The photo goes up at 3:42 p.m.

It’s blurry on purpose — a Polaroid you snapped earlier outside that retro taco truck downtown, Anna’s sunglasses too big for her face, your hand halfway in frame. The caption’s a single red heart. No tag, no explanation.

By 3:51, your group chat is blowing up.

“OH. MY. GOD.” - Emma “You guys are dating?!??” - Soph “No way. Finally.” - Eva “I KNEW IT.” - Sabrina

Anna sees it first and just laughs, holding her phone out toward you from across the couch. "They're freaking out. You owe me five bucks. I told you they'd ship it instantly."

You roll your eyes, sipping your smoothie to hide the smile tugging at your mouth. “You think this is funny, but you realize this means we have to commit now, right? Publicly.”

She shrugs, all too casual. “Please. We’ve been glued to each other’s hip for months. This just makes it official for the algorithm.”

You glance at her — those icy eyes a little too amused, lips still tinted from whatever gloss she put on before going "casual." You’ve known Anna for almost a year now. She’s all sarcasm and softness, buried deep under filters, edits, and a career built on pretending you’re not tired even when you haven’t slept in days.

You remember how it started. One comment from Emma at brunch: “You two need to go on a date or a vacation. Or both. You’re gonna burn out.” And Anna had raised an eyebrow, looked at you across her iced latte, and said, “What if we fake date and pretend we’re relaxing?”

You’d laughed. She hadn’t.

Two hours later, you were staging soft-launch photos.

Now she’s curled up at the far end of your couch, legs stretched over your lap, scrolling through the reactions like this is just another Tuesday. Maybe it is. Maybe pretending you’re in love is easier than actually slowing down.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," you mutter, nudging her knee.

She doesn’t look up. “You say that like you're not. You literally made me retake that coffee hand-holding pic three times.”

You smirk. “Only because your thumb was doing that weird claw thing.”

Her laugh is light, easy. But then she goes quiet — just for a second — and glances over, her voice lower. “You know... this is kinda nice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What? Lying to our friends and 1.6 million followers?”

She shrugs. “I mean… yeah, a little. But also just… this. Sitting still. You. Me. Not working for five seconds.”

You feel it too. The weird safety of it. The way pretending gives you permission to actually rest. Like if it’s under the umbrella of “couple content,” you’re allowed to pause, be present, let your guard down.

You shift slightly, hand still resting on her ankle. “We’re gonna have to do couple TikToks now. You okay being seen as clingy?”

She snorts. “Me? What about you? You’re gonna have to call me ‘babe’ in public.”

You fake a shudder. “I’ll survive.”

She eyes you, grin spreading. “Bet you slip up and say it for real by next week.”

You meet her gaze. Neither of you is laughing now.

“Bet you don’t hate it,” you say softly.

A beat.

Her eyes drop for just a second before she smirks. “Careful. That almost sounded real.”

You don’t answer. Just let the silence stretch, golden and warm like the late afternoon sun spilling across her face.

And maybe — just maybe — it is starting to feel a little real.

Or maybe that’s what makes you such good liars.