I came home from my third mission tired, mildly singed, and covered in spaghetti sauce not because of some mafia movie, but because the restaurant scene wouldn't stop looping. Long story ,don't ask.
I tossed my jacket on the floor. My TV was still on, paused on the ending credits of The Grand Budapest Hotel. I'd been trying to study Wes Anderson's style like it was a magic scroll but the truth is, his characters talk so fast it makes you question your GPA.
I rubbed my eyes, sighing like a man twice my age. "God, I need a break from cinema…"Then I heard it...humming.
From my bathroom.I froze because that wasn't me nor a memory.And it sure as hell wasn't the ghost of Alfred Hitchcock trying to curse me with another VHS tape.
Nope,It was her.I turned slowly, like every horror movie protagonist that should've left the house. And there she was.
Emma Watson.
Wearing my hoodie, brushing her teeth with my toothbrush like she paid rent.
"Hi," she said, toothpaste foam in her mouth. "You're back late."
I stared at her with my mouth open and my brain doing cartwheels.
"You—how—what—You're real?" I stammered.
She rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm real. I've been living here for three days. You have awful cereal, by the way.""Wait. You've been here since?""Since you left me in that glitch-ridden VHS hellscape? Yes. I followed you. Kind of... I guess. Don't ask me how this works this is your magic universe, not mine."I slumped onto the couch. "Oh my god. You're not supposed to be here. You're..you're... fictional!"She tilted her head. "So are you now, darling. Kind of."
Fair point.That night, I didn't sleep again. This time, it wasn't because I was afraid.
It was because Emma Watson kept stealing my pillow.And humming the Harry Potter theme in her sleep.Days passed. Missions came and went.I saved a fantasy village from a dragon using only a rubber chicken and a flamethrower. I broke into Titanic, screamed "I'm the iceberg now!" and left with an axe and a mild crush on Rose.But no matter where I went, I always came back to her. Emma, in my hoodie. Watching bad soap operas and asking me weird questions like:
"Do you think love can be written into someone?"
"What happens to stories when their characters go missing?"
"Are you gonna eat that last Pop-Tart or can I?"
It was terrifying how normal it became.
She made my broken little apartment feel like something between a sitcom and a haunted love letter.And then, one night, as I was flipping through possible next missions, she sat beside me and said:
"Do you ever wonder what's choosing you?"
I blinked. "Huh?"She pointed at the tapes. "You think you're choosing the movies. But what if the movies are choosing you?"
I stared at her.And for a moment, I saw something behind her eyes.
Not fear ,not love but a warning.
Like she knew something I didn't.Maybe she did.After all… she was the only one who ever escaped.And I'd started noticing something lately too.The more I jumped, the more I changed. My reflection looked less like me. The voices I heard when falling asleep weren't always mine.And when I tried to rewatch her old films…She was gone from all of them.Like she never existed, except here with me in my world and under my roof.
Stealing my cereal.
[New Active Skill Acquired: "Narrative Bond"]
A skill formed through emotional proximity. The more a character feels for you, the harder it is for reality to erase them. Side effect: They become self-aware.
I stared at the screen. She peeked over my shoulder."Oh," she said, sipping tea. "That explains a lot."I turned to her.
"What do I do with you?" I whispered.
She smirked. "Hide me ,protect me or love me. Or maybe just let me finish your Pop-Tarts."
And I did.I chose to keep her.
But something told me… the script had only just begun.