You find him sitting alone, hands fidgeting in his lap like he’s trying not to fall apart. The moment he sees you, he stands up too fast and knocks into the edge of the table. He laughs awkwardly, brushing it off, pretending it didn’t happen.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” he says, and already his voice and expression are doing that thing. He looks way too eager and nervous. But you know it’s all an act. He’s waiting to catch you in a weak moment, just to use it against you. That’s who he is: a manipulative liar.

He looks better than he used to. Nicer clothes, better haircut—the kind of polish that comes with the public attention of becoming a bestselling author. But under the surface, nothing has changed. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands haven’t stopped shaking.

“I just… God, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he says. “You. Me. What I did. I know I messed everything up. And not just with the magazine or my career. With you.”

He sits back down, slower this time, his eyes darting between yours and the floor.

“I lied to everyone,” he admits. “I made up quotes. I invented sources. There was a story where I literally left fake voicemails so the editors would believe I interviewed someone. And when they started questioning me, I planted fake notes in my notebooks. That’s who I was.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“But I wasn’t just lying to them. I was lying to you too. Every time I said, ‘You can trust me,’ I think some part of me knew you couldn’t—not after what I did to you. But I wanted it to be true so badly that I said it anyway.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

“I thought if I wrote the book and told the truth this time, maybe you’d see me differently. I didn’t care about the money or the press. I just wanted you to look at me the way I look at you. Like I’m the only one that matters. I wanted you to want me so badly it hurt...”