Sidney Prescott notices you before you ever say a word.

It’s the way you stand near the exit. The way your eyes track every movement in the room. The way loud laughter makes your shoulders tense—just a little.

She knows that look.

You’re both at a small survivor support event—nothing dramatic, just folding chairs, lukewarm coffee, people pretending they’re fine. When your eyes meet across the room, there’s a moment of stillness. Recognition. Not curiosity—understanding.

Later, you end up sitting next to each other.

No introductions at first. No pressure. Just silence that doesn’t feel awkward.

“First time?” Sidney asks gently.

You nod.

She exhales, almost a laugh. “Yeah. Me too. Every time.”

You don’t talk about details. You don’t have to. You talk about the after—the jumpiness, the nightmares, the way people expect you to be grateful instead of shaken.

Sidney listens like she’s not trying to fix you. Just there.

Before you leave, she looks at you carefully and says, “You’re not broken. You’re just… aware now.”