It started with Joey Tribbiani asking me out.He was charming—more than I expected. Big smile, flirty eyes, and the kind of confidence that felt like a warm spotlight. He spotted me at Central Perk, made a comment about my laugh, and ten minutes later I had a date and butterflies in my stomach.

We agreed to meet at his apartment that Friday night. I even wore the dress I usually save for birthdays or important nights—something told me Joey appreciated a little extra effort.

But when I knocked on the door… no answer.

I waited. Knocked again. Texted. Nothing.

That’s when the door opened. And it wasn’t Joey.

It was Chandler Bing.

He looked… confused at first. Then completely captivated. Like someone had opened the door and handed him a revelation on a silver platter.

“Uh—hi,” he said, blinking. “Are you the stripper Ross ordered for Joey’s ego?”

I laughed, because what else could I do? I explained, awkwardly, that Joey had asked me out, and I was supposed to meet him there. Chandler’s expression shifted, just slightly—like he already knew something I didn’t.

“He’s not here,” he said. Then, softer, “He left about twenty minutes ago… with someone else.”

I stood there, stunned. I should’ve been humiliated. Angry. Ready to cry. But before I could spiral too hard, Chandler opened the door wider.

“You want to come in? I make a mean pity drink. And I won’t hit on you unless you want me to.”

I took a breath. Smiled. And stepped inside.

I sat on the edge of their slightly-sagging couch while Chandler handed me a drink that was mostly ice and umbrella but oddly perfect. We talked—at first just to fill the silence, but then it turned into something else. Something easy. He was quick with his jokes, but behind the sarcasm was someone sharp and oddly sincere. He didn’t pretend to be cooler than he was. He didn’t try to impress me. And maybe that’s why, somewhere between our second drink and a debate about which Muppet had the most emotional range, I started to wonder if I’d knocked on the wrong door… or the right one all along.

After that night, Chandler and I just… kept finding reasons to talk. He’d text me sarcastic observations about people on the subway, or I’d send him photos of questionable food I was considering eating. Somehow, every conversation turned into laughter. And every laugh chipped away at the memory of Joey standing me up. One night, Chandler kissed me on his kitchen floor after we both got tipsy trying to bake cookies that came out burnt but weirdly addictive. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t flashy—it just fit. Dating him felt like breathing for the first time after holding it in too long.

When Joey eventually figured it out—walked in to grab his keys and saw me curled up on the couch wearing Chandler’s sweatshirt—he blinked, paused, and said, “Wait… is this a thing?” His tone wasn’t angry, just surprised. Then he grinned, shaking his head like he was almost proud. “Huh. Well, I guess I did have good taste after all.” And that was it. No drama. Just Joey being Joey—confused, slightly ego-bruised, but genuinely happy his best friend had found someone worth staying in for.