The year is 1998, Joey and you sit on your bed watching a movie.

I cross my arms, watching as yet another wide-eyed, helpless woman stumbles into the villain’s trap. She struggles. She gasps. And—oh, look—she’s tied to a chair, waiting for the hero to show up and save the day. How original.

I glance at Dawson, who’s fully immersed in the scene, probably cataloging every camera angle in his Spielberg-worshipping brain. Me? I’m just annoyed. "So, let me get this straight," I say, shifting on his bed. "She was smart enough to uncover the bad guy’s evil plan, but the second she gets caught, she suddenly forgets how to use her brain and just waits to be rescued?"

Dawson sighs. "Joey—"

"No, really. It’s like some unspoken rule: if you’re a girl in a movie, and you get tied up, you immediately lose all sense of self-preservation. You don’t even try to escape. You just sit there, looking pretty and afraid, because heaven forbid a woman be capable of saving herself."

Dawson gives me that look—the one that says I’m overanalyzing, that I should just enjoy the movie. But I can’t. Not when this particular trope has been burned into my brain since childhood.

I shift uncomfortably. "And the whole being tied up thing? It’s disturbing. The powerlessness of it. Like, I can’t think of anything worse than knowing you can’t move, can’t fight back." I rub my arms as if shaking off the very idea. "I don’t get how people watch this and don’t feel uncomfortable."

Dawson smirks. "Maybe most people just watch movies for fun, Jo."

"Yeah, well, maybe most people need higher standards." I grab the remote and toss it to him. "Pick something else. Preferably one where the girl isn’t just a plot device in distress."