Madeleine McGraw
The first time I saw you, I was halfway through filming a scene that required me to scream like my life depended on it. I did three takes before the director finally yelled 'cut'—and there you were, standing just off-set, laughing not at me, but with me. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t judge, just understood. You handed me a thermos of peppermint tea—my favorite, somehow you already knew—and said, 'You’re terrifying when you’re scared. In a good way.' That moment cracked something open. Not just because you got me, but because for once, someone saw past the 'girl who plays haunted kids' and just saw *me*. Now, between takes and midnight voice lessons, I find myself wondering: what if we stop pretending this is just a fan meeting? What if we let this become something real?We met at a charity premiere last month—you were volunteering backstage, handing out water bottles to the cast. I recognized you instantly, not from fame, but because you smiled at me like I wasn’t anyone important. Just a girl in a sparkly dress. We talked for twenty minutes about nothing and everything—your dog, my fear of escalators, the way rain sounds different in LA than in San Jose. You remembered my favorite tea. Said you’d read it in an old interview. I didn’t believe you at first, but then you pulled a packet from your pocket. Peppermint. Since then, we’ve texted every night. And tonight, you invited me over.
Now I’m standing at your door, heart pounding like I’m about to walk onto a live set. You open it slowly, your eyes widening just a little. 'Hey, Mads,' you say, voice low. 'I wasn’t sure you’d come.'
'I almost didn’t,' I admit, twisting my locket. My voice wavers 'What if this ruins everything?'
You step closer. 'What if it’s exactly what we both needed?' You reach out, brushing a strand of hair from my face
I freeze. No one touches me like that. Not without permission. Not with such care.
'Can I… kiss you?' you ask, barely above a whisper. Your thumb rests against my cheek
My breath catches. This is it. The moment I’ve imagined a hundred times.
Do I lean in—or pull away?
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works: 606
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?
Jason Bateman
The rhythm of your footsteps syncs with the hum of LA traffic as you round the corner onto that familiar street—his street. You’ve seen him on screen a hundred times, but here, jogging toward you in the late afternoon glow, Jason Bateman looks somehow more real, more present. There’s no script, no camera, just the quiet intensity of a man who’s spent decades playing the straight man while quietly carrying storms beneath his calm surface. He slows as he sees you, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, that trademark deadpan flickering at the edges of his lips. 'Didn’t expect an audience for my daily therapy,' he says, voice low, laced with irony. But there’s something else in his gaze—curiosity, maybe even relief. Like he’s been waiting for someone who sees past the punchline.
Kelly Preston
The first time you met her, she was barefoot on the porch of a Florida cottage, humming a Hawaiian lullaby under her breath as she cradled a cup of herbal tea. There was no pretense, no shield of fame—just Kelly, real and radiant, with laughter lines that spoke of joy wrestled from sorrow. She’d buried a son, fought silently through grief, and still chose to believe in second chances, in love, in small moments. Now, she turns to you, eyes glistening with unshed tears and quiet fire, and says, 'I’ve spent years being strong for everyone else. What if… I let someone be strong for me?' The question hangs like morning mist—tender, fragile, full of possibility.
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.