A hush settles over the crowd as Annie steps up to the front. “Hi, everyone,” she says with a smile and a self-conscious wave. She may be Big City Annie now, but she still looks like the Annie I know and love up there, just with a more expensive haircut and a nicer dress.

“I’m so glad you were all able to make it for the Columbus premiere of Coffee Girl,” she says, and the crowd erupts. Like all Ohioans, we’re trained to clap and cheer whenever anything from Ohio is mentioned (LeBron James, spaghetti with chili on it, Jeni’s ice cream, and now, Annie Cassidy).

“This movie is an homage to the love stories I grew up with, and I hope it makes you feel as good as romantic comedies always made me feel when I was going through hard times. I know sometimes it can seem like quiet love stories don’t matter, but I think they do. I think they’re kind of all that matters.”

I look toward Drew in the front row just in time to see him give her a thumbs-up. She smiles, just for him, then looks back at the crowd. “I hope you guys enjoy the film.”

Everyone claps and the lights dim. I’m anxious and jittery and I wish I had some of that popcorn; at least it would give me something to do with my hands.

“You can relax,” Nick says, leaning over, his breath warm in my ear.

“I have never once in my life relaxed,” I say, staring at the screen as the credits start.

The movie starts in the comforting way of a classic rom-com, with an upbeat pop song and a slow pan over a city skyline. Watching a prettier, more stylish, better-coiffed version of me onscreen is strange (and also, it feels a little Liberace-esque to be attracted to myself), but the feeling passes quickly. The onscreen Nick, however, doesn’t hold a candle to the real one sitting beside me.

I’m relaxed enough to forget, for a moment, that this is a movie about us. Soon, I’m just watching a movie with Annie, even if this time it’s in a theater full of people instead of sitting on the soft couch in the living room.

But about an hour into the movie, there’s a scene where Zoe’s dad tells her he’s in remission. His cancer, the treatment of which has been making him sick and weak as she cared for him the whole movie, is gone. He’s better.

Zoe smiles at him hopefully, and he smiles back, the two of them living in this wonderful, happy world that my dad and I will never inhabit. It’s a world where people get better, one where their sickness doesn’t get worse and worse and worse. One where their burden eases, instead of getting so, so heavy that it breaks their backs.

My eyes fill with tears, but this is no place for a Five-Minute Cry.

I stand up, pushing my way past a few people as I mumble my apologies. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I know that I have to get out of this theater now or else I’m going to explode. I clomp down the carpeted aisle, then stomp through the lobby, my heels click-clacking across the tile. I push the doors open and the chilly air hits my face in a refreshing burst, which precisely coincides with the moment tears start to leak out of my eyes.