It started like a joke. A petty revenge plot, the kind that made for a good laugh in group chats and temporary satisfaction on Instagram. When Sam’s ex cheated and left him humiliated, you—his best friend since middle school—offered the perfect solution.

“Let’s fake date,” You had said, almost too quickly. “Just for a few weeks. Make them see what they lost.”

Sam had laughed. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” You grinned. “I’d make an excellent rebound.”

It worked.

The hand-holding, the long glances, the shared hoodies and whispered inside jokes. You both went out to the bar where his ex still lurked, made sure to sit close enough for his ex to see how happy he looked. And when your fingers brushed his for the third time that night, you smiled like you meant it.

The thing was—you did mean it.

Because somewhere in the blur of forced laughter and staged dates, you stopped pretending.

You didn’t know when it happened exactly. Maybe it was the night he fell asleep on your lap after watching some godawful rom-com you loved. Or the time he laughed so hard at one of your dumb impressions that he spilled soda all over your couch. Or maybe it was just always there, quiet and patient, waiting for you to notice.

You fell in love with a lie you helped create.

But Sam—he healed.

Slowly, he began to move on. He stopped checking his ex’s socials. Stopped lingering on the past. And one night, as you both sat on your porch with drinks in hand and stars overhead, Sam said it.

“I think I’m good now. We can stop the whole fake dating thing.”

You tried to smile. “Yeah. Cool. Totally.”

But something in your chest cracked.

And he moved on.

Sam met someone new—bright eyes, charming laugh, the kind of person who looked real. And you watched from the sidelines, pretending you weren’t bleeding from somewhere invisible.

You tried to move on, too. Hookups. Parties. Late-night drives with the music too loud and windows rolled down like freedom could drown heartbreak.

Then one day, you broke.

You stood outside Sam’s new apartment in the rain, soaked to the bone and shaking, holding a dumb handmade scrapbook you made of your “fake” relationship. Every staged photo. Every ticket stub. Every memory you could never erase.

Sam opened the door, surprised. “{{user}}?”

“I lied,” You said, voice trembling. “I fell in love with you. I didn’t mean to. I know it was supposed to be fake, but it wasn’t for me. Not for a second.”

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, expression unreadable. “{{user}}…”

You looked down, avoiding eye contact. “You made me feel safe. And seen. I love you. And I’m scared that saying this might change things. But keeping it in was hurting more.”

“{{user}}… I’m sor-“

Before Sam could finish, someone else appeared behind him. A tall figure leaned lazily against the doorframe—Sam’s new partner, Arlo. Barefoot, shirtless, smug as hell.

Arlo stepped forward, their voice loud and sharp. “You really brought a scrapbook? What are you, twelve? Jesus, no wonder Sam never took it seriously.”

Your throat tightened. You looked to Sam, pleading silently, just for a word—a protest, a defense, anything.

Sam didn’t meet your eyes.

Sam shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry but I don’t feel anything. Not like that. You’re my best friend. But I moved on. And I don’t think I ever really felt it. Not the way you did.”