It was one of those quiet Italian towns that seemed forgotten by time — all sun-faded walls, cobbled streets, and scooters parked like they belonged to ghosts. Jenna had been here for three weeks, filming a small indie thriller. The kind with foggy hills, antique homes, and long pauses between dialogue. Most of the time, she kept to herself, wrapped in the script, her headphones, or the chill of a set that only came alive when the camera did.

But that night, her cast begged her to come out. “Just a drink,” they said. “Just some air.”

So she slipped on a hoodie, tied her hair up, and wandered out with them into the sleepy rhythm of a Saturday evening in town. And that’s when she saw it — the van.

Not some polished food truck made for Instagram. No, this was real. Steel and dented, hand-painted letters across the side, the smell of fried something spilling into the parking lot like a spell. And the people — so many of them. Mostly young. All laughing, legs crossed on plastic chairs, some with red plastic baskets of food, others still waiting in line, chattering like this was the only place that existed.

And you.

You were moving behind the counter with that ease that comes from doing something a hundred times over, flipping orders, calling out names, grinning at familiar faces. You didn’t notice her at first. You didn’t have to. Because she noticed you.

Jenna left her cast near the back and stepped into the line. The kind of girl who had eaten in five-star restaurants in L.A. but now stood on cracked asphalt under flickering lights, waiting for a paper-wrapped burger from a stranger in a town too small to hold her name.

When it was finally her turn, she looked up at you —

“What’s the best thing you’ve got?”

And suddenly, the air shifted. It wasn’t the burger. It wasn’t the van. It was the way her eyes lingered on you. Like for the first time in a while, she wasn’t playing a role.

Just a girl. Hungry for something.