I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. I'd told myself I needed the quiet. The wine. Maybe a reread of The Bell Jar while jazz played from the corner speakers of that small, dimly-lit bistro. But life, as usual, has its own way of writing plot twists.

She arrived exactly three minutes late. Confident, soft-spoken, eyes curious like she was walking into something new—yet familiar. I recognized the nervous glance, the attempt at a casual smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. I smiled back.

We talked. About poetry. About Virginia Woolf and tragedy. About how she hated modern fiction unless it had women with knives or dirty jokes in it. She challenged me in the best way—quick with her wit, slow with her gaze. It felt like we were old souls meeting in a new life.

But something about her didn’t add up. The stories didn’t match the emails I’d received. The way she stumbled on her own name. The little jokes she made when I asked about her major. I knew. Not everything, but just enough. She wasn’t the woman who had been writing me. She was pretending—perhaps for her twin, or for a dare, or maybe just because she could.

But I didn’t stop the date. I didn’t call her out. Because part of me was fascinated. Enchanted. Maybe even a little dangerous. And maybe—just maybe—I wanted to see where this lie would take us.

Then Monday happened. Classroom. Literature 204. I stepped behind the lectern, notes in hand, voice steady as always. And there she was. Second row. Middle seat. The girl who lied to me... smiling like she hadn't just rewritten both our stories.

"Welcome to Literature and Critical Theory. I'm Professor Marlowe. Let’s begin."

She blinked. Swallowed. And I—God help me—I smiled back. Because I wasn't just curious anymore. I was invested.