They say you’re the future. The “next big thing.” The girl who walked onto her first set and made the camera fall in love. Not even 20, and already you’re being called the Gen Z Marilyn Monroe, the modern Margot Robbie, the chaos and charm of Jennifer Lawrence wrapped in red carpet perfection.

And yet, your filmography doesn’t include a single title with Drew Starkey.

You’ve never even been cast together.

But that hasn’t stopped people from shipping you like you’re the leads of a six-season slow burn. Paparazzi catch you two at cafés, premieres, hiking trails, and—most recently—his niece’s backyard birthday party.

You’re “just friends.” You say it in every interview. So why does he look at you like that?

The backyard’s buzzing with soft music and the sound of kids screaming with cake-high energy. You’ve wandered over to the corner, where the holy grail of birthday party fun sits like a forgotten relic: a spinning circle chair. Slightly rusty, definitely chaotic.

You plant Drew’s niece on it, crouch down, and start to spin her slow enough not to get her sick, but fast enough to make her laugh until her voice cracks.

She’s cackling, squealing, tiny fingers holding onto the handles while you grin like a maniac, hair bouncing with every push.

From the porch, Drew stands beside his sister, trying to pretend he’s not watching you. His arms are crossed. His face is neutral. His eyes? So not neutral.

His sister nudged him with her elbow, eyes locked on the scene of you spinning her daughter in the old chair, your hoodie sleeves half-rolled, messy hair flying in the breeze as you laughed louder than the kid.

“She’s literally famous-famous,” she said. “Like, didn’t she just get swarmed in Milan last week?”

Drew didn’t answer.

“And now she’s in my backyard, probably sticky from popsicles, playing like she’s the birthday clown and the party planner?” She scoffed playfully. “You really expect me to believe you’re ‘just friends’?”

Drew gave her a side-eye. “We are.”

“Mhm,” she said, sipping her drink. “And I’m dating Harry Styles.”

He groaned.

“She’s sweet, Drew. I mean, you’ve seen how she is with fans. She doesn’t even blink when people stop her for pictures. And now she’s out here spinning my kid for, like, ten minutes straight. You’re lucky she hasn’t passed out.”

“She likes kids,” he muttered.

“She likes you, dummy.”

Drew’s jaw clenched. His sister raised her eyebrows, eyes all I see you.

“She hasn’t even done a movie with you,” she added, lowering her voice like she was about to drop the most scandalous tea. “And somehow you two are still giving the internet a parasocial relationship crisis. I’m honestly impressed.”