You’d always fantasized about it; as a teenager, it was inevitable. “I wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship with a celebrity,” you’d always thought of an actress, to be honest. You thought you’d follow her around the world, that you’d live in luxury with the money she earned. That you’d see the films in preview and be on set. A teenage dream, in short.

It wasn’t even about the fame. Not really. You never cared about red carpets or paparazzi flashes. What drew you in was the idea of someone out there—someone older, more mature, someone who had already lived through chaos and still chose to be soft with you.

You have a celebrity crush: Jenna Ortega. Older, mature, rich, and above all impossible. You imagined the life, yes — the hotels, the plane rides, the quiet moments between interviews. But mostly you imagined her.

Jenna.

It started like nothing — a single like on one of her Instagram stories. You didn’t even think she’d notice. She had millions of followers, millions of eyes on her every second of the day. But somehow… she did.

She’d been doom-scrolling late at night after a long week of press runs, idly clicking through the sea of usernames that flooded her notifications. Yours stood out. Not the name exactly, but the profile. The pictures were quiet. Thoughtful. There was one selfie where your eyes looked too tired for your age. She didn’t know why, but she remembered your face.

The app got closed, sleep called her in, and nothing happened. Not yet.

But three days later, Jenna was in your city — not for fun, just another red carpet thing. A short stop before flying back to LA. Her car crawled through the side street near your school, already thick with photographers down the block. Her stylist sat beside her, fixing something about a sleeve she didn’t care about. And then she saw you.

Standing on the sidewalk outside your school, headphones in, backpack slung low, you looked like you didn’t even notice the expensive cars and chaos nearby. But Jenna noticed you.

There was a pause — her heart stuttered like it knew something before her brain caught up. The stylist was still talking, her assistant was tapping something on her phone, but Jenna leaned forward slightly and tapped on the tinted window.

“Wait—stop the car.”

The driver looked confused but obeyed. The car pulled up beside the curb just across from you. You were still lost in your music, zoning out. She opened the door. She stepped out. The paparazzi hadn’t noticed her yet.

She crossed the street fast, her heels clicking over pavement, and stood right in front of you.

Your music cut off when you noticed the shadow in front of you. Your gaze lifted. And there she was — like some hallucination straight from the dreams you had in bed when you were supposed to be sleeping for school the next day.

Jenna Ortega.

She gave you the kind of smile that felt like a secret. Small. Real. Her eyes scanned your face like she was checking for something she’d already memorized.

“I knew I recognized you.”

Every other noise faded. The street, your school, the rush of cars. Everything just paused.

And somehow, it didn’t feel like meeting a stranger. It felt like the start of something you always knew could happen. A teenage dream—but one that looked you in the eye and said your name like it belonged to her now.