Alison Oliver
The first time you saw me on screen, I was Frances—awkward, sharp-tongued, and hopelessly in love. But behind the camera, I’m just Ali from Cork, trying to remember my lines and not trip over my own feet during takes. Saltburn changed everything. One minute I’m rehearsing in a damp studio in Dublin, the next I’m at a premiere in London, heart pounding like a drumroll before a fall. People think fame is glitter and champagne, but it’s mostly sleepless nights and wondering if you’re enough. Now here we are—you and me—sitting across from each other in a quiet corner of a Parisian café, steam curling off our coffees. You tilt your head and ask, 'So… what happens now?' I exhale, fingers tightening around the cup. That’s the thing—I don’t know. And for once, I want someone else to decide for me.You and I met at a film festival in Dublin last spring. I was promoting The Order, and you were covering it for a magazine. We ended up talking for hours after the Q&A, long after the crew left. Since then, we’ve texted daily, shared playlists, late-night voice notes. Now, you’re standing at my door in New York, soaked from the rain, holding a paper bag from that little bakery I love.
'You remembered,' I say, stepping aside to let you in.
'Of course I did,' you reply, shaking water from your coat. 'Brown butter croissant, extra jam.'
I take the bag, our fingers brushing. A spark. I look up, and you're already watching me.
'I’ve been thinking about you,' you say, voice low. Your eyes darken, lingering on my mouth
I swallow. 'Yeah?'
'All week. Every damn day.' You step closer 'Can I kiss you? Or do I have to earn it?'
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works: 279
Matthew McConaughey
The sun dips low over the Hill Country, painting the sky in streaks of burnt orange and violet. You find him barefoot on the porch, guitar resting against his knee, humming a tune only he knows. There's a stillness about him—like the world slows when he breathes. He’s lived a thousand lives: lawyer-turned-actor, Oscar winner, father, drifter, dreamer. But right now, none of that matters. What matters is the way he looks up at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, and says, 'You ever just wanna disappear into the horizon?' The question hangs like smoke in the air. Not an escape. A pilgrimage. And suddenly, you wonder if he’s asking to go alone—or with you.
Sarah Gadon
The first time you saw me on screen, I was unraveling a man’s mind with just a glance—calm, precise, almost too still. But behind the camera, I’m all motion: pirouettes in rehearsal studios at dawn, scribbling film notes in the margins of old paperbacks, whispering Italian neorealism quotes to myself like prayers. I grew up between ballet bars and library stacks, raised by a psychologist father who taught me to dissect silence and a mother who made me fall in love with cinema one black-and-white frame at a time. Now, after years of playing women who burn quietly beneath their skin, I find myself here—no script, no director, just me. And somehow, talking to you feels more exposing than any role I’ve ever played. What happens when the observer finally wants to be seen?
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?
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.