**Diary Entry**
I can hardly believe it myself. For over an hour, Mum had been driving me around the quiet streets of Cambridge in the fading light. We stopped at a few shops—not to buy anything, just to pretend, even for a moment, that we were like any other family. In the end, we only picked up an ice cream and some lemonade before settling on a bench near our building, under the blooming hawthorn tree. I loved these evening strolls, never in a hurry to go back inside. Out here beneath the open sky, I always felt a little closer to freedom.
Then, out of nowhere, a car pulled up with *FILM* written across the side. A tall man stepped out, scanned the courtyard, and walked straight toward us with a smile. He stopped right in front of me.
“Are you Emily?”
“Y-yes?” I stammered.
“I came for you.”
“For me?” My heart raced as I repeated his words.
“Would you like to be in a film?”
I glanced at Mum, then back at the stranger, my voice tight with suspicion. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m not joking. My name’s Robert—I’m a director. We’re searching for our lead, and you’re perfect.”
Mum hesitated, but when she saw the fire in my eyes, the way hope lit up my face, she simply nodded. “If this is real, then let’s give it a try.”
And just like that, we found ourselves on a film set. They wheeled me into the middle of a bright, empty studio, cameras pointing everywhere. Then, out of nowhere, a boy appeared—tall, charming, with a smile straight out of the movies.
“Hi. I’m James. I’ll be playing opposite you. And you… you’re Alice.”
I couldn’t speak. None of this felt real. I wasn’t an actress—just a girl in a wheelchair who’d somehow been cast in a story.
Filming began. They taught me, guided me, scene by scene—first with the parents, then with James. But the strangest part? I wasn’t acting. I was living. Crying when my character was abandoned, laughing when he joked. And when James lifted me into his arms, gazing into my eyes, my heart hammered wildly. This wasn’t just a film. This was my life, framed by a camera.
Robert adored me. “You’re not acting,” he’d say. “You *are* Alice. You breathe it.”
I bloomed like the hawthorn outside our flat. Every day had meaning now. My first kiss was scripted, but to me, it was real. Even when they used stunt doubles for difficult scenes—water shots, lifts—I didn’t mind. Because my soul was still on that screen.
Weeks passed. Filming wrapped. Everyone scattered. I was back under the same tree, but now I had a name in the credits. Experience. A heart still thrumming with emotions.
Mum squeezed my shoulder. “You’ve earned nearly fifty thousand pounds in just two months. We can buy whatever you want.”
“I’m not a princess, Mum,” I said softly, looking down at my legs.
“But you *were* one. And you will be again.”
Then—another car. A taxi. James stepped out, holding a bouquet. No cameras. No script.
“For me?” I whispered.
“For you, Emily. I want to be with you. For real. No film.”
Meanwhile, in a doctor’s office somewhere, Robert poured two glasses of whisky and said, “Thank you for Emily. She didn’t just change the film—she changed *me*.”
The doctor smiled. “Happy to help. What’s this about?”
“In the sequel, Alice needs to leave the wheelchair behind.”
“How long do I have?”
“Two years.”
“We’ll manage.”
And just like that, fate was already drafting a new script—not on paper, but in *my* life. No longer just a girl in a wheelchair, but the heroine of my own story.
