I won't lie,Elizabeth Bennet messed me up a little. Something about the way she looked at me like I wasn't a ghost… like I mattered. But it was time to move on. My VHS tape blinked faintly, resting on my cluttered desk, waiting. This time, I didn't let it choose for me.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-eaten bowl of cereal balanced on my knee and an open laptop glowing with IMDb tabs. My heart pounded in my chest as I muttered to myself, "Emma Watson… Emma freaking Watson."
Yes, I had a thing for her. Always did. There was just something in those eyes,warm, sharp, like she could unravel you with a glance. So, of course, I was going to enter one of her movies.
The hard part? Choosing which Emma.
Hermione Granger was tempting. But too many rules. And magic school trauma. I wanted something slower. Softer. Something with warmth, a little mystery, and Emma at her most human. I landed on ThePerksofBeingaWallflower. Emotional. Raw. And that scene on the pickup truck with the tunnel and the music? Classic.
Then I saw her.
Emma,no, Sam. The character. Her hair a soft mess, her eyes curious, her outfit scream-singing "quirky but you'll fall in love with me anyway."And holy hell… she smiled.
Not at me. Not yet. But at someone else. And I knew in that moment: I wanted that smile aimed at me.
I waited. Watched from the background. Blended in. Let the script play out while I studied her like a thesis. Her laugh had timing. Her sadness had layers. She made eye contact like she was holding something back but hoping you'd ask anyway.
I couldn't resist.
So I did what any power-drunk, emotionally-starved reality-bender would do: I broke the script.
"Hey," I said one day after class. "You dropped this."She turned. "Oh… that's not mine."
"Right," I said, holding out a pencil I clearly picked off the floor for no reason. "Then I guess it's yours now."
She gave me that look,half suspicious, half intrigued. "You new?"
"Let's say I transferred from... an alternate curriculum."She laughed. "That sounds made-up.""It is. But so is high school, if you think about it."
Boom. Connection.
Over the next few days, I kept slipping into her story. Pushing scenes. Twisting dialogue. Nothing major, just enough to make her notice me more. And she did. We talked about music. Books. What it felt like to not fit anywhere. What it meant to be seen.
Then, one night, we sat on the hood of her car, the town stretching below us like a sleepy constellation. She looked at me and asked, "Why do you seem like you don't belong here?"
I hesitated. "Because I don't."
"You're not gonna disappear, are you?"
I looked at her. The real her. Not the character. Not the pixels. Just... her.
And I realized something painful.
I didn't want to leave.But I had to.
That's when the sky glitched.
Just a flicker.Then there was static in the air.
She saw it too."What was that?" she asked.
I looked up. "A reminder."
"Of what?"
I swallowed. "That some people only exist in borrowed scenes."
She didn't understand. How could she? But she leaned in anyway. Touched my hand. That stupid, perfect smile trying to tell me: You can stay if you want.
But I couldn't.
I stood up. Backed away. The tape was already rewinding somewhere. The curtain already falling.
"I'm sorry," I said.
And just like that,I was gone.
Back in my room. Cold. Alone. The tape silent now, like it had watched me fail a test I didn't know I was taking.
But I learned something that day.
I wasn't just some audience member anymore.And next time?
I'd change the whole damn script.