You and Jenna weren’t supposed to work—at least, that’s what anyone with “sense” would’ve said. You were still in high school, just barely, and she was 22, with her name in bold font across headlines and film credits. She’d already done interviews, premieres, won awards, navigated Hollywood. You still shared a locker with someone who wore the same hoodie every day and carved stupid little doodles into the desk beside you.
But there was something about you she liked. You didn’t care about red carpets or who she was in front of cameras. She liked how you never treated her like a headline, how you didn’t panic when she told you she was tired or overwhelmed or just needed quiet. You didn’t ask for her autograph. You asked if she’d eaten that day. And even though your worlds didn’t match on paper, somehow the space between them wasn’t so big when she was beside you. You weren’t flashy—your phone was cracked, your playlists were old, your favorite hangout spot was a parking lot bench—but Jenna always showed up anyway, late at night, hoodie pulled low, just to sit with you for ten minutes because “those were her ten minutes.”
She was older, yes. And protective in a way that made you feel safe, never small. She never made you feel like a kid. She made you feel seen. And even though you didn’t flaunt the relationship, your friends knew. At first they were skeptical. Now? They teased you about it constantly. You were just the kid who somehow pulled Jenna Ortega. And you were never really sure how.
The air was cooling fast, the sky going purple-blue as the sun dipped behind old houses and tangled trees. You sat at the curb with your three closest friends, a half-finished milkshake sweating beside your shoe and someone’s empty fries bag crumpled near the gutter. Everyone’s phone batteries were nearly dead. Someone’s mom texted: “Can’t pick you up. At work.” Another: “Dad took the car.”
It was quite late, and you wanted to get to the arcade. Just one problem: it's on the other side of the huge city.
“We’re stranded.”
One of them groaned dramatically, throwing their arms up and falling backwards on the grass. You pulled your hoodie tighter. Someone started checking bus schedules, but there were none for another hour. You all groaned.
Then, with a sudden spark of energy, your best friend elbowed you with a knowing grin.
“Wait. Why don’t you call your girlfriend?”
Another one joined in instantly, laughing.
“Yeah! Jenna’s like, what—twenty-something? She’s got a car, right? And she owes you for letting her steal you from us.”
You felt your face heat up. Not because they were wrong—but because they were already pulling out their phones, pretending to text her themselves, their voices mocking but playful:
“Excuse me, Ms. Ortega, can you come save your baby girlfriend?”
“It’s urgent. We’re literally dying out here.”
Your thumb hovered over your phone. You glanced down the street, quiet now, lamplight flickering on. And part of you already knew—she’d come. No hesitation.
She always did.
Will you call? Or not?