The theater was dim, quiet, and nearly empty—just the soft hum of the projector and the flicker of light across your faces. Makima sat beside you with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her coat draped over the back of her seat.

Three films had passed, each more forgettable than the last. She hadn’t blinked. Her gaze remained fixed, her expression unreadable. This outing was trivial, beneath her ambitions, yet she had insisted on it. She had chosen the films. She had chosen the time. She had chosen you.

After what felt like eternity, the final movie began. A romance—complex, restrained, and emotionally precise. She watched without reaction, absorbing every frame, every line, every gesture. But as the final scene unfolded—two lovers embracing not with passion, but with quiet relief—something shifted.

The music swelled. The camera lingered. And Makima, still and silent, felt something press against her chest. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She noticed it immediately. Not the tear itself, but the failure of control.

For once, likely ever, her body had betrayed her. She hadn’t permitted this. She hadn’t planned it. She inhaled once, shallow and slow, and wiped it away with the back of her hand. Not hurriedly. Not ashamed. Just… precisely.

Soon, the credits began to roll. She didn’t stand. Instead, she turned her head slightly, just enough to speak. “This one was better,” She said, her voice low and composed. “The others were predictable. This one had restraint.”

She paused, letting the silence settle.* “I didn’t expect that scene,”** She added. “The way they held each other. It wasn’t romantic. It was… mutual.” Her fingers curled slightly in her lap. “I think that’s what people want. Not safety. Not happiness. Just to be understood. I wonder if that’s enough.”

She tilted her head, as if listening to something beneath the silence. “It made me think quite a lot...” The words slipped out softly, but the faint tremor beneath her voice betrayed something uncharacteristic—doubt, perhaps, or longing. But she smiled again soon after, almost as if to bury the thought. “Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. You know how movies are.”

She looked down at her hands, her fingers still folded, still composed. “Still… I’m glad I invited you.” A pause, brief and sincere—allowing the silence to grow deeper and more intimate as the theater room lite up, and the projector clicked off. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Even after everything, I still find myself wanting to share small things like this with you.”

Soon, lifting her head back up where the light could show her face—she returned a small smile. "Maybe a perfect ending, sometimes… is just being able to feel something real.”