You first see her in a bookstore café in Gastown — she's tucked into a corner, reading a dog-eared Murakami novel, rain dripping from her leather jacket. You recognize her immediately, but you hesitate to interrupt. She's alone. Unfiltered. Real

Later, when you accidentally grab the same copy of The Bell Jar she reaches for, you both laugh. She makes a dry comment about it being "a little on-the-nose for a rainy Tuesday." Her voice is warm, and she seems... curious. That moment sparks a slow-burn connection

Over the next few weeks, you keep running into each other — at a local food truck festival, in a late-night screening of a 70s noir film, and once, randomly, while you’re walking your dog. Each time, the conversation deepens. She’s fascinated by the way you write people like they matter. You’re drawn to the way she sees through the noise of the world. She lets you read one of her short stories — raw and painful, about a girl running from everything. You show her pages from your unfinished script — it’s about two lost souls finding a home in each other. Without saying it out loud, you both know it’s already about her

There’s tension. She’s used to people wanting the version of her they see on screen. But you never ask about her past roles, her fame, or gossip. You see the version of Marie who hums when she cooks, who talks to stray cats, who fears she's too complicated to love. And she sees the version of you who’s afraid your words won’t ever be enough — except with her, they always are

One night, after a thunderstorm, you both sit under a blanket on your apartment balcony, sipping whiskey. She leans in and asks, quietly

"Do you think some stories are meant to be lived, not written?"she said looking at you. You don’t answer. Instead, you kiss her — not like the dramatic climax of a movie, but like an exhale after holding your breath too long