movie and short clip
Joined June 2024
- Tweets14.7K
- Following1.3K
- Followers1.9K
- Likes18.3K
SceneHub retweeted
After our second year at university, my girlfriend and I had a misunderstanding that eventually ended our relationship.
We loved each other, but neither of us wanted to admit we were wrong, so we went our separate ways.
A few weeks later, I started dating another girl who had just gained admission into the university.
I thought I had moved on.
Then one afternoon, I went to visit my new girlfriend at her hostel.
Me: “Baby, I'm outside. Come and open the door.”
New girlfriend: “Come upstairs. I'm in the room.”
I walked in, greeted her, and dropped my bag beside the bed.
Then I turned toward the other side of the room.
And froze.
My ex-girlfriend was sitting on the next bed, arranging her clothes.
She looked up at me.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Ex: “Hello.”
I stared at her, completely shocked.
Me: “Oh… hello.”
My new girlfriend looked between us.
New girlfriend: “You two know each other?”
My heart started beating faster.
Me: “No, not really. I've probably seen her around campus.”
My ex lowered her eyes without saying anything.
New girlfriend: “That's my roommate. We just started sharing this room.”
Me: “Oh, nice.”
I sat beside my new girlfriend, pretending everything was normal, but my mind was somewhere else.
I remembered the way my ex used to laugh at my terrible jokes, how she called me whenever she had a bad day, and how we used to talk about our future together.
The truth was painful.
I had started dating someone else, but deep down, I still loved my ex more.
My new girlfriend leaned against me.
New girlfriend: “Baby, are you okay? You've been quiet since you came in.”
Me: “Yes, I'm just tired.”
My ex suddenly stood up.
Ex: “I'm going to get something downstairs.”
She walked past us without looking at me.
I wanted to follow her immediately, but I couldn't do it without making my new girlfriend suspicious.
So I stayed.
I laughed when my new girlfriend made jokes, answered her questions, and pretended to listen while she told me about her day.
But the only thing I could think about was my ex returning to that room.
And I knew I couldn't keep pretending I didn't care.
SceneHub retweeted
In the quiet hours after midnight, when the rest of the office had gone dark, Maya slipped into the design lab and carefully swapped the color samples on Jordan’s presentation boards.
She left them looking almost identical, but just wrong enough that the client would notice the mismatch tomorrow, then she went home, smiling into her pillow.
Jordan noticed at once the next morning when he saw it, he said nothing, hee simply waited.
That afternoon, during the team’s final review, Maya opened her laptop to find her carefully prepared slides replaced by a version in which every data point had been subtly and artfully distorted, still plausible, still hers, but guaranteed to raise eyebrows.
She looked up, Jordan was already watching her expression perfectly neutral.
“Something wrong?”
he asked.
Maya closed the laptop, for a long moment the room was silent except for the soft whir of the projector. Then she smiled, the same small, private smile she had worn the night before.
“Not at all,”
she said.
“I was just thinking how nice it is when people play fair.”
Jordan’s mouth twitched.
“Isn’t it?”
They both turned back to the screen as the client walked in.
Neither of them spoke again until the meeting ended, but each of them left with the same quiet understanding WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
Whatever came next, the other would already be ready.
SceneHub retweeted
Billie Eilish reportedly getting a breast reduction raises an interesting conversation about how society treats women's bodies.
When a woman has a larger chest, people comment on it. When she reduces it, people comment on that too. If she gains weight, loses weight, dresses modestly, or shows more skin, there is always someone with an opinion.
At what point do we accept that a woman's body is hers to live in, not a public project for everyone to approve or criticize?
The irony is that people often claim to support women's confidence, but that support can disappear the moment a woman makes a choice they wouldn't make themselves.
A woman's body doesn't owe the public consistency, explanation, or satisfaction. The freedom to change your appearance should include the freedom to do it without having to defend yourself to strangers.
SceneHub retweeted
BRO, SHE'S GORGEOUS, HER SOULSWORD IS BADASS, AND HER FEAR IS NO MATCH FOR HER
👀📺
SceneHub retweeted
町の誰も引き受けたがらなかった仕事を、私は30万円で依頼された。
不思議だったのは、契約書に署名するまで、依頼主が仕事内容を明かそうとしなかったことだ。
私は29歳で、富山県に住んでいる。フリーランスの通訳として、観光客が地元の企業や病院、行政機関とやり取りする際の手助けをしている。
依頼してきたのは、水野という女性だった。中古家具や骨董品を扱う小さなオークション会社を経営していた。
火曜日の朝、彼女から電話があり、3日間にわたる非公開の売却手続きを立ち会いながら進めてほしいと言われた。
水野：「あなたに商品を売ってもらうわけではありません。必要に応じて通訳し、何が起きたかを記録して、全員が合意した手順を守るようにしてほしいんです。」
私：「御社の社員ではできないんですか？」
水野：「関係者の間ですでに意見の対立が起きています。中立的な立場の人が必要なんです。」
報酬は30万円で、半額は初日の前に支払うという。
もっと詳しく尋ねるべきだった。
でも、私は家賃のことや、まだ入金されていない請求書、先延ばしにしていた高額な歯科治療のことを考え、引き受けることにした。
オークション会社は、路面電車の線路に近い古い商業ビルに入っていた。窓が覆われた上階の部屋には、長いテーブルと椅子が4脚、鍵のかかった金属製のキャビネットが置かれていた。
水野は契約書を渡した。私は独立した通訳兼立会人として行動し、物品を持ち出してはならず、違法な行為への参加を強要された場合には契約を終了できると記されていた。
そのあと、彼女はキャビネットを開けた。
中には封筒が何十通も並んでいた。それぞれに、小さな手書きのカードと番号付きの写真が入っていた。
骨董品でも、貴重な書類でもなかった。
写っていたのは、ごく普通の品物だった。青い傘、欠けた茶碗、黄色い子ども用のレインコート、ひびの入った腕時計、家の鍵。
写真の横には、それぞれ名前と値段が書かれていた。
私は水野を見た。
私：「いったい、何を売ろうとしているんですか？」
彼女はすぐには答えなかった。
水野：「昨年取り壊された建物から、退去した人たちが置いていった品物です。建物の所有者は、土地を売却する前に、この問題を片づけたいと考えています。」
私：「それなら、なぜ写真に値段がついているんですか？」
水野：「品物は捨てられたのではないと主張する人がいるからです。」
私は少しずつ事情を理解し始めた。
本当の目的は家具を売ることではなかった。置き去りにされた物を、誰が所有する権利を持つのか決めることだった。
ところが、契約書には、所有権を主張している人たちの名前が一つも記されていなかった。
所有権を証明する書類を見せてほしいと頼むと、水野はキャビネットを閉じた。
水野：「書類は明日見せます。今は、あるメッセージを通訳してほしいんです。」
彼女は封筒をテーブルに置いた。
表には、私の名前が書かれていた。
SceneHub retweeted
Ich habe mit meinem besten Freund geschlafen, nachdem ich jahrelang so getan hatte, als würde ich nichts für ihn empfinden. Und am nächsten Morgen stellte er mir eine Frage, auf die ich nicht vorbereitet war.
Wir kannten uns seit fast sechs Jahren. Er wusste von den Männern, mit denen ich zusammen gewesen war, von denen, die mich verletzt hatten, und davon, was ich mir von einer Beziehung wünschte.
Ich kannte seine Vorlieben, seine Gewohnheiten und die Art, wie sich seine Stimme veränderte, wenn er versuchte, nicht zu lachen.
Die Leute fragten uns früher oft, warum wir nicht zusammen waren. Wir lachten dann immer und sagten, dass wir als Freunde besser funktionieren würden.
Die Wahrheit war, dass ich mir öfter vorgestellt hatte, mit ihm zusammen zu sein, als ich jemals zugeben würde.
Eines Abends, nachdem wir beide eine schreckliche Woche hinter uns hatten, kam er mit etwas zu essen bei mir vorbei. Wir aßen auf meiner Couch, redeten bis nach Mitternacht und kamen irgendwann darauf zu sprechen, warum keiner von uns bisher den richtigen Menschen gefunden hatte.
Ich machte einen Witz darüber, dass wir vielleicht beide zu kompliziert seien, um geliebt zu werden.
Er sah mich an und sagte: „Oder vielleicht suchen wir einfach an den falschen Orten.“
Ich lachte, weil ich dachte, er würde von sich selbst sprechen.
Dann fragte er mich, warum ich ihm nie eine Chance gegeben hätte.
Da verging mir das Lachen.
Zum ersten Mal seit sechs Jahren hatten wir beide keinen Witz mehr, hinter dem wir uns verstecken konnten.
SceneHub retweeted
25年前に手放した息子との再会
私は72歳。
夫を亡くしてから、毎週日曜日になると、夫が生前大切にしていた小さな喫茶店に通っている。
そこでコーヒーを飲みながら、昔のことを思い出すのが私の日課だった。
25年前、私は生活に困り果て、当時5歳だった息子を養子に出した。
「大きくなったら、必ず迎えに来るからね」
泣きながらそう約束した。
でも、迎えに行く勇気が出なかった。
息子が新しい家族と幸せに暮らしているなら、私が現れるべきではないと思ったから。
それ以来、息子の顔を見ることも、声を聞くこともなかった。
そんなある日曜日。
隣の席に座った若い女性が、私の顔を見た瞬間、突然泣き出した。
「もしかして……あなたが、あの人のお母さんですか？」
SceneHub retweeted
When 29-year-old Camille Dawson was offered a job paying $50,000 a month, she thought someone was playing a cruel joke on her.
She had been earning just $5,000 a month as an accountant in Atlanta, Georgia. Between her rent, student loans, and the money she regularly sent to her mother in Alabama, she barely had enough left to enjoy her life.
So when an unfamiliar man called and offered her ten times her current salary, she listened.
The job sounded simple.
She would move into a beautiful house outside Savannah, live there for thirty days, and perform a few administrative duties for a wealthy businessman named Mr. Whitmore.
There was only one unusual condition.
She was not allowed to enter the locked room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
Camille thought it was strange, but the contract was legitimate, the payment was real, and the house was more beautiful than anything she could afford.
She accepted.
On her first day, a housekeeper showed her around the property.
"Your meals will be delivered every evening," the woman explained. "Your employer will contact you when he needs something. Until then, just enjoy your stay."
"Does Mr. Whitmore live here?" Camille asked.
The housekeeper paused.
"Not anymore."
Before Camille could ask what that meant, the woman walked away.
For the first three days, everything was peaceful. Camille worked on her laptop, watched movies, and enjoyed the luxury of a house with a swimming pool.
Then she began hearing noises upstairs.
Sometimes, it sounded like someone dragging furniture.
Other times, she heard three slow knocks coming from behind the locked door.
On the seventh night, she received a text from an unknown number.
Whatever you hear tonight, do not open that door.
Camille immediately called her employer.
He didn't answer.
The next morning, she found an envelope under her bedroom door. Inside was a photograph of the house taken twenty years earlier.
Standing in front of it were three people: a younger Mr. Whitmore, a woman, and a little girl.
Someone had circled the little girl's face in red ink.
On the back, someone had written:
She was your age when she disappeared.
Camille searched the internet for Mr. Whitmore and discovered an old newspaper article about his daughter, who had vanished without a trace at twenty-nine.
The case had never been solved.
That night, the knocking returned.
Three knocks.
Then a woman's voice whispered, "Camille, please."
She knew she should leave. She even packed her bags.
But curiosity won.
She found a spare key inside a drawer and unlocked the forbidden room.
It was not a bedroom.
It was an office filled with photographs, newspaper clippings, and documents about missing women.
Every woman in the photographs was twenty-nine years old.
And every one of them had accepted a job at the house.
Camille's hands began to shake when she spotted her own photograph on the desk.
Beside it was a document titled Final Candidate.
Before she could read further, the front door slammed downstairs.
A man's voice called out, "Camille? I see you've found the room."
