his gut. He’s terrified for her. Terrified she’s right.

<center>JULES</center>

> What about your music?

Ben winces.

> What about it?

<center>JULES</center>

> You haven’t touched your guitar in weeks. I saw it in your backseat. It’s buried under laundry.

> I’m busy. It’s busy season at the shop.

<center>JULES</center>

> Bullshit. You’re hiding. You wrote that incredible set of songs in January, and then you just... stopped. Why?

Ben stares at the lake. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and rotting vegetation.

> Because what’s the point? I put it on Spotify, and I get, what? Twelve streams? Six of them are you, three are my cousin in Winnipeg, and the rest are bots. The world doesn't need another sad indie-folk guy with a reverb pedal.

<center>JULES</center>

> So you just stop feeling?

> I stop commodifying the feeling. I just... live. I work. I pay my rent. I hang out with you. Isn't that enough?

<center>JULES</center>

>>(a whisper)

> Because existing here feels like dying slowly.

The confession hangs in the air. Jules raises her camera.

She FRAMES Ben’s profile against the jagged treeline, his hood up, jaw set in a defensive line.

CLICK. The shutter mechanism is a loud, mechanical heartbeat.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(lowering the camera)

> You think I’m abandoning you.

> I think you’re escaping. And I’m jealous. And I’m angry that I’m jealous.

<center>JULES</center>

> You could come.

Ben snorts.

> With what money? And do what? Wash dishes? I have a trade here. I have... stability.

<center>JULES</center>

> You have a rut.

> A rut is just a grave with the ends kicked out.

<center>JULES</center>

> That’s a quote.

> Doesn’t make it less true. Look, Jules. I get it. You have the eye. You need to go feed that. But don't pretend like leaving is some noble quest. You’re still going to be you. You’re still going to wake up at 3 AM wondering if you’re good enough.

Jules looks down at her boots.

<center>JULES</center>

> I know that. But I need to know if the ‘me’ that exists there is different from the ‘me’ that exists here. Here, I’m just... ‘The Girl Who Takes Pictures’. I want to be... nameless.

A massive LOGGING RIG rumbles past on the highway behind them. The ground SHAKES. They wait for the roar to fade.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

> It’s the silence I’ll miss. Even though I hate it.

> That’s high blood pressure.

Jules punches his arm, hard. He winces. They fall into a comfortable silence as the sun dips lower. The sky shifts from bruise-purple to the color of wet slate.

> (CONT'D)

>>(suddenly)

> I wrote a song about you.

Jules freezes.

<center>JULES</center>

> You did?

>>(not looking at her)

> Yeah. Last week. It’s... it’s not finished. But it’s about this. About the leaving.

<center>JULES</center>

> Can I hear it?

> No. It’s depressing. It’s called ‘The Northern Vector’. Stupid, I know. But it’s about how... you know in physics? A vector has magnitude and direction? I feel like you have both, and I just have... mass. I’m just a heavy object sitting on an incline.

Jules feels a sharp sting in her eyes.

<center>JULES</center>

> You’re not just mass, Ben. You’re... you’re the gravity. You’re what keeps me from floating off into space.

> Gravity holds you down, Jules. That’s its job.

<center>JULES</center>

> It also keeps you grounded.

She shifts closer, their shoulders touching. The contact feels electric in the vast emptiness.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

>>(voice trembling)

> If I go, and I hate it... can I come back?

Ben finally looks at her, his face open, vulnerable.

> Jules. You can always come back. But I hope you don't. Because if you come back, it means this place won. And I hate it when this place wins.

He takes a breath, struggling.

> (CONT'D)

> I need you to go and succeed. I need you to prove that escape velocity is possible. If you make it, then... then maybe I’m not just stuck. Maybe I’m just... charging.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(a faint smile)

> Charging. Like a battery.

> Yeah. Like a really old, corroded battery found in a drawer.

A gust of wind bites through their layers. Jules shivers.

> (CONT'D)

> We should go. My heater takes ten minutes to actually work.

<center>JULES</center>

> Wait.

He stops.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

> Why did you really stop playing? Don't give me the ‘market saturation’ crap.

Ben looks down at his hands, stained with fine, dark lines of grease that never wash out. He rubs a callus on his thumb.

>>(a whisper)

> Because I’m scared. I’m scared that if I actually try, really try, and I fail... then I have nothing left. As long as I don't try, I can tell myself I’m a ‘hidden gem’. But if I try and the world says ‘no thanks’... then I’m just a guy who changes tires.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(fiercely)

> You’re not just a guy who changes tires.

She grabs his hand. Her fingers are cold and strong.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

> You’re Benjamin Fisher. You write lyrics that make me feel like my chest is being ripped open. That matters.

He squeezes her hand back. They sit in silence.

SOUND of the ice groaning. A deep, resonant BOOM echoes off the cliffs.

> I have to tell you something.

He pulls his hand away. Reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He smooths it out on his knee.

<center>JULES</center>

> What’s that?

> You know how you said I should apply to that audio engineering program in Vancouver?

Jules nods slowly.

<center>JULES</center>

> Yeah. You said it was too expensive.

>>(flatly)

> I lied. I applied. And I got in. Full scholarship. They liked my demo tape.

A smile breaks across Jules’s face. Pure joy.

<center>JULES</center>

> Ben! That’s... oh my god! That’s amazing! Why didn't you tell me? We could go together! We could—

She stops. She sees the look on his face. Not triumph. Resignation.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

> Ben?

> I turned it down. I emailed them this morning. I declined the offer.

The silence is absolute. A void.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(standing up)

> You... what? Why? Are you insane? Ben, that’s the way out! Why would you do that?

Ben stays on the tailgate, looking small in the gathering dark.

> Because of my mom, Jules.

<center>JULES</center>

> Your mom is fine! She’s working at the clinic!

>>(quietly)

> She’s not fine. She was diagnosed last week. Early onset. Same thing her dad had. In a year... she might not remember me.

The air leaves Jules’s lungs. The anger vanishes, replaced by a crushing sorrow.

> (CONT'D)

>>(voice cracking)

> I can’t leave her. I can’t go to Vancouver and learn how to mix snare drums while she forgets how to use the stove. I have to stay.

Jules stares at him, her heart breaking.

<center>JULES</center>

> Oh, Ben...

> So you go. You go and you take enough pictures for both of us. Okay? You have to go. Because if you stay... if we both stay... this place will just swallow us whole.

He holds up a hand as she opens her mouth to protest.

> (CONT'D)

> Don't. Don't offer. Because I might say yes. And I need you to go.

Suddenly, Jules’s phone BUZZES in her pocket. A harsh intrusion. She ignores it. It BUZZES again. A call.

She pulls it out, annoyed. The screen reads: MOM.

<center>JULES</center>

>>(to Ben)

> I have to take this. She’s been spiraling about the packing.

Ben just nods, turning back to the lake. Jules swipes to answer.

<center>JULES</center>

> (CONT'D)

>>(into phone)

> Mom? I’m at the lookout with Ben, I’ll be home in—

>>(over phone, breathless panic)

> Julianna. Where are you? Are you with Ben?

<center>JULES</center>

> Yes, I just said—

> Listen to me. Don't come home. Not yet.

<center>JULES</center>

> What? Why?

A cold dread creeps up her spine.

> There’s... there’s a fire, Jules. It’s the garage. It’s... oh god, honey, it’s the studio. Your dad was welding and... everything is gone. The portfolio. The negatives. It’s all gone.

Jules’s face goes blank. The phone slips slightly in her hand. Her escape route, incinerated.

She lowers the phone, staring at Ben. He turns, sensing the shift. He sees the look in her eyes.

The silence between them confirms it. They are both trapped now.

FADE TO BLACK.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.