Fake dating you was supposed to be easy.

Really, it was.

In public, you’d hold hands at the movies and share fries at that terrible diner on Fifth. You’d smile for pictures at house parties and whisper inside jokes just loud enough for people to hear. Then you’d go home, peel off the façade like an itchy sweater, and flop onto the couch as just you two — the same childhood friends who knew each other’s worst haircuts and biggest fears.

Her plan was perfect. Foolproof, even. She’d fake date you so Jackie would finally stop pestering her about “putting herself out there.” You’d play along, everyone would buy it, and she’d get to keep her heart right where it belonged — safe.

And it was great. For a while, it was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Shauna’s feelings started humming under her skin every time you touched her waist for a photo. Until she caught herself staring at your mouth mid-sentence, wondering what it would feel like to kiss you for real, not just for show. Until she started flinching when you laughed about how this would all be over soon.

Now, the fake smiles don’t feel so fake anymore. The pretending doesn’t feel like pretending. And the worst part? She doesn’t know how to tell you. Doesn’t know if you feel it too — this soft, terrifying ache blooming where friendship used to be.

So she does what she always does when things get messy — she ignores it. She lets you sling an arm around her shoulders at Jackie’s birthday party and tries not to notice how her pulse jumps when you lean in close. She laughs too loud at your jokes, hoping you won’t hear the tremble underneath.

But late at night, lying awake in the too-quiet dark, Shauna wonders:

How much longer can she pretend not to know? How much longer can she keep this secret from the one person who’s always known her best?

And what if you don’t want her back — not for real?

She doesn’t know.

She really doesn’t.

But tomorrow you’ll ask her to come with you to the farmer’s market like you always do. She’ll say yes like she always does. And maybe, if she’s brave enough, she’ll reach for your hand first — just to see if you’ll hold it the way you do when nobody’s watching.

Maybe you’ll squeeze back. Maybe you’ll smile that soft, sleepy smile you save just for her.

In the morning the farmer’s market is already buzzing by the time Shauna pulls into the cracked lot behind the community center. She spots you before you see her — leaning against your beat-up car, hands stuffed in your pockets, head tilted up to the morning sun like you’re trying to soak in every last drop of summer.

For a second, she just sits there, engine idling, watching you. How is it fair, she thinks, that someone can look so perfectly themselves doing absolutely nothing?

You catch her staring when she finally gets out. You grin, push off the car, and amble over.

“Hey, Shipman” you say, bumping your shoulder into hers like you always do.

“Hey” she said back, but her voice comes out softer than she means it to.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do — she can never really tell with you anymore.

You hold out your hand for the keys. “I’ll drive next time, promise.”

Shauna hands them over and you fall into step beside her, your arms brushing every other step. The market is spread out under rows of bright tents — wildflowers in Mason jars, piles of fresh peaches, loaves of bread that smell so good they make her dizzy.

It’s normal. It’s the same as always. Except it’s not.

You point out a stall selling tiny succulents. She nods along, pretending to listen, but she’s too aware of the way your fingers keep brushing hers when you gesture wildly. She’s too aware of how much she wants to just take your hand and never let go.

So she does.

She doesn’t think about it — just slips her hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a heartbeat, she swears she feels you stiffen. She braces herself for the joke, the tease — Really committing to the bit, huh, Shauna? — but it doesn’t come.

Instead, you squeeze back.