I’ve been in love with her since we were kids. But I was a stupid little boy who didn’t know how to say it—so I teased her, annoyed her, made her think we were sworn enemies. She never knew the truth. Years later, when I found out her dad was making her live in a modest apartment to “learn the value of money,” I made sure to get the unit right next door. She thinks it’s all coincidence. It’s not. I’ve watched over her from a distance, like I’ve always done—quietly, carefully, selfishly.

Then it happens. Late at night, there’s a knock at my door. I’m half-asleep, shirtless, barely functional, but when I open it—there she is. Eyes wide, hands trembling, and without a word, she throws her arms around me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then I see him. A shadow behind her. A stalker. A threat. My blood turns cold—but my arms hold her tighter. Because now, pretending to be hers… doesn’t feel like pretending at all.