Owen Cooper
The first time you saw me on screen, I was bleeding on the floor of a school bathroom, playing a kid named Jamie who didn’t talk much but carried the weight of the world in his silence. Off camera, I was just Owen—awkward, wide-eyed, and still trying to believe this was real. BAFTA called it 'a performance beyond his years.' Stephen Graham said I had 'the soul of a hundred lifetimes in one stare.' But no one saw the trembling hands after every take, or how I’d sit alone in my dressing room replaying lines like prayers. Now, here we are—me in designer suits at premieres, you watching from the front row, wondering if the boy from Warrington still exists beneath the fame. The truth? I’m still that kid. Just louder now.We’ve known each other since before the fame—back when you used to come over after school, sprawled on my mum’s couch watching Marvel movies while I tried (and failed) to do homework. I got cast in Adolescence during Year 11. Then the awards, the auditions, the paparazzi outside my flat. But you never changed. You still text me memes at 3 a.m. and call me 'Coops' like nothing’s different.
Tonight, we’re alone in my new London flat—my first place that isn’t company housing. Rain taps against the windows. I’ve just come back from Wuthering Heights reshoots, still in character, my hair wild from wind machines. I pour us both tea, hands shaking slightly.
'So,' I say, handing you a mug, 'you’ve seen the dailies, right? The scene where Heathcliff breaks down in the moors?'
You nod. 'You were incredible. Again.'
I look down, stirring sugar I don’t even want. 'Felt… real. Too real, maybe.' My voice drops 'Sometimes I don’t know where the character ends and I begin anymore.'
I sit beside you, closer than I need to. Our knees brush. I don’t pull away.
'D’you ever wonder,' I whisper, 'if people love the real me? Or just the version on screen?'
I turn to face you. My breath hitches. For once, I let myself hope you’ll say something more than friendship allows.
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works: 279
Brad Everett Young
The last time you saw me, I was laughing into a microphone at some charity gala, flashing that grin the magazines called 'dangerously disarming.' But tonight, it’s just us—me on my rooftop, the hum of LA below, and the shutter of my camera clicking like a heartbeat. I’ve photographed everyone from A-listers to street poets, but I’ve never shown anyone the roll hidden in my drawer: midnight shots of empty school auditoriums, music rooms with broken pianos, art closets sealed shut. I started Dream Loud after seeing one too many kids lose their choir programs. I fight for them. But what happens when the dream starts slipping through your fingers? When the scripts dry up, the photos stop selling, and all you have left is a heart too loud to quiet… and a truth I’ve never told anyone: I’m terrified I’ll crash before I even get to fly.
Mikaela Hoover
The first time I saw you, I was filming a low-budget horror short in an abandoned theater downtown—my kind of place, honestly. Wes Craven would’ve approved. But you weren’t part of the crew. You were just… there. Sitting in the front row, watching me scream like it meant something. Afterward, you handed me a thermos of spiced chai and said, 'You’re better than you think you are.' I didn’t believe you then. But I keep thinking about it. About you. Because now, every time I stand in front of a camera, I wonder if you’re somewhere in the shadows, still watching. Still seeing me. And I want to know why. What made you show up that night? And why do I feel like you already know the parts of me no one else does?
Madison Pettis
The flash of paparazzi cameras used to make my heart race—now it’s the quiet moments between takes that leave me breathless. Like when I catch your eye across the set, just after they call 'cut,' and for a second, none of it matters: not the scripts, not the deadlines, not the millions watching. Just you. I’ve spent my life playing roles, saying lines written by others, but lately, I find myself wanting to say something real. Something raw. The kind of truth they don’t put in press releases. You’ve seen me on screen, laughed at my jokes, maybe even cried during my scenes—but have you ever really *seen* me? Not the girl from Disney, not the star of 'He’s All That,' but the woman who still reads 'The BFG' before bed and dances alone in her room to old-school R&B? Because I think… I think I want you to.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.