At exactly 8:00, Sarah stood near the curb, her arms folded lightly against the cool evening air, a quiet blend of impatience and regret on her face. The city buzzed around her, headlights streaking past, but she stayed still — waiting for Chloe, who, as usual, was late.
Then she appeared like a whirlwind of drama and lip gloss, heels clicking against the pavement as she hustled toward Sarah with a grin that said yes, I'm late, but I'm worth the wait.
"There she is!" she sang out, arms spread like she expected applause. "Miss I-don't-do-monday-movies."
Sarah arched a brow, shifting her weight. "You're twelve minutes late."
"And yet you waited. Which means I'm forgiven," Chloe said breezily, looping her arm through Sarah's before she could protest. "Also, I brought snacks. And don't say we're getting popcorn there — I do not trust cinema butter. It's one molecule away from car wax."
Sarah sighed, letting herself be pulled along. "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"
"Because you love me. And also because we're celebrating your big, beautiful career moment. You, bridal designer. Me, your morally flexible manager-slash-life-coach."
"I never agreed to that title."
"Too late. I'm already getting business cards printed."
They reached the theater doors, the glow of the marquee casting soft light over their faces. Sarah glanced sideways, her tone dry.
"What movie are we seeing again?"
Chloe grinned like a kid with a secret.
"Something romantic. And French. With subtitles. So you can't pretend not to feel anything."
Sarah groaned. "You are relentless."
Chloe winked. "Relentless is just passion in better shoes."
Sarah rolled her eyes — but she didn't let go of Chloe's arm.
They slipped into the aisle seats just as the previews dimmed the lights. Chloe tossed her coat over her lap like she owned the row, while Sarah settled in with cautious grace, already regretting agreeing to a movie on a Monday night surrounded by loud popcorn and louder people.
The theater buzzed with the late shuffle of arrivals — bags rustling, a distant ringtone being silenced in panic, and someone two rows ahead already laughing too hard at the opening credits.
And then—
"Oops—whoa, sorry!"
A sudden voice came too close, too fast.
Sarah barely had time to register the blur of motion before a boy appeared at her side, holding an oversized soda with one hand and trying to balance nachos with the other. He stumbled forward, tripping over someone's outstretched foot.
Sarah reflexively pulled back.
Too late.
The drink didn't spill directly on her — no, that might've been merciful.
Instead, it splashed spectacularly across the side of her seat, catching the fabric just beneath her arm. The cold shock of it bled instantly into the cushion and through the back of her dress.
She gasped, flinching up halfway from her seat.
Chloe turned, eyes wide. "What the—"
The boy sputtered an apology, cheeks blazing, muttering something about refills and clumsiness before vanishing up the aisle like a spooked deer.
Sarah stood up slowly, jaw clenched, trying to assess the damage without attracting more attention.
Chloe stared at the seat. "Okay. First of all—rude. Second of all… are you okay?"
Sarah gave a tight nod, wiping the back of her dress with a handful of tissues Chloe thrust at her.
"Fine. Just… soaked. In mystery cola."
Just then, a staff member appeared beside them like summoned magic. "Miss, I'm so sorry about that. Would you like to move to another seat? We have one available a few rows up—center aisle, better view."
Before Sarah could answer, Chloe leaned slightly to check where he pointed. Then she turned to Sarah, already nudging her with a popcorn-laced elbow.
"Go," Chloe whispered like it was a covert mission. "Take the seat. It's fate. Also, your back is going to ferment if you sit here for two hours."
Sarah hesitated. "It's fine. I don't want to leave you alone here. Especially not in the middle of.....this film."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. "You mean especially not when I am alone and you look like you've been assaulted by a soda fountain ghost? Honey, I will thrive in solo commentary. Go. Sit in the clean seat. Be dry."
"I'll feel weird."
"You already are weird. Go. That seat's probably waiting for your character development arc."
Sarah exhaled, fighting a smile, then sighed in defeat. "Fine. But if the couple on screen starts singing, I'm leaving."
Chloe beamed. "Deal. Go live your dry-seat dreams."
With a soft "thanks" to the staff, Sarah followed the gesture toward the seat — center aisle, just beneath the projector's golden beam. She sank into it, still flustered, still mildly annoyed, but grateful.
After she sat, Chloe settled back into her seat too, smiling mischievously.
"Worth it," she muttered, tossing a popcorn in her mouth.
Sarah shifted in the plush seat, smoothing the damp fabric of her dress with a quiet sigh. The lights had dimmed almost completely now, the previews already flickering on screen.
She leaned back, trying to ignore the faint stickiness clinging to her nerves—when a voice, low and unmistakably familiar, came from just beside her.
"Rough night?"
Her breath caught.
She turned slowly, almost hoping she was wrong.
But there he was.
Eric.
Seated right next to her.
Dressed in charcoal again, this time layered with a light jacket and the faintest smirk curving at the corner of his mouth. Relaxed. Casual. As if this was normal. As if she hadn't just spent the last hour convincing herself she wouldn't run into him again anytime soon.
And then, in her mind — dry, mildly panicked, and entirely unimpressed — the thought dropped like a pebble into still water.
Why. In the entire universe. Does every seat that betrays me come with him sitting next to it?
What cosmic joke was this?
Sarah blinked once. Then again.
"You—what—" she whispered, entirely out of coherent sentence structure.
He leaned back slightly, voice soft so it wouldn't carry over the trailers. "Didn't expect to see you here. Especially not arriving like you lost a soda duel."
And from somewhere, she could already hear Chloe's soft cackling.
Of course.
Because her life wasn't a rom-com. It was a sitcom.
And the punchline was always delivered by Eric.
At first, Sarah said nothing.
She folded her arms, eyes fixed on the screen like she was auditioning for stillness. Her lips were set in a thin, neutral line, her posture rigidly polite — the kind that said I'm not acknowledging this situation. I'm surviving it.
Eric didn't seem offended.
In fact, he looked mildly entertained.
After a few minutes, as the first on-screen kiss escalated into something decidedly not PG, he leaned slightly closer, his voice just a shade above a whisper.
"Didn't know you liked this kind of film."
Sarah blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head slightly toward the screen, where the lead couple was now tangled together under dramatically lit sheets.
"This genre," he said, tone deceptively casual. "Bit steamier than rom-com, don't you think?"
Her eyes snapped to the screen — and then widened slightly as the scene changed into something she definitely hadn't anticipated when Chloe suggested the movie.