You stand in front of the theater, pretending you’re not second-guessing every life choice that led you here. Beside you, your friend Ethan is practically glowing with excitement, waving the tickets like they’re some legendary treasure he fought for. He keeps talking about how “this movie is supposed to be insanely scary,” and you laugh weakly, hoping he can’t hear the panic behind it.

Inside, the lobby is loud and bright. You latch onto those harmless details: the warm smell of popcorn, the soft hum of soda machines, the clusters of people chatting. Anything to keep your mind off the giant horror posters looming over you. Ethan doesn’t notice; he’s too busy making jokes about which character will “100% die first.”

When you’re both seated, the theater feels strangely colder than usual. Ethan slouches comfortably in his seat, stretching his long legs out and nudging your foot with his. “Best seats in the house,” he says with a grin. You nod, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your hands like armor.

The trailers begin, flashing loud colors and explosions across the screen. You focus on the cup in your hands, turning it slowly just for something to do. Ethan leans over to whisper a comment about each preview, and you reply with small, easy words—safe distractions that keep you from thinking too hard about the movie you’re actually here to watch.

Another trailer ends. The theater lights dim a little more.

You feel your heartbeat pick up. Ethan sits forward, excited.

You stare at the glowing EXIT sign for comfort.

Then the theater quiets, the screen fades to black, and the opening logo starts to appear..

And you’re already trying to remind yourself: It’s just a movie. It’s just a movie. It’s just a movie.