The strange thing about lies is that they don't announce when they start working.
They just settle in quietly, like dust.
By the second week, everyone had accepted it.
Alice and Ash.
Boyfriend and girlfriend.
Case closed.
No raised eyebrows when we walked into class together. No whispers snapping at my heels anymore, at least not the sharp ones. Teachers who used to look at me like I was a walking HR violation barely glanced my way. Ms. Clarke stopped measuring her words around me. Even the dean nodded once, politely, like I'd been restored to the category of normal student.
It was unsettling how fast the world forgave me the moment I belonged to someone.
Alice leaned into it easily. Too easily.
She looped her arm through mine when we crossed campus, loud and unapologetic, talking about her disastrous sleep schedule or some unhinged thing she'd read online. Sometimes she kissed my cheek in passing, quick and casual, like it meant nothing.
The first time she did it, I almost flinched.
The second time, I didn't.
That scared me more.
"Relax," she whispered once, feeling my body stiffen. "You look like I just stabbed you, not kissed you."
"I'm relaxed," I said automatically.
She snorted. "You're many things. Relaxed isn't one of them."
The worst part was that she was wrong.
I was calmer.
Walking beside her felt easier. No constant scanning of faces. No bracing for the next rumor or the next sideways glance. With Alice, the world felt louder but safer, like standing next to something everyone could see.
And that calm lodged under my ribs like guilt.
Because calm felt like betrayal.
Lena's face still hovered at the edges of my thoughts. The way she'd looked when I said Alice was my girlfriend. Shocked. Wounded. Angry in that quiet way that cuts deeper than shouting ever could. I told myself she'd chosen Samuel. I told myself this was fair.
But calm didn't feel fair.
It felt wrong.
Alice started getting comfortable.
Not clingy. Territorial.
She leaned over my desk during breaks, blocking my view of anyone approaching. Rested her chin on my shoulder whenever someone mentioned Lena's name in passing. Once, when a girl from drama club laughed a little too hard at something I said, Alice smiled sweetly and said, "Careful. He's already taken. And he cries if you flirt too aggressively."
I laughed. Because that's what you do when someone jokes.
But the joke stayed with me.
It dragged up a memory from when I was sixteen. Lena standing in front of the whole class, declaring, without hesitation, that I belonged to her.
Back then, it made me happy.
I hadn't felt exposed or wrong or borrowed.
I'd felt chosen.
That was the difference.
Later, alone in the hallway, I said, "You didn't have to do that."
"Do what?" she asked.
"That." I gestured vaguely. "The warning label."
"Oh." She shrugged. "Occupational hazard of being your fake girlfriend."
The word fake hung between us.
She didn't reach for it.
Instead, she smiled, softer this time. "Hey. It's working, right? People backed off. You're breathing again."
I was.
That was the problem.
At night, I caught myself listening for her footsteps outside my room. Waiting for her laughter in the kitchen. Feeling steadier just knowing she was nearby. Then hating myself for it.
Because Lena had been fire. Chaos. Pain that felt meaningful.
Alice was quiet. Sharp. Solid.
I didn't know which one scared me more.
One evening, she said, "If we keep this up, we'll need an anniversary. Maybe a fake breakup anniversary too."
She laughed, like it was a joke. I wasn't sure if it was.
I didn't laugh.
Not because the joke was bad. Because it assumed time. Anniversaries meant staying. Staying meant this wasn't just a cover anymore.
I hadn't agreed to a future. Only quiet. Only space to breathe.
Alice wasn't doing anything wrong. That was the problem. She made things easier, and I let her. The days slid by without resistance, and I went with them because it hurt less than pushing back.
I was afraid that if I stayed, I wouldn't notice when the lie stopped feeling like one.
Afraid that calm would replace something I wasn't ready to lose.
I wondered if my father had felt this too, when he replaced Samuel's mother with mine.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The corridor outside the rehearsal hall smells like dust and old paint. Someone laughs too loudly near the stairs. Lockers slam. Life keeps moving at a perfectly normal volume.
That's how I notice him.
Not because he steps into my path. Not because he calls my name. Just a familiar shape leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that practiced, superior way.
Samuel.
He's watching me.
I feel it before I really see him. That old instinct, like pressing on a bruise you forgot existed. My shoulders tense. My jaw tightens.
Old Ash stirs, ready to brace for impact.
Then something strange happens.
Nothing.
No anger. No panic. No urge to ask what he wants or what game he's playing now. Just exhaustion. Bone deep and unglamorous. The kind that makes drama feel heavy instead of tempting.
He looks the same. Sharp jaw. Controlled expression. That faint smirk, like he's always one step ahead.
Like he's waiting for me to react.
I don't.
I keep walking.
My footsteps echo as I pass him, close enough that the old version of me would've slowed down, would've looked, would've prepared for a verbal strike.
I don't turn my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the smirk falter. Just slightly. Samuel Blake lives on reflection. On proof that he exists loudly in someone else's mind.
I take that away by refusing to look.
Behind me, I feel his attention sharpen, like a hand reaching for something that isn't there anymore. I imagine him waiting for me to snap, to say something cruel or wounded or desperate.
I don't.
I walk past the notice board. Past the open rehearsal room door. Past the version of myself that believed every confrontation needed a winner.
Samuel doesn't feel like a threat anymore.
He feels like noise I've finally learned to ignore.
As I push the door open and step inside, the realization settles quietly.
Ignoring him wasn't a strategy.
It was a side effect.
Of being done.