The Twilight Saga is back in theaters for a marathon to honor the first book’s 20th anniversary, because nothing says literary achievement like watching two very quiet people negotiate eye contact for a decade. As a courtesy, AMC will hand out programs that read, “Shhh, the silence is a character.”

Cinemas nationwide are preparing for a tidal wave of wistful sighs, retail-grade glitter, and arguments over whether sunlight is a hate crime. Ushers have been issued welding masks and poetry diplomas to safely navigate the vibe.

Economic forecasters warn that the reunion of Team Edward and Team Jacob may destabilize eyeliner futures and cause a sharp rise in plaid tariffs. Wall Street labeled the event “highly volatile and vaguely damp,” which is also their rating for forests.

The studio promises fresh 4K restorations: every blade of grass will brood, every truck will yearn, and every pause will be so crisp you could slice a prom with it. According to press notes, even the color grading has been taught to feel complicated.

Fans are advised to arrive early, hydrate, and equip themselves with glitter-canceling sunglasses to avoid retinal shimmer fatigue. Theaters will also offer commemorative neck braces for those injured by sudden head turns toward windows nobody opens.

Public health officials recommend the 3-2-1 rule: every three hours stretch, every two hours question your life choices, and every one hour whisper, “He’s a vampire, Karen, not a personality.” Side effects may include believing trucks have emotions and mistaking weather for dialogue.

As your sworn bailiff of spectacle, I’ll be monitoring the evidence: the edits that flirt, the sound mix that sighs, and the juror known as the audience, who will deliver a verdict with their throat-clears. If anyone objects, I’ll allow it, but only if they brood in complete sentences.

Merch tables are stacked like a court exhibit: apple motifs that never tasted sin, bracelets that jangle like foreshadowing, and the inevitable wolf-pack commemorative hoodie blanket for fans who prefer their character development machine-washable. It comes pre-scented with vague loyalty.

Concessions are on theme. Blood-orange slushies, ethically sourced from oranges who consented, and garlic-free nachos for everyone committed to being wrong. The popcorn is salted with the tears of parents remembering the midnight showings and the prices that devoured them.

To bridge generations, theaters are offering primers for Gen Z titled, “Why We Whisper-Shouted About Chastity And Trucks.” An AI chatbot will translate 2008 into now: “He is toxic” becomes “He adheres to a prestige brood arc,” and “This is problematic” becomes “This is cinema, darling.”

Organizers say the marathon concludes at sunrise, when attendees will emerge blinking like newborn nocturnal raccoons, unsure if they love triangles or just geometry. Emergency exits will be labeled “Plot,” for those seeking a way out that doesn’t involve a dramatic rainstorm.

Twenty years of glinting foreheads and meaningful silences, and still no one has answered why a vampire family enrolled in high school thrice. I’ll be in Row G, respecting the courtroom of the dark, memorizing every usher’s sigh, and rendering a final verdict: sustained, your honor; sustained like a pale face pressed against a window, begging the sun for just one more scene.