You, Matt, and Ben were writing a movie. Good Will Hunting. Circa 1994.

You were sitting on Matt’s lap as they conversed, their way of getting ideas for scenes, which you all wrote down. You mostly worked on the psychologist of the story, and you’d direct the movie.

Matt wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you secure on his lap. “We need a good fucking soundtrack, though.” Matt said as he bickered with Ben.