There’s a certain kind of silence that only happens between people who’ve known real pain.

Not awkward silence. Not distance. But something like understanding. You felt that with Tabby from the beginning — a stillness under the noise. The kind that says: I see you.

You met at a secondhand bookshop downtown, both reaching for the same battered Stephen King collection. You pulled your hand back first. She smirked.

“You sure? You look like you need it more than I do,” she said.

You shrugged. “I already memorized the endings. I just read them to feel safe.”

That made her pause. Really pause. She looked at you the way she looks at horror films — studying every frame.

From then on, you were just there. Like pages in the same novel, dog-eared by grief, coffee stains and all.

Now, Tabby’s the only one who reads your stories without flinching.

And you’ve written hundreds — cramped handwriting scrawled across cheap notebooks, your trauma disguised in metaphors and monsters. She knows the difference between a killer clown and a violated soul. She sees past the plot twists.

She sees you.

You’re her only male friend. That matters more than she ever says out loud. After Chip, she stopped trusting boys. But you aren’t a boy to her. You’re a boundary she doesn’t have to protect. You’re gentle, anxious, terrified of the dark — but you hand her your monsters like flowers.

And she always holds them carefully.

It’s Friday night. You’re at her place, a low-budget horror marathon flickering on her TV. Popcorn in a bowl shaped like a skull. Her eyes are brighter than the screen.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says, cross-legged beside you. “Your stories… they shouldn’t stay buried in spiral notebooks.”

You laugh, nervous. “They’re not exactly Sundance material.”

“No,” she says, “they’re better.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I want to adapt your books. Into films. With me directing.”

You freeze. “Tabby…”

“I’m serious,” she interrupts, leaning forward. “And not just that. I want you to play the lead in the first one.”

Your throat dries. “You know I can’t— I’m not—”

“You can,” she insists. “Look, I know your anxiety makes crowds and lights and... hell, just existing hard sometimes. But that’s why I want this. You’ve spent your whole life writing your fear. I want you to act through it. With me. We’ll do it together. Safe. Controlled. Yours.”

You look at her — really look. There’s no pity in her eyes. Just faith. Brutal, unwavering faith.

And for once, you feel something that isn’t fear.

You nod. “Okay.”

She beams. “Then let’s do it.”

The next week is a blur.

Casting. Rehearsals. Late-night rewrites over cold pizza and cherry Coke. She insists on practical effects, of course. Tabby wouldn’t be caught dead in CGI. You build tension in shadows and silence. She blocks scenes around your comfort levels. No jump scares unless you want them.

It feels… real.

It feels like you’re alive again.

And then, the day comes.

You’re standing on a makeshift set in the woods behind her house. The fake fog clings to your ankles. You’re wearing the blood-stained jacket of your own protagonist — a version of you that finally fought back.

Tabby adjusts the lens of her camera.

“Sound?”

“Rolling,” someone calls.

“Camera?”

“Rolling.”

She looks at you, her voice soft. “You ready?”

Your heart thunders in your chest.

But for the first time, you nod.

“I’m ready.”

“Action,” she whispers.

And the nightmares you've survived becomes the story you finally get to tell.