My pulse was racing as I walked into a packed Tuesday showing of Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery. The theater’s escalator and long concession lines were filled with people meeting up with friends and loved ones to watch Rian Johnson’s latest. And then there was me, handing over my ticket—just the one—to the AMC staffer.
Going to the movies alone isn’t some groundbreaking thing, I know. Plenty of people do it all the time. It’s just that I’d never been one of them. This was the end of an era for me, and that realization hit hard: Shame crept in—did it look like I couldn’t find at least one friend or even an acquaintance to tag along? Embarrassment followed as the seats on either side of me filled with chattering groups. I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on the screen, while my mind spiraled around how I ended up here.
Of course, I could have waited to watch Glass Onion from my couch as soon as it arrived on Netflix. But with so many spoilers already populating Twitter and the fact that I’d hosted a Knives Out watch party for my birthday the year before, the superfan in me couldn’t resist seeing it on the biggest screen possible. Even if the experience came with a side of heartbreak over dozens of “let’s go to the movies” texts gone unanswered.
See, for years, this was “our thing”—one of my best friend’s and mine. He was my movie-watching ride-or-die, the person who decided to rent out an entire theater so we could take in A Christmas Story on his birthday, just the two of us. The person who suggested we go see Doctor Strange on election night in 2016 to escape the news. Movies were the thing that brought us together and were what we talked about late into the night at our favorite bar. We’d go deep on what we loved about a film, what stayed with us, and how it made us feel about the world around us.
Until he slowly stopped replying to my movie requests, let alone my “how are you?”s. He’d resurface eventually only to go dark again—over and over. I kept trying, kept texting, for months. But after nearly a year, I started to accept that my phone wasn’t going to buzz with an invitation or RSVP from him—and that in the meantime, I’d missed out on dozens of big-screen moments brought to life by my favorite actors, directors, and writers. Unless I wanted to miss even more, I’d have to be a little brave and admit that some traditions (and apparently, some friendships) aren’t meant to be set in stone. And that I’d have to do this thing that we loved on my own.
Yet as the lights began to dim in the Glass Onion theater, something shifted for me. The movie started, and I went from being surrounded by strangers, feeling very alone, to feeling like I was part of something bigger. Here we all were, deciding to watch the same thing, laughing at the film’s funny moments and collectively gasping during its big reveals. For 2 hours and 19 minutes, we were a community. One that, for me at least, filled a friend-size hole in my heart.
Since then, I have done a Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 double feature, been to every film that was a part of Studio Ghibli Fest’s yearlong event dedicated to director Hayao Miyazaki’s hits, and even seen Oppenheimer in a rare 70mm IMAX screening. All by myself—but never totally alone. I had the other audience members experiencing it all with me. The directors were there in spirit too, telling the story through their lens. The actors, as well, making me stop and think with their performances. And the composers, whose scores bring such emotion to each scene, among many others.
While I definitely don’t love the circumstances that brought me to this new routine, I am enjoying its many upsides. I never have to worry about what a companion thinks, so I can totally soak in a movie I love (or leave a movie I hate). I don’t have to coordinate schedules—if I suddenly want to go see something after work, I never have to wait around for anyone else’s response. Hell, I can even do a last-minute double or triple feature without asking whether anyone has a full free day on their cal. Plus, you’d be surprised how easy it is to find a single ticket, even for midnight showings of the latest Marvel film or a limited screening. And then there’s all the snacks I have to myself, because in our current reality of limited refills and overpriced concessions, every kernel counts.
Every ticket counts too. Just like movies can help us process our own lives, we can all help the theater experience survive. Hollywood dynamics are always changing, and the successes of entire movie franchises or genres often rely heavily on box-office numbers. When I pay to see movies like Barbie or Blue Beetle, I am telling those in charge that I want and need more women-led films and superheroes of color. That I want more movie theater moments, period.
All this hasn’t brought me answers to why exactly my friendship broke down (believe me, I’ve searched for them, even going to see my ex-BFF’s favorite, Your Name). But I have discovered a lot about myself and what I deserve in my friendships and relationships—and that’s why you can still catch me laughing, crying, screaming, and girl-dinnering-with-popcorn-and-M&Ms my way through movies on my own.
I guess Nicole Kidman was right, dammit. Heartbreak does feel good in a place like this. Because it’s not just heartbreak but healing too. And a safe way to sit by yourself with other people and just be. That’s the kind of magic I’ll keep coming back for. And the kind I’m now recommending to you.
