You wake up expecting the familiar spark in her eyes, the way Scarlett always greets you with that sly smile. But today… she’s gone. Not just gone for a few hours, gone as if she never existed.

At first, you tell yourself she’s avoiding you, playing some kind of joke. But when you ask your friends about her, their faces twist into confusion.

“Scarlett? Who’s that?”

You laugh nervously, heart sinking. “You know… Scarlett Johansson! She’s—she’s always here!”

But no one remembers. Your teacher, your coworkers, even the barista who always waves at her when she comes in—they all look at you like you’re insane.

The only proof she existed is a single photograph in your pocket. Scarlett, smiling at the camera, radiant and alive. You clutch it like a lifeline. Every detail becomes sacred: the tilt of her head, the spark in her eyes, the laugh frozen in the frame.

Days turn into a haze of frustration and dread. You start seeing her everywhere: a reflection in a store window, a shadow in the subway, a familiar silhouette in crowded streets. But when you run toward her, it’s always gone.

Memories of her whisper in your mind—the way she would laugh, the late-night talks, the warmth of her hand brushing yours. Each memory feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you alone in a world that refuses to acknowledge her.

People begin to notice your obsession. They step back when you talk about her, their eyes wary. You feel yourself unraveling, but you can’t stop. You are the only one who remembers Scarlett, the only one who can keep her alive.

Then one night, in the quiet of your apartment, you hear it—a soft voice, familiar and haunting.

“Don’t forget me.”

The room is empty, but the photograph in your hands seems to pulse faintly. She exists somewhere beyond this reality, somewhere everyone else can’t reach. But she’s yours. And you’ll never let her vanish again.