Monet Khanyahl.
Scripts and screenplays are an often overlooked form of literature. They exist behind the scenes as a template for film and theatrical productions, but scripts can and should be considered an important part of the literary canon. In an effort to support this philosophy, we present an excerpt from the short film “Yours Truly” by the School of the Art Institute of Chicago’s Monet Khanyahl (MFA 2026).
INT. KITCHEN – DAY
The husband reaches out his hand and places it on the hip of the woman.
WOMAN
But you’re right. I am lonely. I am isolated.
Desolate.
The woman puts a plate down in front of the husband and he begins cutting into his meal.
WOMAN
I love him. I do. It’s a love of convenience. Forged in a time of scarcity and fear. But it’s love nonetheless. The woman has her elbow to the table and she looks at her husband. She nods and then laughs.
WOMAN
I look to him and I see the moments he’s picked me up when I’ve fallen. Moments where I didn’t know where else to go.
The woman is washing dishes.
WOMAN
He knows about you.
The woman looks up at the ceiling and pauses.
WOMAN
Vaguely
The woman goes back to washing her dishes.
WOMAN
Just small snippets but I don’t think he truly understands. I don’t think I truly understand either.
INT. BEDROOM – DAY
The woman is smoking a cigarette next to the window.
WOMAN
What we had, I don’t think it was of God.
The woman is praying on her knees next to her bedside. Her eyes tightly shut and hands together also. She’s mouthing a prayer.
WOMAN
I fear for my death because I know that as I wait outside the pearly gates I will have to answer for what we had. My times in catholic pews made me weary of prayer and I don’t know if I truly believe in a higher power that can heed my words.
The woman is smoking a cigarette and shakes her head before looking out the window.
WOMAN
But on nights when the loneliness becomes too much, I can’t help myself from praying for you.
Beat.
WOMAN
I hope you’re doing okay.
The woman is sitting on the edge of her bed. Her eyes staring out into space, she’s rocking slowly.
WOMAN
I hope you reached some place far away from this small town and you’re living it big with people that will never know my name. I hope your family is content with the life you decide to lead but I hope you never forgave them. I hope you’re still reading everything that you can get your hands on, and when you read I hope you think of me and the quotes you would recite.
The woman slowly lays down on her side facing the wall.
WOMAN
I hope you still sprinkle salt over your shoulder and stay clear of black cats and broken mirrors. I hope you still shriek at the sight of a spider and I wish I was there to assure you of how tiny it is.
The woman turns on her back and looks up to the ceiling.
WOMAN
I hope no one shares your bed. Selfish. I know.
The woman gets up from the bed and her hands begin moving against the cloth and straightening up the covers she messed up.
WOMAN
But I want the things we felt to stay between us. I want no one else to feel your warmth. To hear your laugh hidden under covers.
I hope you still think of me and the times we shared. The cigarettes smoked outside your window like teens do, flicked on the street with no care in the world. The bitter wine we stole from your father’s liquor cabinet. The car we almost totaled after your grandmother’s funeral. I hope this isn’t the life that you saw for us.
