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Like it would be the same two actors as the main characters but in one movie they would meet at a coffee shop, another they would be childhood friends, another they would be rivals, etc etc.

And there would always be these parallels that connected each movie to one another, like for example they would laugh at the same joke in every movie/reality, or they would look at eachother the same exact way Ykwim?

IK IT SOUNDS BAD BUT IM NOT GOOD AT EXPLAINING THINGS💔

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓾𝓼.

…In which you move to America from Italy as a foreign exchange student for one year. And thought you don’t know the words to say it yet you know you feel something for your host family’s son, Matt.

Warnings: Anxiety (I think) that’s all

Chapter two!

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-🫀-

You wake up too early.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Then you see the soft blue walls, the strange ceiling fan, and the folded note Marylou left on your nightstand that says: YOU GOT THIS! And it all returns.

New country. New school. New life.

You dress slowly. Twice. Then a third time. You settle on jeans and a sweater that your sister swore made you look “international and cool.” In the mirror, you try smiling. Then you practice your lines one more time.

“Hi. I’m from Italy. It’s nice to meet you.”

The words feel like pebbles in your mouth—hard-edged, not yet smooth.

Downstairs, Marylou is making waffles. She hums along to the radio while packing Matt’s lunch. You say good morning as confidently as you can. She hugs you on the way out the door, telling you she’s proud of you already.

Matt barely says anything. Just “ready?” and a nod. The car ride is silent on his part. Marylou does enough talking for all three of you—giving you a quick crash course on school spirit, pep rallies, and how Friday is “pizza stick day.”

You try to listen. But your heart is too loud in your ears.

The school is big and buzzing with voices. Lockers slam, phones ding, sneakers squeak across tile floors. You clutch your schedule and try not to get swallowed up in the noise.

First class: English Literature. Of course.

You sit in the back of the classroom, trying to take in the teacher’s words as she speaks about American novels, required reading, and “personal response journals.” You catch every other sentence, nodding even when you’re not sure what you’re agreeing with.

You survive two more classes. No one speaks to you besides the teachers. Everyone’s in a hurry. Everyone has their people.

By the time lunch rolls around, you feel like your brain is melting.

You walk into the cafeteria and freeze. It’s loud. Blindingly bright. Tables are already full—people grouped off into invisible territories you don’t understand. You scan for Matt. You don’t see him. Maybe he’s not here.

Your legs carry you to an empty table near the back. You unwrap your sandwich slowly, pretending to scroll on your phone. You don’t want to cry. You’re not going to cry.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look up, startled.

A girl with long ginger hair and an oversized hoodie is standing in front of you. Her smile is easy, like she didn’t even hesitate to come over. You shake your head. “No. Is free. I mean—go ahead.”

She drops her tray across from you and plops down. “You’re new. Obvious, huh?”

You nod, a little shy. “Very.”

“I’m Riley,” she says, taking a sip of juice. “I saw you in English. You looked like you were trying to teleport out of there with your eyes.”

You laugh before you can help it. “Maybe.”

She grins. “Where are you from?”

“Italy,” you say. “Florence.”

“Ooh. Fancy. I’m from Ohio, which is like the opposite of Florence in every way.”

You smile. “What is… Florence of America?”

She pauses dramatically. “Target. Maybe Trader Joe’s.”

You giggle. It feels like the first real smile you’ve had all day.

“So,” she leans in. “How lost are you on a scale of 1 to ‘I want to go home’?”

You think for a second. “Maybe… eight and a half.”

“Cool. I was a nine when I moved here in freshman year. I’ll help you cheat on the system.”

“Cheat?”

“I mean… survive.” She offers a fry from her tray. “Deal?”

You nod, taking one. “Deal.”

Just as you’re laughing at one of her rants about school bathrooms never having paper towels, you notice someone across the cafeteria.

Matt.

He’s sitting with two other guys at a table by the window. He’s not laughing or joking—just listening, arms folded, hood half-up, quietly existing like he’s watching a different world from the inside. For a second, his eyes flick toward you. You meet them.

And then he looks away.

“Who’s that?” you ask, without thinking.

Riley glances behind her. “Oh. That’s Matt Sturniolo. Kind of mysterious, but not in a bad way. We had chem last year. He keeps to himself, but he’s not a jerk or anything.”

You nod. You don’t know why you asked. Or why it matters.

But something about the way he looked at you just now—like he saw you and didn’t see through you—stays with you the rest of the day.

⸻

That night, you write in your journal.

“Ho fatto un’amica oggi. Si chiama Riley. È divertente. Non mi sentivo stupida con lei. Ho anche visto Matt. Per un momento, sembrava che mi vedesse davvero.”

I made a friend today. Her name is Riley. She’s funny. I didn’t feel stupid with her. I also saw Matt. For a moment, it felt like he really saw me.

Outside your window, the stars are blurry behind the glass.

But you’re starting to see something more clearly.

You’re not invisible.

Not anymore.

____________________________________________

A/N

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓾𝓼.

…In which you move to America from Italy as a foreign exchange student for one year. And though you don’t have the words to say it yet, you know you feel something for your host family’s son, Matt.

Warnings: None!

The first chapter of my series, hope you enjoy!!

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-🫀-

You press your forehead to the airplane window, the cool glass grounding you as the clouds drift apart below. You’ve been in the sky for almost ten hours, and still, it hasn’t sunk in. You’ve left Italy. Florence. Home.

The city coming into view doesn’t look like anything you’ve ever seen before. No red-tiled roofs or narrow alleyways. No old stone churches or Vespa-lined sidewalks. Just rows of square houses and fat roads and cars the size of boats. You feel small—smaller than ever.

Your seatbelt tightens as the plane descends. When the wheels hit the ground, a jolt runs through your body, but it’s not the plane—it’s the fear. The knowing. This is real now.

You’re really here. Alone.

In the airport, the signs are all in English, and you move slowly, reading each one twice. Baggage claim. Exit. Welcome. Everything feels loud and fast and shiny. You almost miss the cardboard sign with your name on it, held by a woman with a wide smile and short blonde hair.

“There she is!” she says, her voice warm and chirpy like a morning radio host. “You must be y/n I’m Marylou—your host mom!”

You nod quickly. “Hello. Yes. I’m… me.” You cringe a little. It sounded smoother in your head.

She laughs like she doesn’t notice. “This is my husband, Jimmy,” she says, as the man beside her gives you a gentle wave. “And that over there”—she turns—“is our son, Matt.”

Matt is leaning against a pillar, headphones half hanging out of his hoodie pocket. His dark brown hair flops just a little over his forehead. He looks up when Diane says his name, then meets your eyes. Just for a second. “Hey,” he says.

His voice is deeper than you expected.

You manage a shy, “Hi,” back. Then he looks away.

The car ride is long. Diane talks almost the entire time, telling you about the school, about the town, about how excited they are to have you here. You try to respond when you understand, but most of the time you just nod, smiling politely. You catch maybe every third word. Matt doesn’t say much at all from the back seat, but you can feel him looking at you once or twice in the rearview mirror.

Their house is bigger than you imagined. Two stories, with white shutters and a porch swing. Inside, it smells like clean laundry and cinnamon. A dog barks from somewhere upstairs.

They show you your room. It’s painted a soft blue with a twin bed, a desk by the window, and a little bookshelf with some paperbacks already stacked. There’s a note on the desk in neat handwriting: Welcome to your home for the year!

You say thank you more times than you can count. They’re kind. Warmer than you expected. Still, you feel like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

Dinner is burgers and fries. You’ve seen them in movies, but this is your first time eating one. It’s a little messy, but the taste surprises you. Greasy, salty, good.

Matt sits across from you, mostly quiet, answering his mom with short responses and chewing slowly. You can’t tell if he’s shy or if he just doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t look at you much, but when he does, it’s quick, almost like he’s trying not to.

After dinner, you retreat to your room. The sun is setting out your window, painting the sky pink and orange. It’s beautiful in a different way—big and wide and open.

You sit down at your desk and open your journal. Your pen moves instinctively in Italian.

“Oggi ho lasciato casa. Tutto è nuovo. Tutto è grande. Non capisco molto. Ma mi sento… viva. Spaventata, ma viva.”

Today I left home. Everything is new. Everything is big. I don’t understand much. But I feel… alive. Scared, but alive.

You pause before adding one last line.

“Il ragazzo, Matt. Sembra tranquillo. Ma mi ha guardata come se… mi vedesse davvero.”

The boy, Matt. He seems quiet. But he looked at me like… he really saw me.

You close the journal softly.

Later that night, while brushing your teeth in the upstairs bathroom, you hear music. Soft and low, not from a phone or speaker—but real. Guitar. Just a few chords, strummed slow and a little clumsy, like someone figuring out the rhythm.

You tiptoe back to your room, press your ear to the wall. It’s coming from the room next door. Matt’s.

You sit on your bed, listening.

You don’t know the song. You don’t understand the words he starts humming under his breath.

Not yet.

But one day, you will.

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A/N

Sorry this chapter is so short but I thought of this idea because of a TikTok and I NEEDED to write it so here we are, idk how many chapter this is going to be but I’m excited for this to be my first book

Fratbro!Matt & Newgirl!reader one shot

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-🫀-

You never planned to transfer in the middle of the year, but here you are—freezing your ass off outside your Boston College dorm, dragging two duffels that weigh more than your GPA.

Sarah looks around, tugging her coat tighter. “Okay… this is actually really cute.”

“and freezing,” Alora adds, breath fogging as she pulls her beanie down.

You glance up at the stone buildings, the kind you’ve only ever seen on brochures. There’s something about the gray sky and towering spires that feels unreal. It’s a clean slate. You have no idea what you’re doing, but at least you’re not doing it alone.

Your dorm room is tiny, the radiator’s making weird noises, and the mattress is basically a sheet of cardboard—but it’s yours. And for now, that’s enough.

-🫀-

The next day moves fast—too fast. Orientation, campus tours, names you immediately forget. You try to look like you belong. Head up, nod like you know where you’re going, fake it.

That night, Sarah knocks on your door wearing a black crop top and lip gloss she definitely didn’t have on earlier. “Frat party. Off-campus. You’re coming.”

Alora appears behind her with a red Solo cup already in hand. “You in, or are you gonna stay here and bond with the radiator?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is dying of hypothermia in heels part of the transfer orientation?”

“Absolutely,” Sarah says. “it’s tradition.”

You sigh and reach for your coat. “Fine, but if any of you guys end up getting railed by a frat guy and leaving me by myself, I’m transferring again.”

-🫀-

The party’s already full when you get there—music shaking the floorboards, people packed in tight, laughing too loud, talking over the bass. It smells like beer and cologne and something vaguely burnt.

You stick close to your friends, slipping through the kitchen and into the living room, trying not to look like it’s your first time at one of these. Red cups everywhere. Lights strung across the ceiling. A few too many guys in backwards hats.

You’re mid-scan of the room when someone walks in and shifts the energy without trying.

You notice him before you realize why.

Tall, broad, confident without being obnoxious. He’s wearing a BC hoodie, hood down, curls a little messy, drink in one hand. Everyone seems to know him—dabbing him up, calling out his name.

Matt Sturniolo.

You’ve heard the name once or twice already. It stuck.

He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be the center of attention. He just is.

Then, his eyes meet yours.

You look away.

Then back.

He’s already walking toward you.

“Hey,” he says casually, stopping in front of you like he knows he’ll be heard. “You new?”

You nod. “Yeah. Day two.”

“Thought so,” he says. “You don’t look bored yet.”

You smile. “I’ll give it a week.”

He laughs. It’s low, easy. “Fair. I’m Matt.”

You tell him your name.

He nods once, repeating it under his breath like he’s testing it. “Cool.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward, just quiet enough to feel real over the music.

“You here with anyone?” he asks, glancing past you.

“My friends,” you say, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. “They dragged me here.”

“They do that,” he says with a half-smile. “Not a bad party to land on, though.”

He’s not pushing. Not overly interested. Just—curious. Comfortable.

Someone calls his name from across the room. He glances over, then back at you.

“I’ll catch you around?” he says, more statement than question.

You nod. “Yeah. Probably.”

He smirks like he already new the answer.

Then he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, still holding your cup and wondering what just happened.

Sarah appears a second later. “Was that who I think it was?”

You just blink at her.

“Matt fucking Sturniolo?” she says. “Welcome to BC.”

You smile. Because suddenly, this whole transfer thing feels a little less impossible.

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A/N