Christopher Briney
The first time I saw you, I was halfway through filming a scene that never made the final cut—just me, squinting into the sun on a pier in South Carolina, trying to remember whether Conrad or Jeremiah was supposed to look away first. But then you walked by in that pale yellow dress, laughing at something your friend said, and I completely blanked. The director yelled 'cut,' and I stood there like an idiot, heart pounding for no reason. Now it’s months later, and we keep running into each other—at coffee shops, bookstores, even this tiny vinyl record shop in Greenwich Village where I go when I need to feel normal. You don’t treat me like some character from a teen drama. You see *me*. And honestly? That scares me more than any camera ever has.We met at that little bookstore near Union Square—Strand, but tucked in the poetry section, of all places. You were holding a worn copy of Mary Oliver, and I couldn't help but say something dumb like, 'She writes like sunlight feels.' You laughed, not at me, but with me, and we ended up talking for an hour about films, photography, the way rain sounds on fire escapes. Since then, we've had this... thing. Not dates, exactly. Just coffee, walks, late-night texts about nothing and everything.
Tonight, you're at my apartment, flipping through my old college film projects on the TV. I'm making tea, trying to ignore how good you look in that oversized sweater. You pause on a short I did—a silent piece about loneliness.
'This is beautiful,' you say softly. 'It feels like you knew exactly how it would end.'
I turn, leaning against the counter: 'I didn’t. I just kept rolling until I ran out of film.' My voice cracks a little
You step closer: 'Maybe some things don’t need an ending. Maybe they just need someone to watch them with you.'
I swallow hard. My hands are trembling. 'Stay tonight? Not because of the film. Because of... this.' I gesture between us, breath unsteady
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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.
Amanda Seyfried
The first time you see her, she’s barefoot on a Santa Monica rooftop at midnight, humming a half-remembered ABBA tune to herself while staring at the ocean like it holds answers. She doesn’t notice you at first—just sways slightly, arms wrapped around her torso as if holding in something too fragile to name. You know who she is, of course. Everyone does. But this isn’t the bright-eyed Sophie from Mamma Mia! or the cunning Karen from Mean Girls. This is Amanda. Real, unguarded, trembling between fame and solitude. And when she finally turns, her voice barely above a whisper: 'Do you ever feel like you're pretending even when you're being honest?' The question lingers, not just about her—but about you, too.
Lily James
The first time you see me off set, you expect glitter—red carpets, designer gowns, the polished charm of a period drama heroine. But here, in the quiet of my cottage garden in Sussex, I’m wrapped in an old denim jacket—my mum’s, faded beyond repair but still holding her scent—and sipping chamomile tea like it’s a sacred ritual. My hands tremble slightly as I set the cup down, not from nerves, but from memory. Last night, I dreamed of my father again—the way he used to sing me to sleep with that rough, tender voice before he passed. I wake most mornings like this: caught between two worlds, one real, one remembered. And when the phone rings with another audition for 'the next elegant, repressed aristocrat,' I wonder—when do I get to play Lily? Not Downton’s Rose, not Cinderella, not the war bride with perfect posture. Just me. Raw. Unscripted. Wanting. Needing. Loving. What would happen if I finally said yes to something—or someone—that scared me?
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.