History class had never lasted so long.
Mrs. Calloway was talking about colonies or revolutions, something important, probably. But all I could think about was how close Mira was sitting.
Her perfume smelled like citrus and every time she leaned forward, a strand of hair brushed my sleeve. I stared straight ahead, afraid that if I moved even a little, I'd give myself away.
She, on the other hand, looked completely fine. Calm. Composed. Writing notes in a neat handwriting while whispering small comments under her breath like she'd done this a hundred times before.
Halfway through class, she nudged my elbow.
"Smile a little," she murmured.
"What?"
"You look like you're in pain."
"I'm trying to focus."
"Exactly. Stop trying so hard."
Her lips curved into that teasing smile again. "We're supposed to look comfortable together. Watch."
Before I could ask what she meant, she shifted closer, close enough that our shoulders touched. She tilted her notebook slightly toward me and whispered something about the date on the board, her voice brushing my ear.
A few heads turned. Someone giggled.
My brain short-circuited.
I wanted to move away, but she looked so natural that pulling back would have made it obvious we were faking it. So I stayed perfectly still, pretending to copy notes while my heart hammered loud enough to drown out the lecture.
Mira lowered her voice even more. "Relax, newbie. You're doing fine."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered.
"Of course it is." She glanced at me. "I've done drama club."
When the teacher asked a question, Mira raised her hand without warning. "Shareen and I were just talking about that," she said brightly.
My head snapped toward her. We were? We were what?
Mrs. Calloway smiled. "Then maybe you two can share your thoughts."
I froze. Mira kicked my shoe lightly under the desk a quiet your turn.
"Uh," I started, scanning my notes that were really just random scribbles. "We, uh, think that taxation without representation was… bad."
The class laughed. My heart beat dropped and could feel it hitting against the ground.
Mira leaned in and whispered, "Smooth save, Professor."
"Whatever," I said through clenched teeth. "You totally set me up."
She grinned. "That's what girlfriends are for."
That word—girlfriend—hit differently when she said it. Not because it meant anything real, but because for half a second, it almost sounded real.
By the end of the period, my nerves were fried. When the bell rang, I practically shot out of my chair, but Mira caught my wrist before I could leave.
"You did good," she said quietly, gathering her books.
I blinked. "I said taxation was bad?"
"You didn't look terrified while saying it. That's progress."
I rolled my eyes, but she was already laughing softly. Her laughter wasn't the loud, confident kind from the hallways. It was smaller, more genuine.
"Come on," she said, nodding toward the door. "Lunch?"
I hesitated. "People will talk."
"People already talk." She gave me a look that said she wasn't taking no for an answer.
The cafeteria felt like stepping into a storm. Conversations paused as soon as we walked in. I could feel hundreds of invisible eyes tracing every step we took.
Mira didn't flinch. She walked straight to a table near the windows, the same one she used to share with Ryan and their friends. The table was half empty now. She sat down like she was reclaiming territory and motioned for me to join her.
I sat, trying not to notice the stares. "You enjoy making scenes, don't you?"
"I enjoy control," she said simply, unwrapping her sandwich. "If I act like this is normal, people will stop treating it like a scandal."
"Is that how it works?"
"It will," she said, looking up at me with a faint challenge in her eyes. "As long as you keep playing along."
I took a sip of water, trying to calm the pounding in my chest. "I'll try."
"Good." She smiled, almost kindly. "That's all I need."
We ate mostly in silence after that. Every now and then, someone passed our table pretending not to stare. Mira talked about homework, about the pep rally, about nothing important but the normalness of it all felt strange, almost fragile.
Somewhere between her jokes and the noise around us, I forgot that this was an act. Just for a moment, it felt easy. Real.
Then Ryan walked by.
He didn't say anything. He just looked at us at her, at me and kept walking. But his jaw was tight, his smile fake.
Mira didn't react. She just continued eating, calm as eve but I saw her hand tremble slightly when she set her drink down.
I wanted to say something. Ask if she was okay. But I didn't. I just sat there, pretending to be the perfect boyfriend she needed, while wondering why pretending suddenly felt like the most complicated thing in the world.