Joe leans in as the bikes slow, the city humming like a distant reel of film.
“Paradise takes time,” he tells her softly. “Even Andy Warhol knew that—his factory didn’t make stars overnight. But you… you remind me of Edie Sedgwick—that same wild light, that fragile brilliance… except you’re not lost in someone else’s scene.”
He smiles, shaking his head.
“You’re not a factory girl. You’re a DreamWorks girl. Like something Steven Spielberg would dream up—hopeful, cinematic… meant for a better ending than all that chaos.”
Joe’s tone shifts, more grounded now.
“And listen… I don’t like those pills the doctor’s pushing. Not for you. They flatten things, take the color out. You’re not meant to be dulled down.”
He reaches for her hand as the wind quiets.
“Just… come home. Come back to me. To Luis. We’re still here. No scripts, no spotlights—just real life, waiting for you.”