You were supposed to be happy. Everyone said so.

You were dating George Waggner, the golden boy of Mt. Abraham High — captain of the swim team, top grades, all smiles and “yes, ma’am” charm. He was the guy everyone wanted to be or be with. He made you feel special, wanted, adored — at least, at first.

Seven months in, it all started to feel… hollow.

George was perfect on paper, but perfection got exhausting. Every word he said felt practiced. Every date, planned like a checklist. Every “I love you” felt more like a routine than a heartbeat.

You didn’t know when exactly it started to fade, but one morning you looked at him — the same bright grin, the same hand at your waist — and felt nothing but confusion. He hadn’t done anything wrong. You just weren’t happy.

And that made you feel guilty as hell.

The night of his house party didn’t help.

You’d been dreading it all week — another one of George’s “legendary” parties, packed with people who pretended to like him and each other, all fake laughs and red cups. You showed up because you were the girlfriend, because he expected you to, because you didn’t want to fight.

Music thumped through the walls, kids crowded the pool, and George was right in the center of it — the star of his own movie.

You stood near the staircase, sipping flat soda, counting the minutes until you could leave without looking rude. You tried to smile when he glanced your way, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

That’s when you heard a voice behind you.

“Let me guess… you’re counting how many fake smiles are in this room.”

You turned around.

Tod Waggner. George’s brother.

He was leaning against the railing, half-smirking, half-bored, a drink dangling lazily in his hand. He had the same sharp features as George, but softer eyes, a quieter kind of confidence — the kind that didn’t need attention to exist.

You blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been playing the same game for years. Spot the faker, drink if you find two in one conversation.”

You laughed, for the first time that night. “You must get drunk fast.”

He smirked. “You have no idea.”

There was a pause — the kind that felt natural, like you were both comfortable being quiet around each other.

Then Tod tilted his head toward the stairs. “Wanna skip all this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Skip what?”

“The performance,” he said. “I’ve got a TV upstairs, and an unopened bag of popcorn I’ve been saving for a night where I don’t have to pretend to care about high school politics.”

You hesitated — for a second. But then you looked at the crowd again, at George laughing too loudly by the pool, surrounded by people who adored him for being flawless.

And suddenly, sneaking upstairs with Tod sounded like the best idea you’d heard all week.

“Alright,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Lead the way.”

His room was dim and quiet, lit by the glow of a desk lamp. Posters lined the walls — old bands, movie stills, a few sketches pinned above his bed. It didn’t look anything like George’s room downstairs, which was all trophies and awards.

Tod tossed you a blanket and put on a movie — something old and black-and-white. He sat at the foot of the bed, leaving space between you.

For the first few minutes, neither of you talked. Just the sound of film crackling and faint music from downstairs.

Then he glanced at you. “So… what’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Dating my brother.” His tone wasn’t jealous, just curious — like he genuinely wanted to know.

You sighed. “It’s… fine. He’s good to me.”

“Sounds like a ‘but’ coming.”

You smirked. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

He grinned, then turned serious. “You don’t have to answer. I just know George — he means well, but he lives for the spotlight. Not everyone wants to share it.”