The dress was already picked. The tux was steamed. The publicist had the schedule memorized, and her phone was buzzing nonstop with reminders.

Scarlett Johansson had been here before—red carpets, flashing cameras, interviews with pre-written answers. But this year… this year was different.

Two Oscar nominations.

And no one to go with.

She could’ve taken someone for the image—a co-star, an old friend, even her agent. But that’s not what she wanted. Not this time. Not when everything finally felt like it meant something.

So she texted you. And when you responded with a simple “You sure?” —she replied instantly: “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Now you’re sitting beside her in the car, the city glowing like a dream outside the tinted windows. She’s quiet, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her clutch. Her makeup is flawless, but there’s something soft in her eyes when she glances at you.

“You know, I’ve done this a lot,” she says, almost nervously, “but I’ve never brought someone I actually wanted to sit next to all night.”

There’s a small smile tugging at her lips—real and just a little shy.

The driver announces you’re ten minutes out. Scarlett shifts in her seat, takes a deep breath, and looks at you again, eyes searching yours like she’s trying to say something without speaking.

“Promise me you won’t vanish the second we get there?” she asks. “I might be good at acting… but I’m terrible at faking smiles when you’re not around.”

The lights ahead grow brighter, the red carpet waiting. Tonight’s not about the statues.

It’s about who she chose to share it with. And she chose you.