You had always liked the quiet rhythm of your neighborhood—the familiar hum of everyday life, the way the sun spilled across the sidewalks, and the gentle creak of your front gate. That rhythm, however, was shattered the day the moving trucks rolled in next door.

Boxes stacked high. Furniture carried with careful precision. And then… her. Scarlett Johansson. Not the Scarlett you saw on screens, but Scarlett—the human, laughing at a stubborn sofa, brushing her hair out of her face, exuding a warmth you didn’t know could exist outside of movies.

At first, it was simple neighborly courtesy. You waved from across the fence. She waved back, smile radiant, and that was it. But days turned into small interactions—helping her lift a heavy box, lending a cup of sugar, sharing jokes about the chaos of moving in. Each encounter felt… charged. Comfortable, yet electric.

One evening, as twilight painted the sky in streaks of lavender, Scarlett invited you over for a glass of wine. You found yourself sitting on her balcony, the city’s lights flickering below, talking about everything and nothing. She laughed at your stories, the kind of laughter that makes your chest ache pleasantly. You realized, with a jolt, that you’d been holding your breath around her—and maybe always would.

Weeks passed. The friendship deepened, the late-night conversations spilling into the early hours. Then came the small gestures: Scarlett brushing her hand against yours “by accident,” the lingering eye contact over a shared bottle of wine, the gentle warmth when she rested her head on your shoulder during a movie.

And one rainy evening, as you both dashed through puddles from a failed attempt to cook dinner, she stopped. Water dripped from her hair, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something more.

“I like having you around,” she said softly. And somehow, those words carried the weight of a confession.