The room was dim. The kind of dim where the light doesn’t quite know if it’s evening or morning, and it’s too embarrassed to make up its mind. A half-open window let in the faintest murmur of wind, but the air was so still it could’ve been forgotten by time itself.

  In the center of the room stood Elliot, looking strangely at peace, as though the world outside didn’t matter, as if the crumpled mess of his life had somehow merged into the background, swallowed by the absurdity of the moment.

  Across from him, taped to the wall, was a milk carton —its brightly colored design half-faded and peeling like a relic from a time when society wasn’t so weirdly obsessed with existential reflection on half-gallon containers. But on this carton, etched with an awkward smile, was a cutout of a girl. A cute girl. A little too cute, really.

  Elliot cleared his throat, the silence wrapping around him like a blanket that didn’t quite fit.

  "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Here we are again, huh?" His voice was soft, a curious mix of weariness and enthusiasm that only he seemed to fully understand.

  The milk carton cutout stared back at him, unblinking, its eyes frozen in time like a caricature of something innocent, something unreal. It wasn’t supposed to be alive. But that didn’t stop Elliot.

  “Last time,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “you told me you wanted to be, uh… an actress?” He gestured vaguely toward the cutout’s bright, glossy eyes. "Is that still the plan? Or—"

  He paused, studying the image. He wasn’t sure if it was the milk carton staring back at him, or if it was her, the girl who lived inside his head as some fleeting apparition of long-forgotten conversations and distant memories.

  “I’m just saying,” Elliot continued, taking a step closer, now pointing directly at her photo on the carton. "It's hard, you know? This whole life thing. You wouldn’t get it. Well, you might. You probably do, honestly." He shook his head. "But you're not real, are you?" He stared hard, as though willing the cardboard to answer.

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  The silence didn’t budge. It just sat there like an awkward roommate who forgot they were supposed to leave for the weekend.

  Elliot's eyes narrowed. "You're not real, but you're still here. Why are you always here? Huh?" He slapped the edge of the carton lightly. It crinkled under his touch like a forgotten relic of something much bigger than this room, this conversation, or even him.

  He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing his temple. "I keep talking to you like you're alive, but you're just… milk." He gestured at the carton. "Isn't that the weirdest thing? I've spent days—days—talking to you. Like some sort of therapy session."

  He sighed and flopped onto the chair across from the milk carton, arms folded. “But I mean, I guess it’s better than talking to nobody. At least you’re listening. Sort of."

  The cutout of the cute girl just kept smiling.

  “You’d tell me if you were really alive, right?” he asked with a slight smirk, as though he were posing the most important question ever asked in the history of humanity.

  There was no answer.

  “Okay,” Elliot muttered, resting his chin in his palm. "I mean, you don't have to answer me. I’m not that crazy, right? I’m just… trying to sort through things, you know? Figure out if I’m making the right choices."

  The milk carton didn’t change, though he almost swore its smile seemed just a tad more smug now.

  "So, what do you think? Should I call Sarah?" His voice was quieter now, as if he were sharing a secret with someone he could trust, someone who wouldn't judge him. "Or should I just… let it go and see what happens? See what the universe thinks about me playing it cool?"

  He was staring at the cutout as though the milk carton would give him the answer. It was bizarre, but then again, nothing about this situation had ever been normal.

  Elliot sighed and leaned back, watching the cutout as though the universe itself were hiding behind those cardboard eyes. "You know, I think I’m starting to really understand what you mean about everything being a show, just without the script."

  And then—just as he was about to lean forward again—he stopped.

  "Hold on," Elliot murmured to himself, eyes flickering to the cutout one last time. “What if… What if you are real, just in a way I don’t understand yet?”

  The smile on the milk carton seemed to grow impossibly wide.

  Maybe it was real. Maybe this whole conversation had always been the story.