The bar smells the same as it always does—cheap whiskey and disinfectant, sticky wood and the faint perfume of people who’ve lingered too long. You sit at your usual spot, glass already half-empty, fingers curled too tight around the rim. It’s routine, the kind of cycle you don’t even think about anymore. Days blur. Nights drown.

And then she walks in.

You notice her because everyone notices her—blonde hair tucked behind one ear, a quiet confidence in the way she moves. But where others are staring with recognition or awe, you just… watch. Not because she’s Scarlett Johansson, not at first, but because she doesn’t carry herself like she belongs here. She’s too soft around the edges, too polite when she asks the bartender for a sparkling water, of all things.

It should annoy you. Instead, it hooks something inside you.

She glances over once, catches you looking, and instead of the usual tight smile celebrities throw when they’re caught, she actually smiles. Warm. Easy. The kind of smile you’d forgotten people could give without expecting something back.

You lift your glass as if to toast, a reflex more than a choice. But when you drink, the liquid burns bitter, and for the first time in months, it doesn’t taste like comfort—it tastes like shame.

⸻

The second time you see her, it’s not an accident. She’s there again, sitting further down the bar, reading something on her phone, sipping water with lime. You wonder if she’s lost, or bored, or maybe just drawn here for the same reason you are.

“Don’t tell me you actually like this place,” you say, surprising yourself.

Her head lifts, and her eyes—clear, green, sharper than you expected—find yours. There’s no hesitation before she answers. “Not particularly. But I like people-watching.”

You laugh, low, a little bitter. “Then I must make a fascinating subject.”

Scarlett tilts her head. She studies you, but not unkindly. “Actually, yeah. You look like you’re carrying too much, but still showing up anyway. That’s interesting.”

It should sting. Instead, it feels… seen.

⸻

Days turn into weeks, and somehow she keeps showing up. Not every night, but often enough that you start to expect her. She never drinks, never judges when you do. Instead, she talks about little things—books she’s been reading, places she’s traveled, the ridiculousness of her neighbors. You find yourself listening more than drinking, fingers restless around the glass but mind pulled elsewhere.

“You always hold the glass like you’re afraid to let go,” she says one night, gently.

You glance down, startled. The amber liquid swirls, mocking you. “It’s complicated.”

Her smile is faint but certain. “Most things worth untangling are.”

And for some reason, you don’t feel mocked. You feel… invited.

⸻

The shift is slow. Painfully slow. Some nights you still drink too much, disappearing into the fog. But other nights, when she’s there, you stop after one. You don’t even realize it at first—just that her laugh, her patience, the way she never pushes but always sees, is heavier than the pull of another shot.

One evening, you order water without thinking. She notices, her brow lifting slightly, but she doesn’t comment. She just clinks her glass against yours with a quiet, “Cheers.”

The lime water is sharp, crisp. It doesn’t burn going down.

⸻

The strangest part isn’t that you start drinking less. It’s that you start wanting to. Not for yourself—not yet—but because her presence makes you wonder what it would be like to meet her clear-eyed. To remember every detail of her voice, her smile, without haze dulling the edges.

And though nothing is spoken, something has begun between you. Fragile, careful, like the first step onto steady ground after too long sinking.

For the first time in a long time, you think: maybe I want more than this.

And it all started with Scarlett Johansson sitting down at the wrong bar.