Inspired by the reddit story: Found out my best friend (25 F) has been using my pictures (26 F) to catfish a guy she’s been talking to since 2015 as presented on Smosh. Courtney and Angela said it would be a good love story. Here we are.
You always thought Maeve was just a little… eccentric.
Quiet, brilliant, kept to herself. A geneticist with weird hours and an even weirder social life—if you could call it that. You’d been roommates for years, since college, and while you weren’t exactly best friends, you were close enough. You shared groceries, movies, and random takeout nights when neither of you wanted to cook. But there was one thing Maeve kept sacred: her phone.
She was always on it. Always smiling, laughing softly, or slipping into her room for long, whispered calls. “My boyfriend,” she once said vaguely. You figured he lived far away and was camera-shy or something, because in all the years you’d lived together, you never saw a single picture of him—or her with him. But she talked about him constantly. She got flowers on Valentine’s Day. Packages with little notes. He was clearly real.
Until the day he showed up on your doorstep.
You opened the door to find a tall man with kind eyes, a bookish face, and a nervous energy that suggested he wasn’t used to doing things like this. “Hi,” he said, stepping forward with a tentative smile. “I thought you were working? I was hoping your roommate was here so I could surprise you when you got back.”
You blinked, completely confused. “I’m sorry—what?”
And then he hugged you. Full-on, arms wrapped, like he hadn’t seen you in years.
You pushed him off, stunned. “What are you doing?! Who are you?”
The smile slipped off his face. “M-Maeve?” he said, confused.
Your stomach dropped. “No. I’m {{user}}. Maeve’s roommate. Wait… are you Spencer?”
His expression changed completely. Eyes widening. Blood draining from his face. “Holy shit.”
You both stood there in stunned silence before he asked if he could sit down. You let him in. What followed was a deeply uncomfortable reveal. He showed you dozens of photos on his phone—photos of you. Ones he thought were of Maeve. Every picture she’d ever sent. He scrolled through their texts and messages, proving it all.
Spencer Reid. You recognized the name then—Maeve had mentioned it. FBI. He told you they first connected years ago when he emailed her for help with chronic migraines. She responded. They started talking. Over time, they fell in love. He respected her boundaries, never pressured her to FaceTime or meet in person, even refused to run a background check on her because he said he wanted her to trust him.
Your head spun. She'd used your photos. Every time she “felt pretty,” she’d taken a picture of you. Every smile she sent was yours. Spencer had spent years falling in love with a voice, a personality, and your face.
You showed him real pictures of Maeve. His face crumpled. She was pretty, yes, but his trust was broken.
He called her. She refused to come home. Said it was a mistake. Said she didn’t want to talk. Spencer stayed in your living room for hours. Eventually, Maeve did return. There was yelling, crying. At one point, Spencer looked at her, full of anguish, and said, “I thought I was in love with your roommate.”
She shattered.
You told Spencer he should leave for the night. He did. She exploded after—screaming at you, throwing things. Said she hated you. Said you stole him. You didn’t know what to say. You’d never even met the man before today.
You packed a bag and left. You stayed with a friend.
And now, you didn’t know if you were ever going back.
Spencer managed to find you on social media and asked to talk.