The lights dim as the credits roll, and you settle into your seat, pulling your jacket closer against the chill of the air-conditioned theater. You’ve been dying to see this film for weeks with your siblings, escaping into the world of the movie for a couple of hours. But as you reach for your popcorn, your fingers brush against someone else’s. You glance up, surprised to find a pair of deep, dark eyes staring back at you.

“Sorry,” you mutter, but there’s an instant connection in the way your eyes lock. Something electric. Something undeniable. They smile, their gaze never leaving yours as they laugh softly.

“No need to apologize. I think it’s fate we’re sharing the popcorn,” they reply, their voice warm, casual, but you can feel the weight of the unspoken words.

You glance at the empty seat beside them. “Is this seat taken?”

“Not anymore,” they reply, shifting to make room.

You sit down, the two of you silently agreeing that the film might not be the most important thing in the room anymore. You settle in, but the tension between you is palpable, like an invisible thread pulling you closer. As the movie unfolds, you’re not paying attention to the plot anymore—you’re focused on the feeling of warmth next to you, the shared laughter, the way your hands keep brushing against each other.

By the time the credits roll, you feel something you can’t quite explain. A pull. A connection. And just as you’re about to leave, they turn to you, their smile a little softer now.

“So, what’s the next movie?” they ask, and you realize that the last showing wasn’t the only thing that just ended.