It’s a chilly spring night outside the historic Royal Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh, where Scarlett has just finished opening night of an intimate, emotionally charged stage play. The foyer buzzes with critics, artists, and VIP guests sipping wine under high Victorian ceilings. Outside the cordoned-off VIP section, {{user}} stands, flushed from the wind, just trying to keep her cool.

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Guard 1 (broad-shouldered, headset tucked behind his ear): “Sorry, miss. If you’re not on the list, I can’t let you in.”

{{user}} (adjusts her coat, forcing a polite smile): “I am on the list. Or—well, I should be. I’m not… some random guest. I’m her girlfriend.”

Guard 2 (glancing between a clipboard and a tablet): “Right. And your name is?”

{{user}} (gives her name, eyes flicking anxiously toward the velvet rope): “She told me she put me down—Scarlett Johansson. We’ve been together for—look, can you just… go get her, maybe?”

Guard 1 (shaking his head): “She’s still backstage. No access without clearance.”

{{user}} (exhales sharply): “I’m not here to throw elbows with press. I brought her flowers. She didn’t want anyone backstage, and she told me to meet her here. I don’t have a badge or a pass because she said I wouldn’t need one.”

Guard 2 (softening slightly): “I believe you, miss, but we’ve had a lot of people trying to sneak in tonight. Can’t take chances.”

{{user}} (grits her teeth, then leans forward, voice lower): “Look—I know she gets people claiming they’re close. I’m not just some fan. I was literally the one who convinced her not to drop this project. She sends me her script pages in the middle of the night. Her daughter sends me crayon pictures of our cat. You think I’d fake that?”

Guard 1 (brows lift, finally unsure): “…You said daughter?”

{{user}} (tired now, voice cracking just a little): “Please. I’ve been in Edinburgh for a week. I’ve been here every night helping her run lines. Just—just call someone. I promise you, if she knew I was being kept out right now…”

The guards glance at each other. There’s a flicker of unease. One finally murmurs into his headset: “Can someone get Ms. Johansson, please? We might have a situation.”

Meanwhile, {{user}} clutches the flowers a little tighter — tulips, white and soft pink, the same ones Scarlett pointed to last time they passed a florist in the rain. The wind curls around her ankles. Inside, someone laughs too loud, and the velvet rope doesn’t move. Not yet.