Vanessa Abrams had always been the storyteller. From her camera days to her film projects abroad, she had a way of turning life into art. So when she called you over one rainy evening, claiming she needed feedback on her “latest screenplay,” you didn’t hesitate.

You walked into her apartment, the faint smell of coffee and old books in the air, and found her seated at her cluttered desk, pages strewn around her like a storm.

“Hey,” you said, smiling. “You said this was about… our friendship?”

Vanessa looked up, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Technically, yes. But I may have… added a little artistic flair.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A little?”

She shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, maybe a lot. But I need your opinion. Honest opinion.”

As she read the lines aloud, something in your chest tightened. The main characters — two best friends navigating life, laughter, heartbreak — were obviously modeled after you two. But the subtext, the longing glances, the playful teasing, the little confessions, it was unmistakable. It wasn’t just friendship. It was love.

“You… this is… kind of… intimate,” you said, trying to mask the flush on your cheeks.

Vanessa bit her lip, pretending to be nonchalant. “Intimate? I… don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Vanessa,” you said, leaning closer. “The part where they steal kisses in the rain? That’s not friendship.”

She rolled her eyes, but you caught the nervous flutter in her hands. “Okay, maybe it’s… inspired by more than friendship. Happy?”

Your heart was racing. “Inspired… by us?”

Her gaze softened. “Maybe. A little.”