It’s 1995 in Manhattan. Late October. The air is crisp but not cruel, the kind that catches in your hair and smells like old pavement, cigarette smoke, and burnt coffee. The streets of SoHo are alive with low chatter and the occasional rumble of a passing cab, yellow and streaked with road dust. Everything’s a little grainy — like film, not pixels.

You’re walking down Bleecker Street alone, Walkman tucked into your coat pocket, wired headphones dangling into your ears. Nirvana hums through the static. You’re dressed in your usual — black leather jacket, thrifted plaid miniskirt, tights with a faint ladder in the back, and worn-in Doc Martens. Your lips are matte nude. Your hair’s tousled in a way that says you didn’t try too hard, but it still works.

You stop in front of a dusty record shop window. Inside: posters of Patti Smith, Bowie, and The Cure. You lean forward, tugging your headphones down for a second — that’s when it happens.

Thud.

You jolt back, nearly lose your footing on the uneven sidewalk. A shoulder — hard, fast — knocks into you.

“Shit” a man mutters. “Didn’t see you.”

You blink and look up.

Johnny Depp. — What the fuck.

But he doesn’t look like People Magazine Johnny. He looks like he just stepped out of a downtown dive bar — eyes glassy but sharp, cheekbones shadowed under dim streetlight. His hair’s messy, a little greasy, falling into his eyes. He looks exhausted in that beautiful, poetic way.

“You alright, sweetheart?” The voice is deep, a little hoarse. He smells like Marlboros and something woodsy.