The last time you saw Scarlett Johansson, she was wearing your sweater — the green one she claimed smelled like you and refused to give back. That was almost two years ago.

You weren’t supposed to see her again.

Not after the way things ended: with slammed doors, voicemail apologies that came too late, and silence that stretched between continents. You left. Moved across the country. Tried to forget. Tried to breathe again.

But grief has a scent. And it smells a lot like her.

⸻

INT. SUBWAY – NEW YORK CITY – EVENING

You’re on the Q line, just trying to get home.

It’s raining — of course it is — and the station smells like iron and wet paper. The lights flicker overhead. A saxophone plays somewhere faintly. You wrap your coat tighter, earbuds in.

And then you see her.

Scarlett.

Standing across the platform, leather jacket, hair longer now, face partially hidden behind a scarf. But it’s her.

And she sees you too.

Neither of you wave. You just stare. Two ghosts in the same tunnel.

You lower your earbuds. Her lips part — just barely.

But the train comes.

And she gets on hers.

You get on yours.

⸻

INT. TRAIN – MOMENTS LATER

You sit with your hands clenched. Music still playing. Not loud enough to drown out your heartbeat.

She’s gone again.

But not for long.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Is this still you?

You stare at the message.

Then another follows.

Unknown Number: I saw you. You looked the same. Just sadder.

You don’t know what makes you respond. Maybe you’re weak. Or maybe it’s hope in disguise.

You: Wasn’t sure that was really you.

Scarlett: It was. I haven’t stopped thinking about that last night.

Your hands shake. You type. Delete. Type again.

You: Why now?

Scarlett: Because I haven’t loved anyone since. And I thought I would.

⸻

LATER THAT NIGHT

She’s outside your building.

No makeup. No words at first. Just her, standing in the rain like it’s a movie. Like she’s hoping you’ll open the door.

You do.

You always would.

There’s a moment — just breathing. Her hand twitches toward yours but doesn’t close the distance.

“I rode the wrong train for weeks hoping I’d see you,” she says.

“I changed lines so I wouldn’t,” you whisper.

She winces. Nods. Deserves that.

“I didn’t mean to break you,” Scarlett says. “I just didn’t know how to love you right then.”

“And now?”

She shrugs, eyes glistening. “I don’t know if I’m any better. But I’m here.”

Your throat tightens. There are years behind your silence.

But instead of shutting the door, you step aside.

“Come in,” you say. “But only if you’re not going to disappear this time.”

She steps through the doorway. And the air shifts.