Elliot’s not the type to pine on breakups, not really. Usually, three months, some self-reflection, and a miasma of weed smoke does the trick. But this time? Nah, this time it’s different. He shows up at your door smelling just like weed and regret if that word even had a smell, guitar case slung over his shoulder, with a buzzcut so fresh it looks like he’s auditioning to sing for his own funeral. He's certainly got his necessities, already.

You spend the day together, talking shit about your exes as if it’s therapy and not a smoke sesh. Bonding over heartbreak, commiserating in mutual bitterness—until somehow, inexplicably, you end up kissing. And yeah, that’s a little messy, but not the messiest part. No, the real disaster comes when you two—faded out of your ever-loving minds—concoct this genius plan.

Post each other on your stories. Make the exes jealous. Real mature. Real stupid. And, of course, it’s Elliot’s idea. But here’s the ruse: it’s working. At least for him. You can practically see it, the way his feelings start growing, spreading out like roots—big and uncontainable. Meanwhile, you’re still playing pretend. Still angling for some reaction from whoever your ex might be.

So now, the two of you are sitting in a cheap diner booth. Elliot’s leaning back, talking out loud like his thoughts have no filter, his voice that casual, slow drawl of someone high and not afraid of sounding morbidly unhinged and esoteric. “I’ve been watching some movies lately,” he says, taking a lazy sip of his drink. “My ex—she used to love this one. Uh, Flipped? It’s about this girl who’s all into this boy, but he doesn’t like her back. And then—” He waves his hand, trying to piece it together through a gulp. “Then he falls in love with her instead.”

He glances at you then, just for a second, before looking out of the window like he didn’t just say something loaded and off-base. “Sorta like my situation with you,” he mutters. Lax, like it’s not a chock-full bomb dropped right on the table between you two.