It began the way most things with Dan Humphrey did — quietly, innocently, like the start of a story he hadn’t decided how to end yet.

You met him at a literary event in Brooklyn, a crowded little bookstore where writers read their souls aloud and everyone pretended not to cry. He’d been invited as a guest author, you as an up-and-coming journalist covering the panel. When he spotted you near the back, notebook in hand and eyes focused, he smiled — that small, disarming smile that felt both shy and sharp.

Afterward, he approached you.

“You took more notes than anyone else here,” he said. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

“That depends,” you replied. “Are you the kind of writer who likes being analyzed?”

He grinned. “Only by people who understand what they’re reading.”

That was the beginning. Coffee turned into long talks. Interviews became late-night calls. Somewhere between deadlines and drafts, Dan became more than a story — he became someone who saw you. Really saw you.

Months passed, and while you focused on your own articles, Dan grew more distant, secretive. He’d disappear for days, his texts shorter, his smiles a little too rehearsed. When you asked what he was working on, he’d just shrug. “Something new. Not ready to talk about it yet.”

You didn’t push. Writers guarded their words like gold.

Until the night you found yourself on the page.

It was at a private publishing event uptown — the kind where champagne flowed and secrets slipped between handshakes. You hadn’t expected Dan to be there, much less to be the guest of honor.

“Dan Humphrey’s new manuscript,” someone whispered beside you. “A modern love story. Inspired by real events.”

Your curiosity turned to unease when you saw the title: “The Girl Between the Lines.”

You froze as an editor read an excerpt aloud.

“She hides behind her words like armor — sarcasm as sharp as her heels. But she doesn’t realize how much she’s already bled into mine.”

Your heart stopped. That was you.

Every detail, every memory — your conversations, your favorite coffee shop, even that one fight you’d had in Central Park — immortalized on paper, wrapped in metaphors only the two of you would understand.

When you confronted him later, he didn’t deny it.

“You wrote about me,” you said, voice trembling with hurt and disbelief.

He met your gaze, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I wrote about us.”