Scene 4
“The Crackle”
INT. ONLINE CLASSROOM – DAY
Rows of tiny rectangles. Muted mics. Pixelated smiles. That eerie stillness only Zoom calls know.
Your name pops up. His too.
GROUP 3: YOU. HIM. TWO OTHERS.
(A beat. You stare at the screen like it owes you a sign.)
You unmute.
YOU
(soft, trying not to sound like a tremble)
“Hey, uh… group 3?”
The mic crackles. Static like a heart stuttering.
A few seconds of silence. Eternities disguised as lag.
He glances up. Just once.
(Not at you. Past you. Through you. But it’s enough to memorize.)
You smile—but only for yourself.
You try again.
YOU
“So... when do you guys wanna start?”
Still no reply. He clicks his mic.
Then—
HIM
(monotone, unreadable)
“Anytime’s fine.”
The first time you hear his voice—it’s too polite. Too sharp.
(Like a comma, not a confession.)
Your WiFi glitches. Or maybe it’s your heart buffering.
You imagine what it’d be like if this weren’t online. If you sat beside him. If your elbows touched. If your laughs overlapped.
But this is the version of the story where no one looks long enough. Where you are both just background characters to each other’s main plot.
A brief flicker of static.
His camera blinks off.
CUT TO BLACK.
Scene 6
“The Dream Sequence”
INT. DREAMSCAPE – GOLDEN HOUR
The world is tinted honey. The kind of light that only exists in memories you never made.
You’re walking beside him.
There’s no noise. No cars. No class bells. Just wind, birds, and the soft crunch of footsteps on a path that shouldn’t exist.
(Your hands don’t touch, but they almost do. You can feel the space buzzing between your fingers.)
He looks at you—really looks.
Eyes warm. Familiar. Like you’ve always been part of the frame.
HIM
(softly, like it’s obvious)
“Hey, you.”
Then he says your name.
Not just says it—owns it. Like he’s been practicing in silence.
(Your heart forgets to stay asleep. It reaches forward before you can.)
You laugh. Or maybe he does. Or maybe the wind does it for you.
He turns to you again. There’s a pause in the air, like the world is giving you a cue.
HIM
“You know, I think I’ve been waiting for this walk for a long time.”
Your breath catches. But in this dream, you don’t mess it up. You nod. You smile. You say:
YOU
“I think I’ve been waiting for you.”
He reaches for your hand.
You let him.
(And just like that, time stops respecting itself.)
A breeze passes. The world blinks. The light shifts.
Then—
ALARM CLOCK (O.S.)
(beeping, cruel and casual)
Your eyes open.
Your room is cold. Your pillow, empty.
You stare at the ceiling.
Heart full of a name you’re not sure belongs to anyone yet.
(It’s morning again. But it doesn’t feel like a beginning.)
FADE TO WHITE.
Scene 9
“Right Universe”
INT. CLASSROOM – AFTERNOON
The sun cuts through dusty windows, spotlighting a few empty chairs—one of them beside you.
You’re pretending to be busy.
Eyes fixed on your notes, pen hovering over nothing.
(But you see his shoes before anything else. You always do.)
He’s walking toward you.
Slow steps. Measured. Like the moment might break if he moves too fast.
Your breath forgets its job.
Your fingers curl against the edge of your desk.
(Is this it?)
Then—
A voice cuts through the air. Too loud. Too real.
SOMEONE (O.S.)
“Carl!”
He pauses mid-step.
Head turns. Shoulders shift.
(The momentum is gone. You feel it leave the room before he does.)
He looks back at the chair.
At you.
Smiles—apologetic. Small. Like he knows he’s not staying.
Then he walks away.
Sits three rows behind.
(The chair stays empty. So does the sentence you never said.)
FADE OUT.
Scene 11
“Umbrella Math”
EXT. SCHOOL GROUNDS – RAINY DAY
The sky is soft gray, the kind that hums a sad song you almost remember.
Raindrops dance off pavement, little echoes of everything unsaid.
You step through the gate, umbrella snapping open above your head.
(He’s already there—halfway across the courtyard. Moving slow.)
He’s holding an umbrella too.
Same brand. Same shade of blue.
Matching by accident. Or fate. You’ll never ask.
For a second, it’s like a reflection—
Two silhouettes framed by the same storm.
Same silence. Same weight in the chest.
He doesn’t see you.
Or maybe he does, but doesn’t stop.
(You wonder: if he looked up right now, would time bend?)
But he turns the corner.
And you don’t run after him.
(Same weather. Different timing. No scene partner.)
FADE TO GRAY.
Scene 13
“Pen Theory”
INT. LIBRARY – QUIET
The fluorescent lights buzz like distant thoughts.
A clock ticks too loud, or maybe your heart does.
You’re seated at the far table, surrounded by paper, by air you try not to breathe too fast.
Your pen—uncapped—slips from your fingers.
It rolls, then rests awkwardly beside your notebook.
(He’s three seats away. Close, like luck. Far, like fate.)
He notices.
Eyes flicker down, then back to you.
(You hold your breath. It feels like a script cue.)
He reaches into his bag.
You wait.
You pretend not to.
He pulls out a pen.
Turns—not toward you—but to the girl beside him.
Smiles. Offers it.
She takes it.
Grateful.
Unaware she’s in your scene.
Your pen remains uncapped.
Like a sentence that doesn’t get to finish.
(You write nothing. But feel everything.)
FADE OUT.
Scene 7
“The Quiet Bet”
INT. CLASSROOM – LATE MORNING
(CAMERA: Slow pan from the open window—sunlight drips in like honey—to your face, still, staring ahead but clearly miles away.)
The teacher drones on. The lesson dissolves into white noise.
Your fingers tap lightly on your notebook.
(VOICE-OVER: soft, almost a secret)
You: “If I pass this quiz, you owe me a smile.”
He shifts in his seat—two chairs away.
Brows furrowed slightly. Glances in your direction.
Him: “Did you say something?”
You blink, as if coming back from someplace warmer.
Then smile. Small. Private.
You: “Nah. Just thinking out loud.”
(CAMERA: Glides down to your notebook, open in your lap. Scribbled across the page: the word ‘maybe’—six times, each more slanted than the last.)
FADE TO SOFT FOCUS.
Scene 32
“Backspace”
INT. SCHOOL STAIRWELL – 11:43 AM
(CAMERA: Tight on shoes. Rubber soles squeak softly. He’s bounding up the stairs, earbuds in. You’re walking down, slower. Hugging your books like armor.)
Your footsteps echo like a countdown. His are a little louder. A little braver.
The gap closes.
And for a moment—
(SLOW MOTION)
Your hands almost touch the railing at the same time.
He looks up.
You look down.
A near-miss written in the margins of the day.
(VOICE-OVER)
You: “There was a split second where we could’ve collided. Where the world could’ve blinked and placed us heart-first, mid-conversation.”
You: “But the universe hit ‘backspace.’ Like it got too shy.”
He passes by. Doesn’t see you.
But you feel it anyway—the warmth of what didn’t happen.
(CAMERA: Your fingers graze the metal railing. You stop. Look back. He’s already gone.)
The air feels thinner.
You inhale like it matters.
(You descend. He climbs. In another version of this scene, you said something. But not in this one.)
(CUT TO BLACK. Then: a quiet, invisible ache.)
Scene 33
“The Almost Goodbye”
INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY – LATE AFTERNOON, LAST DAY
(CAMERA: Tracking shot from behind. He’s walking away, backpack slung over one shoulder, jacket flapping slightly with each step. The hallway buzzes with end-of-day chatter, lockers slamming like final punctuation marks.)
You stand frozen, clutching something in your hand.
(Zoom in: Your grip tightens. The corners of a photo peek out.)
You (calling out): “Wait—”
He keeps walking.
No pause.
No look back.
(CAMERA: Cuts to your face. The words dissolve in the air. You bite your lip, like that might keep the rest of them in.)
(Insert: A close-up of the photo now revealed. It’s him. Laughing. A candid shot from a group project you barely remember. But he was the focus anyway.)
(VOICE-OVER)
You: “I carried it all day. Practiced a line that sounded casual. Something like, ‘Hey, thought you might want this.’”
You: “But the hallway had other plans.”
He turns a corner.
Out of frame. Out of reach.
You tuck the photo into your notebook like a pressed flower you’re not ready to let go of.
(CAMERA: One long shot of the hallway. Empty now. The sound of distant laughter. Fade out.)
Scene 17
“Seat Taken”
INT. LIBRARY – MIDDAY
(CAMERA: Wide shot of the reading room. Soft lighting filters through tall windows. The quiet buzz of flipped pages and whispered questions. You walk in, scanning.)
He’s there.
Far end of the table.
One empty seat beside him.
(Insert: The chair creaks gently in the air conditioning, like it’s waiting for something. Or someone.)
(CAMERA: Tracks your slow approach. You hesitate behind the chair. A beat too long.)
He looks up. Blinks. Recognizes you.
Him: “You looking for someone?”
(Your voice catches in your throat. But you recover. You always do.)
You: “Yeah. Just... not here, I guess.”
(You smile softly—an apology? A goodbye? Even you don’t know.)
You turn. Walk past rows of students, books, whispers.
Each step louder than the last.
(CAMERA: Stays on him. His hand twitches, like it might reach out. His mouth parts slightly. A breath, maybe a word—)
But it never comes.
(Cut to your back, disappearing into the shelves.)
The chair stays empty.
So does he.
(FADE OUT. The silence is deafening.)
Scene 21
“The Altitude of Almost”
EXT. SCHOOL ROOFTOP – GOLDEN HOUR
(CAMERA: Drone pullback. The school building glows in amber light. You sit near the edge, legs dangling over the side, sketchpad on your lap. A breeze toys with your hair.)
The city stretches out beneath you—endless, golden, unaware.
There’s silence, but not the peaceful kind.
(CAMERA: Pushes in slowly. A soft hum of distant traffic. The sky is cotton candy pink, almost romantic. Almost.)
You (voice-over): “He said he didn’t like heights.”
You (voice-over, continued): “I said I didn’t either. But I still came up here.”
(You glance at the door behind you. It doesn’t open. You don’t really expect it to.)
You look back down at the sketchpad.
The drawing’s unfinished. Just like the conversation.
(The wind picks up. A page flips.)
It’s blank.
(You sigh. Not dramatically. Just... like you’re used to it.)
You (voice-over): “Maybe I came here to draw him. Maybe I came here hoping I wouldn’t have to.”
(CAMERA: Wide shot again. You, small in the frame. The world, wide and open. But the seat next to you? Still empty.)
(FADE OUT. Cue faint echo of laughter that isn’t yours.)
Scene 24
“Row Z, Seat Lonely”
INT. SCHOOL AUDITORIUM – DAY
(CAMERA: Depth of field shallow. Light flickers from the projector onstage. Rows and rows of students blur together—except for one thing in focus: the back of his head.)
You sit in the very last row. The “invisible” row.
Around you, someone’s chewing gum too loud. A phone buzzes. But you? You’re still.
(CAMERA: Slow zoom. You lean forward, elbows on knees, chin in your hands.)
You (whisper, to no one): “In another version of this scene, you turn around.”
(You pause, waiting. Half-hoping. Half-knowing.)
He doesn’t.
His posture doesn’t shift.
His head stays turned toward the stage.
(A girl two seats away laughs. The principal says something about the future.)
You (voice-over): “In another version, he catches me staring. In another version, we laugh about it years later. In this one? I memorize the shape of his shoulders.”
(CUT TO: Your hand, absentmindedly tracing a heart into the margin of the program pamphlet.)
Suddenly—
(APPLAUSE. Too loud. Too bright. Too final.)
You blink.
The lights come up.
And the version where he turns?
Stays in your head.
(FADE TO BLACK. CUE: Soft piano version of a song you both liked, but never shared.)
Scene 28
“Almost Home”
EXT. SCHOOL FIELD – TWILIGHT
(CAMERA: Wide shot. The sun has already dipped. What’s left is dusky blue. The kind of light that makes everything a memory in real-time.)
Two silhouettes stand in the middle of the field.
Far from the gates. Far from the classrooms. Far from everyone else who’s already gone home.
The grass is overgrown. Crickets take the mic now.
Your shadows stretch out behind you like stories not told.
You (softly): “We should go home.”
Him (without looking): “We are home.”
(You look at him. Not surprised. Just full. Of what, you’re not sure—hope? Sadness? Something in-between?)
A breeze brushes past. The kind that feels like someone you used to know.
(CAMERA: Slow zoom. Your hands almost touch. Not quite. It’s the almost that matters.)
You (whispers): “Then let’s stay a little longer.”
(He laughs. Not loud. Not forced. Just... honest. You follow, and the laughter spills into the field like a secret let loose.)
(CUT TO: The sky. Stars threatening to appear. The field empty now—except for the echo of laughter still floating somewhere above the grass.)
FADE TO BLACK.
Title card: “Scene deleted for running too long. Not for lack of meaning.”
Perfume – & Wonder2