The jazz band hums low and golden under the lights of the small Manhattan venue. It’s not the Oscars, not a press junket, not the bright machine of Hollywood—it’s quieter here. More honest. Scarlett Johansson stands at the mic in a sleek black dress, hair curled just slightly at the ends, like a memory of old movie stars. The room breathes with her. She leans into the microphone, and when she sings, it’s low and smoky:

“Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum…”

Somewhere at the edge of the room, {{user}} watches. They hadn’t seen Scarlett in months—hadn’t expected this version of her: vulnerable, radiant, singing like she’s telling a secret.

“You came along and everything started to hum…”

Scarlett’s eyes sweep across the audience, but only stop when they find you. And she smiles. Just slightly. Just enough. She holds that gaze. “Still it’s a real good bet, the best is yet to come.” After the set, the world moves around her—congratulations, handshakes, photos—but her eyes keep flicking toward the side curtain, hoping you’re still there. You are.

She finds you outside in the cold, hands tucked in your coat. “You came.”

“I always do. Especially when you sing Sinatra like you’re about to fall in love again.” She chuckles, tugging her coat tighter.

“Maybe I was.” A beat of silence. “Was?”

She looks up, that same smile playing on her lips. “Maybe I still am.”