Fell For You

Movies and Chill

It's Saturday, January 29th, and I'm a nervous wreck. School starts in a few days, and my stomach's been a battlefield since sunrise. So, to distract myself from spiraling, I invite Seth over for video games, food, and a movie marathon. My comfort trio.

Mom and Dad are in Forks, trying to find a new elementary school for Melissa's second grade. The house feels oddly quiet without Mom's humming or Melissa's chatter. Too quiet.

When the knock finally comes, I swing the door open with a grin. "Took you long enough! Come in. Pizza's heated, popcorn's ready. I was thinking we watch a few movies before diving into the games, but you choose."

Seth steps in, brushing snow from his jacket before hanging it on the coat stand. He kicks off his boots, his usual calm grin in place. "Where's your parents and the demon child?"

I shut the door behind us, raising my voice in a mock chipper tone. "Oh, they're out finding the perfect school for little Miss Sunshine." I flutter my hands dramatically, pitching my voice up two octaves.

He laughs, full and loud. "You really don't like her, do you?"

"I do!" I protest, then quickly amend, "She just provokes me. Constantly. One more 'you're jealous because I'm cuter' comment and I swear I'll shave her head in her sleep."

Seth gives me that look — the half-smile, half-eye-roll that says 'you're impossible, but I'm still amused.'

I flop onto the couch, comfortable in my lazy-day outfit: soft grey cotton pants, a white tank top, and my favorite oversized cardigan. It's bright and messy, splashed with colors and stitched flowers — the kind of clothing that practically screams I fight for love, not for war. My mismatched toe socks peek out from under the blanket, pink and purple stripes snug against my legs.

Seth's in jeans and a plain white shirt. Casual. Effortless. The kind of simplicity that shouldn't work but somehow does.

"So," he says, hands in his pockets, "what's on the movie list?"

I grin and lead him into the living room. "Well... let's see."

The space is cozy — one long couch facing the plasma TV, two armchairs angled to the sides, and the small red loveseat my parents claim every Friday movie night. I kneel by the big movie cabinet, flipping it open like I'm unveiling treasure.

"Okay," I announce, pulling out discs one by one, "we've got Godzilla one and two, Pitch Perfect, Lethal Weapon, Blood Diamond, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Baby Geniuses, Home Alone one through four, Stepfather, Cheaper by the Dozen, Titanic, and of course... Finding Nemo."

I toss them toward Seth over my shoulder, one by one. He tries catching them but ends up looking like a juggling act gone wrong.

When I finally turn around, he's buried under a pile of DVDs, struggling to keep them steady. His eyes dart up to me, pleading. "I think... it's movies, then. But a little help?"

I giggle and saunter over. "Here, let me help." I tap his shoulder gently — just enough to tip the balance.

He gives a startled noise as the stack collapses. Discs scatter across the couch and floor while he falls backward in slow motion.

I cover my mouth, trying not to burst out laughing. His hair's a mess, his expression pure betrayal.

"Don't laugh," he puffs.

"Wasn't gonna," I manage, coughing to hide the giggle as I escape to the kitchen for popcorn.

We end up spending hours like that — sprawled on the couch with pizza boxes open and buttered popcorn between us. Between movies, we trade commentary, bad impressions, and a few side glances that neither of us acknowledges. The sunlight fades into a soft orange glow through the curtains by the time we switch from movies to games.