INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

The camera pans across her cluttered vanity: a half-finished glass of water, dirty makeup brushes, unopened skincare still in its packaging.

The shot shifts. She reaches for her earphones, pressing them snug against her ears. Settling on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, she taps shuffle on Spotify.

Alex Turner’s lazy “One, two…” drifts in, the drums following.

CLOSE-UP: She rolls her eyes instantly, scoffing with laughter.

CUT TO WIDE SHOT:
“Call off the search for your soul or put it on hold again”

Her eyes widen. A sly smile spreads across her face. She jumps up, swaying to the soft beat, hair loose, spinning across the carpet. Socks slipping; arms flailing about with zero coordination. The bedroom is her stage, the mirror her audience. She’s not graceful. Far from it. But she’s free.

CHORUS HITS:
“Come on, come on, come on. Number one party anthem”

She belts it out, stupidly off-key, holding her hairbrush like a mic, eyes shut tight, letting the music take over. The camera whirls around her, edges of the room blurring, a spotlight centring her in her own chaotic performance.

BRIDGE:
“The look of love, the rush of blood.”

She dives dramatically onto her bed, hair a knotted mess, screaming into the sheets. The camera hovers above, zooming in on her flushed face as she wrings the bridge for all it’s worth, straining for the notes she knows she can’t hit.

The song winds down. The lamp flickers softly. Silence returns, except for her breathless laughter echoing into the walls.

Because of course that was the first song to play. The one that always finds her, wherever she is.

FADE OUT.