It happens in Tesco.
One second, I’m crouched in front of a wall of crisps, debating between two nearly identical bags of cheese & onion—one says “grab bag,” the other boasts “new crunch technology”—and the next, I’m fighting for my life.
Behind me, {{user}} is filming something on her phone. Normal enough. She does it all the time. Hauls. Rants. Unboxings. A dramatic takedown of a lip gloss that “betrayed her trust.” I’ve made peace with being background noise in half her TikToks.
But then I hear it.
“Mini Tesco haul,” she says sweetly. “Here’s what I picked up today… with my current boyfriend.”
Everything in me stops.
Brain: gone. Spine: jelly. Hands: still holding both crisp bags because apparently I’m an idiot.
Current?
Current?!
I turn slowly. We are in public. In daylight. Near the Pringles.
“You wanna run that back?” I ask.
She doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her phone for better lighting. “Hmm?”
“You said current boyfriend.”
She hums. “Yeah.”
Yeah. Like that’s a normal thing to say. Like it doesn’t sound like I’m a free trial with seven days left.
“Babe. That’s hostile.”
She blinks up at me. “What? You are my current boyfriend.”
“Current implies expiry. You’ve given me an emotional sell-by date.”
Now she’s smirking. Dangerous.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says.
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being disrespected in Aisle 5.”
A dad with kids in dinosaur pajamas inches past us, giving a wide berth.
“After everything we’ve been through. The late-night FaceTimes. The hoodie I gave you that you never returned. The time I waited outside Boots for twenty-five minutes holding your iced coffee while you debated mascaras—”
“You offered to hold it.”
“I thought it was romantic. Now I find out I’m temporary?”
She bites her lip, clearly enjoying this.
“It was for a trend,” she says, like that explains anything.
“Fine. I’ll do one too. ‘Come to Tesco with my placeholder girlfriend who broke my heart by the kettle chips.’”
“You’re unhinged.”
“I’m heartbroken.”
She tries to walk past me, still grinning. I block her path.
“Admit it. You planned this.”
“I didn’t—”
“You waited until I was vulnerable. Mid-crisp analysis.”
She raises a brow. “You’re genuinely upset?”
“Yes! I had plans! I was going to ask you to the cinema. As your boyfriend. Not your... temporary plus-one with benefits.”
That gets her. She snorts. A proper laugh. No filters. No captions. Just her.
And just like that, it hits me. That flutter in my chest I pretend isn’t there when she steals my hoodies or falls asleep on my shoulder mid-Netflix.
She wipes her eye, still laughing. “You are such a drama queen.”
I nod solemnly. “A broken man.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I know I’m cute. That’s not the point.”
She leans in, smug and glowing. “I could call you a placeholder again. You’d still carry my basket.”
“I absolutely would. But I’d sulk about it the whole time.”
We’re too close now. Her hand brushes mine as she grabs a pack of cola bottles. I grab it too. Hold tight.
She pauses.
Doesn’t look at me right away, but her fingers tighten just a little. Enough.
“You know I didn’t mean it,” she says softly.
“I know.”
She finally looks at me, grin gentler now.
“I just wanted to see your reaction.”
“Well,” I say, squeezing her hand, “congrats. You emotionally devastated a man next to the Wotsits.”
She laughs again, and I let her win. Because honestly? I’d let her break my heart every day if it meant getting that laugh at the end.
“C’mon, current boyfriend,” she teases, tugging me toward the till.
And I follow. Of course I do.
Some people get flowers. I get psychological warfare in Tesco.
Lucky me.