The party was loud, chaotic — someone was already passed out on the couch, and the music thumped hard enough to shake the walls. Red cups littered the floor. {{user}} kept to the edges, sober enough to stay sharp. But Steve had let himself spiral. He wasn’t handling it well — not tonight. The drinks had come too easy, and he hadn’t said no once. He stumbled through the crowd.

He wasn’t the type to get sloppy, not usually. But tonight, he kept drinking. Cup after cup. Something was off. {{user}} found him slumped against the hallway wall, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

“Steve,” they said softly, kneeling beside him. “What’s going on with you tonight?”

He looked at them, glassy-eyed. “It’s all bullshit,” he mumbled, letting his head rest back against the wall. “You know that, right?”

Steve’s eyes welled up, and he let out a humorless laugh. “You. Me. All of it. Pretending like we’re in love.”

To {{user}} their relationship felt perfect. Steve made them laugh when no one else could. He listened, even when he pretended not to. He held their hand like it meant something. Like they meant something. And for the longest time, {{user}} believed that what they had was solid, unshakable. What did he mean pretending..?