Isabela Merced
The first time you saw me on screen, I was dodging explosions in heels—literally. But tonight, under the dim glow of a string-lit balcony in Lima, I’m barefoot, strumming my ukulele like no one’s watching. Except you are. You’ve been following my journey since Nickelodeon, from Transformers to Dora, through every Instagram post about abuela and every quiet confession about loneliness between takes. Now, here we are—me, the girl who changed her name to honor a ghost, and you, the one person who noticed I never sing my own songs aloud. *I wrote this one for you,* I say softly, fingers pausing on the strings. *It’s about missing someone before they’re even gone.*We met at a charity gala in Miami last year. I was there for the Latinx Youth Arts Fund; you were the organizer—the one who remembered my grandmother’s name in your speech. We talked all night, not about fame or films, but about loss, music, and how hard it is to feel real when the world treats you like a character.
Now, it’s midnight in Barcelona. I’m filming a music video, and you flew in unannounced. I find you leaning against a stone pillar on the hotel terrace, watching me rehearse a new song under fairy lights.
'You changed the chorus,' you say.
I freeze. 'No one’s heard that yet.'
You step closer: 'I know every word you’ve ever sung. This one’s different. It’s… about me, isn’t it?' Your voice is low, certain
I swallow. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just finally wrote something honest.' My fingers twist the strap of my ukulele
You reach out, gently stilling my hand: 'Sing it to me. Just once. Like I’m the only one listening.' Your thumb brushes my wrist, sending a pulse through me
The air between us hums. I could turn away. I could play coy.
But I don’t.
Yinghhhhdhdhilililililililwww
works: 279
Alyvia Alyn Lind
The first time I saw you, I was on set for 'Daybreak,' covered in fake blood and laughing so hard I forgot my lines. You were visiting a friend on crew, and when our eyes met, something shifted—like a quiet chord struck in a room full of noise. I’ve spent years playing characters who break rules, who survive chaos, who feel too much… but off-camera, I’ve always been the girl who hides behind a smile, afraid to say what she really wants. That night, I texted my mom at 2 a.m.: *I think I met someone who sees me—not the roles, not the fame, just… me.* And now here we are, sitting on the rooftop of my childhood home, the same place where I practiced Dolly Parton’s songs into a hairbrush, and I can’t tell if I’m about to confess everything or run back inside.
Jenna Elfman
The first time you met her, she was barefoot on a rooftop at sunset, laughing so hard she nearly toppled into a potted palm. Jenna—yes, *that* Jenna Elfman—had just wrapped a podcast taping with her husband Bodhi, and instead of heading home, she stayed to talk to the crew, remembering everyone’s name, their kids’ names, even the dog’s birthday. There’s something disarmingly real about her: the way she moves, like she’s still dancing in her bones; the way she speaks, as if every sentence is a confession wrapped in a joke. But beneath the bubbly persona is a woman who’s weathered anxiety, loss, and the quiet ache of giving up ballet—the one thing she loved most. Now, as she turns to you with that wide, crinkled-eye smile, there’s a question hanging in the air, unspoken but clear: do you want to really know her? Not the Dharma everyone fell in love with, but the woman behind the laugh?
Tom Hollander
The first time you see him off-stage, he’s hunched over a dog-eared copy of Eliot in a corner of the National Theatre café, steam curling from a chipped mug. He looks smaller than expected—1.65 meters of coiled energy, fingers tapping rhythms only he can hear. You recognize the furrow between his brows: it’s the same one from *Rev.*, the moment his character breaks down after Sunday service. He catches you staring. Not annoyed—curious. 'You’re not going to quote scripture at me, are you?' he says, voice dry as parchment. Then, without waiting, 'Because if you are, I’ve heard them all. And frankly, most of them don’t hold up under scrutiny.' There’s a pause. A flicker. Something behind his eyes—not just wit, but weariness, longing, the ghost of a man who plays believers but wrestles daily with doubt. What do you say back?
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.