Snack 1

Marty:

I’m in the kind of room where dreams go to die. A community center.  I’m showing my short film at a small film festival. It just finished screening.

BLACK.

Four letters linger on the screen: FOR N.

There’s a pause before a few people clap. Not loud. I clap too, from the back row. A chipped-tooth smile sneaks onto my face. People start leaving immediately. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs. Someone else mutters “nice job” without making eye contact.

Then a voice cuts through the shuffle. “Wow,” the moderator says. “Young love.” Her voice is warm. Wry. “I think we can all relate to that kind of high school infatuation, can’t we?” A few chuckles ripple through the half-empty room. Survivors. She continues, unfazed. “That wraps tonight’s lineup. Stick around for a quick Q&A. Filmmakers, come on up.”

Onstage, four of us line up. The lights are harsh. The moderator smiles at us. “Thank you for sharing your stories,” she says. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll be seeing more from you.” Applause. Slightly louder this time. “Any questions?” she asks the room. “Just shout.”

A voice calls out, “Are you single?” 

The moderator laughs. “I am, actually. Unless you’re asking about one of them?” We all blush. 

“I’d like Marty to answer,” the voice says. 

I lean toward the mic. “Does anyone have a question about my film?” 

Another voice, closer now. “Are you over her?” 

The room stills. I swallow. “I think we move on,” I say slowly, honestly, “but I don’t know if we ever really get over the people we miss.” A beat. “I’m just grateful I got to make an unrequited love story that maybe resonated with a few people.” 

The moderator nods. “It was haunting,” she says. “And romantic.” 

“I’ll take that,” I reply. Our eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary. Then it breaks. She can’t be flirting with me. 

The crowd thins and turns into a post-screening reception. Someone eats a samosa. And suddenly, a man in too many scarves materializes beside me holding a plastic trophy. “You won,” he says. “For what?”

“Best Yearning.”

Snack 2

Marty:

My apartment greets me the way it always does - surprised I came back. The door sticks. The light flickers when I flip the switch. I drop my keys beside a pile of unopened mail. I set the trophy down carefully. It’s light. Embarrassingly light.

I put it on the shelf next to an old framed photo from prom. Me in a rented tux that I definitely didn’t return on time. Her in a light blue shimmery dress she desperately wanted then, but probably regrets now. We’re smiling like nothing bad has ever happened to anyone, ever. I stare at the photo. “She ever think about me?” I ask the room.

Through the wall, a woman moans, “Yessssssssss…”. 

I tilt my head. “Misses me?” 

“Ohhh fucccck,” the woman answers, right on cue. 

I nod. “That tracks.”

I wander into the kitchenette, stomach growling. Open a cupboard. Kraft Dinner. Victory again. I dump the pasta into boiling water, feeling briefly capable of sustaining myself like an adult. Then — Tink. Tink. Tink. I lean in. Pill bugs float at the surface like garnish. I gag. Dump the whole thing into the sink. “Goddamn it.”

Outside, a car rocks rhythmically. The moaning escalates. Less romantic. More athletic. The car stops. A door slams. Heels click on pavement. Then — a knock. Not on the door. On my window. I don’t even flinch. I pull the curtain aside like I’m checking the weather. Trish leans against the sill, chain-smoking, lipstick smudged, eyes sharp. “He left quick,” I say.

“Came quick too,” she replies.

“You smell like Panda Express.” 

“That’s my after-sex stink,” she says. “Makes you want pork fried rice, doesn’t it?” 

It does. I hate that it does.  She nods toward the trophy. “So? Did it work?” 

“Did what?” 

“The film. The exorcism-through-art thing. Did it get her out of your system?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels disloyal to move on. Like… if I let go, it means it didn’t matter.”

Trish flicks her cigarette. “You’re not in high school anymore, hon. You’ve been broken up half a decade.” She looks me dead in the eye. “Limbo doesn’t pay rent.” She disappears into the night before I can respond.

I sit back down on the futon. Look at the photo. Look at the trophy.

Snack 3

Marty:

The office smells like burnt coffee that’s been reheated too many times. White walls. Ring lights. A fridge covered in motivational memes that all say the same thing in different fonts. I nod at people who don’t look up. My boss waves me into his office.

“Morning, Spielberg.” I sit. On his iPad, footage plays. A crowd walking in slow motion. Lens flares. Faces caught mid-thought. It’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel something by accident. He watches for exactly three seconds. “Nope.”

He taps the screen. New footage loads. Wide angle. Flat light. Perfect exposure. Nobody matters. “This,” he says, pleased. “This is what they want.”

I squint. “It’s… nothing.” 

“It’s A-plus B-roll.” He scrolls again. A real estate walkthrough glides through a house in one long take. Candlelight. Shadows. Corners that feel haunted. “Client says it looks like a ghost is floating room to room.” 

I shrug. “I shouldn’t have shot by candlelight.” 

“Just do things normal, Marty.”

Normal. He says it like it’s a setting I forgot to toggle. I nod. Again. I’m good at nodding.

Back in the parking lot, my phone buzzes.

I don’t look right away. I never look right away. I’ve learned that anticipation hurts less than disappointment if you manage it properly.

Then I look.

NIC

💬 Hey. Can we talk? Please. Tomorrow? Brunch? Our place?

My heart forgets its job. I read it again. And again. Like the words might rearrange themselves.

A honk blasts behind me. “MOVE YOUR ASS!”

The light’s been green a while. I pull over, hands shaking, engine ticking as it cools. I stare at the message. My thumb hovers. This is the moment I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. The moment where I’m calm. Detached. Moved on.

Instead, I type:

💬 YES!

Caps. Exclamation point. Zero dignity.

Snack 4

Marty:

By the time I pull into my parking spot, my brain has already rewritten history. Trish appears at my driver’s side window. I roll the window down.

“I said okay,” I announce. 

“You said okay?” she asks. 

“No. I said YES! In caps. With an exclamation point.” 

“To what?” 

“To whom.” 

Her eyes widen. “THE Nic?”

Cut to boiling water. A whistling kettle. Trish bustling in my kitchenette like she lives here now. I’m on the futon with a cold compress on my head because my body thinks I’m in danger. “She texts me right when I’m finally about to let go,” I say. “Like she sensed it.” 

“Every ex senses it,” Trish says. “It’s demonic.” 

“She wants brunch. Tomorrow. Our place.” 

Trish pauses. “Our place?” 

“She still calls it that,” I say. “Which feels… promising.” 

“Anytime an ex says ‘I need to talk,’ it’s either money or marriage.” 

“Nicole does not have money problems. Her family’s, like… tomato mafia rich. Like, she grew up with a garburator.”

Trish hands me tea in a mug that says SHUH DUH FUH CUP and sits across from me. “Why now?” she asks. 

I sit up. Ready. “Because she realized I’m her person.” 

She makes a noise. Somewhere between concern and a car not starting. 

“Or,” Trish says carefully, “she’s bored.

“She’s not bored.” “She’s beautiful and emotionally evasive.” I shake my head. “You didn’t see the text. It had… punctuation.” 

“That’s not a sign. That’s autocorrect.”

I stand and start pacing, which is dangerous in a 400-square-foot apartment. “Okay, but hear me out. She went full no-contact after our break-up. She’s not a ‘just checking in’ person.” 

“So what’s the plan?” she asks. 

“I go. Obviously.” 

“Obviously.” 

“I show up calm. Grounded. Hot but accidentally hot.” 

“You are none of those things.”

The thought hits me, sharp and sudden. What if she’s pregnant? What if she’s moving? My stomach flips. My brain starts building timelines. What I’ll wear. What I’ll say. “I can’t screw this up,” I say. I lay down, suddenly exhausted by hope.

Tomorrow.
Brunch.
Our place.

Snack 5

Marty:

I hadn’t thought about the darkroom in years. Okay, that’s a lie. I think about it almost every day.
Memory doesn’t ask permission. It just flicks on the red light and pulls you under.

The darkroom smelled like chemicals. The red glow washed over everything, making it feel secret. Important. Like we were inside a confession booth for art nerds. I lifted an 8x10 from one tray to the next, careful not to drip. The image sharpened slowly, a swimmer hanging off the edge of a pool, arms crossed, hair slicked back like she was posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated. Nicole.

Hands landed on my shoulders. I flinched. She leaned in close, her mouth near my ear.
“That is the best photo anyone has ever taken of me,” she whispered. My entire body went haywire. “You’re so fucking talented.” She leaned in closer to me. I turned too fast. Too eager. My neck craned backward. Hers, forward. Our mouths collided. Tooth to tooth. 

CRACK.

Pain exploded. She yelped. I yelped. We both froze. 

“Oh my god,” I said, hands flying to my mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

“I’m so sorry. The angle. The positioning. I ruined it. I ruined our first kiss.” 

She squinted at me. “Smile.” I hesitated. Then did.

There was a missing chunk of tooth. Front and center. A jagged little cliff where something used to be. “Oh,” I said softly. “Oh my god.” I tried to hide my face. 

“At least we already shot yearbook photos,” she said, way too calm. 

I laughed, mortified. “Can you imagine?” 

She reached out, took my chin, tilted my face back up. “I think it’s hot,” she said. 

“…Yeah?” 

“It gives you edge.” She flashed a perfect smile. Veneers. “My dentist can fix it,” she added. “Porcelain. Easy.” 

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “This way I’ll remember our first kiss forever.” 

She grinned. “But we haven’t actually kissed.” 

“I’ll come to you,” I said. “Stay still.” 

This time, we did it right.

Later, when the dentist asked why I hadn’t fixed it, I never knew how to explain that I liked the reminder. That love left marks. That sometimes, the damage was the proof. That even now, years later, every time I smiled, part of her came with it.

Snack 6

Marty:

I wake up drenched in sweat. I roll out of bed too fast. Nearly face-plant.

In the bathroom mirror, I look… rough. Overgrown hair. Puffy eyes. Someone who should not be reunited with anyone without a disclaimer. I grab scissors. This is never a good sign.

Hair falls into the sink in uneven clumps. I keep going anyway. Shorter. Tighter. I tell myself this is refinement and not a spiral. I splash water on my face. Brush my teeth carefully around the chipped one. Smile. Still there.

On the sidewalk, couples pass me holding hands. I nod at them like I’m part of the club again. Like I know the rules. Like I didn’t spend last night talking to a middle-aged sex worker through a wall about my ex.

At the bistro, a hostess blocks me with a single, immovable arm. “Reservation?” 

“Knowing her,” I say, craning my neck, “yes.” I spot Nicole across the room. She sees me. Her face lights up. She waves. I wave back. 

The hostess signals. “Go right ahead, sir.”

Inside, everything slows. The tables. The clinking cutlery. The air itself. 

Nicole stands. “Hi.” 

“Hiiii,” I say, too many i’s. 

“You cut your hair.” 

“You can tell I did it myself?” 

“No, it’s just different than when I saw you last. Shorter. Better.” 

“Yeah?” I say. 

“You look exactly the same.” 

She opens her arms. We hug. She presses her face into my shoulder. Breathes in. “You still wear Cool Water?” 

I smile. “I commit to the things I love for life.” 

She pulls back, nervous now. Different. “Might want to sit down,” she says.

My heart accelerates like it’s about to be chosen for something. She takes a breath.

Snack 7

Marty:

We sit. The table is intimate. White linen. Burgundy napkins. The kind of place that assumes people are here to celebrate milestones. Nicole fidgets with her water glass.  She takes a breath.

“Ever since you and I broke up,” she says, “I didn’t really know how to be me without you.”

My chest tightens.

“Once we became a couple, it was always Nicole and Marty. Not Nicole… and Marty. Like we merged into one person. That wasn’t healthy,” she says quickly. “For either of us.”

I shake my head in false agreement, even as my heart starts packing its bags.

“It took a long time to feel like my own person again,” she continues. “I promised myself I’d never lose myself in someone like that again.”

I swallow.

“But life is hard without someone to love,” she says softly. “And be loved by.”

I feel dizzy.

She looks at me now. Really looks. “So I have something to ask you.”

Every cell in my body screams YES.

“Will you—”

“Yes,” I say immediately.

She blinks. “—be my wedding videographer?”

The words hang there. Awkward. Wrong-shaped. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What?” 

“I’m getting married,” she says. “This weekend. At the cottage.” The room tilts.

“You’re getting married?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like… this weekend, this weekend?” 

“Our original videographer cancelled,” she rushes. “Food poisoning.” 

I take a sip of water like its medicine. Nicole smiles politely. I notice the ring for the first time. It’s big. 

Our server appears out of nowhere. He squints at us. “I know these guys.” 

Nicole lights up. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re still here.” 

He smiles, proud. “I never leave something that’s good to me.” That sentence lands harder than it should. The waiter snaps his fingers, doing math in his head. “What’s it been? Like—” 

“Five years,” Nicole says. 

“Wow.” He nods, impressed.  “So,” he says, already scribbling. “The usual?” He turns to me without missing a beat. “A club sandwich. No middle piece of toast. Extra crispy bacon. Swap avocado for tomato.” 

I blink. “That’s… impressive. I can’t even remember my phone PIN.” 

He turns to Nicole. “And the Meat Lover’s Frittata. Extra hot sauce.”  

“Actually, I’m vegan now.” 

He freezes. Just for a second. Like a software update failed. “Oh.” 

She smiles apologetically. “So I’ll do the Stuffed Portobello Mushroom Cap Salad.” 

“I’ll put that in right away.” Then, genuinely: “Good to see you two together again.” Again.

Nicole exhales. “I know it’s last minute. You were the only person I trusted on such short notice.” She reaches across the table. “And you know… I’ve always loved the way you see me.”

I want to tell her I’m busy. That I’m supposed to shoot something silly for my mom. That I have plans. A life. Boundaries. I should just go. But I don’t. Because she’s still looking at me like I’m home. And I’ve already ordered the sandwich.

Snack 8

Marty:

By the time I get home, the story has already written itself. All I did was say yes. Caps. Exclamation point. Trish is at my window before I even kill the engine. 

“She’s getting married,” I say. 

“And?” she asks. 

“And she asked me to shoot it.” 

“With what?” 

“With a camera.” 

Trish blinks. Once. Slowly. “Oh my god.” 

“I said yes.” 

“You said yes?” 

“I said YES!” 

She leans back, lights a cigarette, exhales. “Okay,” she says. “Walk me through this like I’m the parole board.”

“She didn’t know who she was without me,” I say. “She actually said that.” 

“Was she smiling?” 

“She was… emotional.” 

“Dangerous word.” Trish squints at me. “She’s rich, right? Like indoor-pool rich. How much is she paying you?” 

I hesitate. “I told her not to pay me.” Her head snaps back toward the window. “You what?” 

“I said it was my wedding gift.” 

Silence. Then: “Marty… she’s marrying someone else.” 

“I know,” I say.

“I’ll be there all weekend,” I continue, steamrolling. “Rehearsal dinner. Morning hair and makeup. The lake. The dock.” 

Trish squints harder. “You’re storyboarding.” 

“Of course I am,” I say. “It’s visual.” I grab a pen and start mapping it out on scrap paper like it’s a third-act problem. “Saturday,” I say. “I reconnect with the family. Sunday, I remind her who I am.” 

“And the groom?” 

“Whomp, whomp.” 

Trish takes a drag. “You think you’re gonna Graduate this wedding?” 

I nod. “It’s one of her favorite movies.” 

“Two idiots on a bus. No plan. No toothbrush.” 

“She nostalgia-sniffs me,” I say.

Trish stares at me for a long time. “Marty,” she says gently, “if this was your last shot at love…”

“She wouldn’t be marrying someone else,” I finish, already knowing. The silence hurts. 

“You still going?” she asks. I nod. She sighs. “Then here’s the rulebook. Wear black. Don’t drink. Don’t cry. And for the love of god, do not confess during speeches.” She pauses. “Worst case scenario?” 

“What?” 

“You get to bang the bride.” 

I choke on air.

Later, alone, I lay everything out on the table. The itinerary. Batteries. Lenses. Mints. 

The Jeep coughs awake the next morning. The road opens up. And somewhere between the city and the trees, I stop asking if this is a good idea.