The theater wasn't packed, but it buzzed with the kind of energy that only came from readers who loved a story too much to keep it on the page.
We walked side by side, not touching—but close.
She kept glancing at the poster outside, eyes bright. I watched her more than the marketing.
She looked like the kind of person who still believed in wonder.
I was beginning to believe again too.
Inside, we sat in the middle row. She wanted a perfect view. I just wanted to sit beside her.
The trailers rolled. Lights dimmed. And then the screen lit up with those words:
"Based on the novel by Tom Rawlings."
She turned slightly toward me, just enough for her shoulder to brush mine.
"Don't talk during the emotional scenes," she whispered.
I smirked. "Only if you don't cry before chapter two starts."
"I make no promises."
The film unfolded like the book had—slow, lyrical, sharp in the places that hurt.
She leaned forward during the storm scene.
I heard her inhale at the twist.
I let her have the ending in silence, like I knew she needed it.
⸻
Outside the theater, the air was cool and quiet.
We stood near my car, the city humming faintly around us.
"I think they did it justice," she said.
I nodded. "Even the ending."
She smiled. "Maybe some stories don't need fixing."
There was a pause—not awkward, not rushed. Just there.
She looked up at me, eyes soft, searching.
I didn't ask. I didn't overthink.
We leaned in—slow, certain.
And kissed.
It wasn't cinematic.
It was better.
Real.