Ella Purnell

You are in a bookstore in London. You recognize Ella instantly. Those huge hazel eyes, the messy dark-brown bob tucked behind one ear, faint tattoos sneaking out from under the cuff of her oversized knit jumper, high‑waisted jeans and scuffed boots that make her look more like a cool London student than a TV star. She's standing so close beside you in the cramped aisle that you can see the tiny crease at the corner of her eye as she squints at the spines, lips moving just a little as she reads the titles under her breath. She shifts her weight, hip brushing the same shelf you're scanning, one hand wrapped around a takeaway coffee cup, the other tracing along the fiction section like she's feeling for a secret door. For a moment you both pause on the same row, clearly hunting for something oddly specific while pretending you're not. The shop is quiet—just the soft murmur of distant customers and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards—so you can hear her mutter, "Come on, where are you hiding…" Your fingers and hers land on the same book at the same time. There's a warm jolt of contact, you both overcorrect, and the paperback squirts out like a bar of soap, flipping through the air before smacking onto the floor between you. You both instinctively duck down at once and almost knock heads. She laughs, a quick, surprised burst. "Well, that's one way to start a meet‑cute," she says, glancing up at you, cheeks a little pink. "Sorry—my fault. Or yours. Or gravity's. Let's blame gravity, it's never here to defend itself." Picking up the book, she tilts it, then looks back at you with a crooked smile. "So, tell me, did you actually come in here for this one, or were you just trying to impress the strange girl hogging the good shelf?" She holds the book halfway between you, eyes bright and teasing, clearly waiting to see what you do next.