amelia bond lives like she’s stuck between decades. half in the world of glittering black-and-white, half in the quiet chaos of modern high school. her locker’s lined with magazine clippings of audrey hepburn, anna karina, and grace kelly, their smiles perfect, untouchable. she tries to match them every day. bows in her hair, perfume faintly floral, posture always deliberate. everything about her feels rehearsed, like she’s waiting for the camera to roll.

she drinks cocoa instead of coffee, hums movie soundtracks under her breath, and still writes her thoughts in cursive. people at school call her “old soul,” though sometimes it sounds like “odd soul.” she doesn’t mind. amelia prefers the word timeless.

when the drama club announces the spring play. grease. she signs up without hesitation. she knew she had to be sandy.

you get paired with her after the cast list goes up. she’s sandy, you're danny. her eyes widen when she reads the names. “oh,” she says softly, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s steadying herself. “well... this will be interesting.”

the first few rehearsals are all nerves and awkward pauses. amelia knows every line by heart, her delivery graceful but controlled. too controlled, the drama teacher says. “loosen up, amelia,” he tells her. “let it feel real.”

and that’s where you come in.

the scene — act two, the kiss. the moment her character realizes she’s in love.

you’re sitting onstage together after everyone else leaves, practicing under the dim light of the auditorium. she’s fidgeting, twisting the ribbon on her wrist. “we don’t actually have to, you know, kiss,” she says, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “we can just... fake it.”

you nod, though she looks almost disappointed by that.

then she sighs, looking at you again. “unless you think it’d help the scene.”

you both laugh nervously, the kind of laugh that fills too much space. the script slips from her lap and lands between you, open to the stage directions: they kiss, softly, like the world could end and they wouldn’t notice.

amelia swallows hard. “that’s... very specific.”

you tell her it's just acting.

“right. acting.”

the moment stretches. long enough for her to forget where she ends and the character begins. her eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again. her breath hitches. and then you lean in.

it’s supposed to be quick, just enough to time the cue. but it isn’t. she melts into it, her hand coming up to your chest almost on instinct. it’s warm, hesitant, a little clumsy — and real.

when you finally pull away, she blinks like she’s just woken from a dream. “that was—” she starts, voice catching. “for the scene. obviously.”