The wall clock was almost touching nine when the apartment lock turned. Behind me, Alan stepped in carrying the last stack of shopping bags, making us look like we'd just looted an entire mall.
By then, the living room floor was barely visible. Bags stamped with luxury brand logos lay scattered everywhere, pushing my old furniture into the corners. I ran my fingers over the stiff Italian leather of a new pair of heels—the smell of expensive luxury rising sharp and unfamiliar, almost nauseating if I was reckless enough to calculate the total.
All of this luxury belonged to Alan. Or more accurately, he had paid for all of it with that black credit card of his—the one that apparently had never heard the word declined.
Without hesitating for even a second, he had let the cashier swipe an amount equal to my living expenses for an entire semester. Alan had only smiled, like spending that much money was as trivial as breathing.
"This is crazy. Is this really okay?" I asked, staring at the mountain of paper bags on the floor—some of them I still hadn't even touched. A slow uneasiness crept up the back of my neck, like I'd just committed a very polite robbery.
"It's fine, sweetheart." The answer came easily. Alan sat at my desk flipping through a newly bought art book with ridiculous calm. His voice was soft, like he had just bought me iced dessert from a roadside stall, not a handbag worth more than a motorcycle.
Holding up a silk blouse, I kept whispering my doubts. "But what if this doesn't even fit right, Alan? What if it's too big?"
"Then you exchange it. That's what the guarantee's for."
That logic made me pause. Maybe those astronomical price tags really did pay for certainty—the idea that any mistake could be fixed by simply exchanging the item. Still frowning, I checked the contents of each bag one by one. I smiled for a second, then slowly shifted into confusion.
"I don't remember picking this one," I murmured when I found a polished pair of dark formal shoes at the bottom of one bag.
"You'll still need them eventually. For work later," Alan said, glancing over without really lifting his eyes from the book.
"I'm only in my third semester, Alan. I might not even graduate next year."
"That's fine. Just keep them for now."
"These are so pretty, though. If Marina saw them, she'd totally elbow me out of the way for them."
Alan didn't answer right away. He stayed quiet for a second, slowly turning a page in his book. "Do you two still talk a lot?" His tone was too flat, like he was taking inventory.
"Of course. She's been my friend since high school. We just haven't hung out much since you and I got close."
"That's normal, isn't it? Friends come and go when your rhythms don't sync up anymore," Alan said calmly, not taking his eyes off the text. "Besides, it's better to keep your circle small. It's safer. Less friction."
"Alan, what is wrong with you? You get so touchy whenever I bring her up. She's practically a sister to me, you know."
Alan finally looked up, his casual smile slipping perfectly back into place. "I'm just giving you an objective perspective. But if you say she's a sister, then fine."
That answer shut our little argument down. I stepped closer and kissed his forehead before he sank back into reading.
On impulse, I took a photo of the shopping bags and posted it to my Instagram story with the caption: Thank you, my best man.
My phone immediately exploded. Within minutes, notifications flooded in like a malware attack.
"Alina! You're so lucky!"
"Where do you even find a guy like that? He's perfect. Handsome, rich, kind. Alan is literally a prince in real life."
Lying down, I scrolled through the comments one by one. This kind of validation should have made me the happiest girl in the world. But for some reason, my instincts kept buzzing—like there was signal interference in my head.
Perfect?
In design, whenever something feels too polished, it usually means there's a giant question mark hiding underneath. If there isn't a single flaw, not a single bit of friction anywhere, then usually someone has worked very hard to hide whatever's wrong.
My eyes drifted toward Alan as he stood to leave. He was putting on his shoes; his posture stayed straight, not a single hair out of place. He felt like... a product polished over and over until not one visible trace of humanity had been left exposed.
Why did he give me everything? Why didn't he even look tired after spending hours walking around the mall with me? And why did his every response feel so... perfectly calibrated, like an algorithm had generated them?
"Alan," I called softly. My own voice sounded strange, trapped in a silence that suddenly felt tight.
He turned. His smile appeared instantly—precise, warm, effortless all at once. "Yeah? What is it?"
"Thank you."
He brushed my hair gently and only nodded. "Of course, sweetheart." He gave me a brief wave, then walked out down the stairs.
I nodded back stiffly.
But inside my head, the suspicion only grew louder: Alan was more than just a boyfriend. He was too perfect to be real.
And I was going to find out where the secret was.
The next day, that uneasy feeling had rooted itself even deeper. I needed certainty. I needed a test to see how long Alan's mask could hold before it cracked.
Step one: ghosting.
I hung out at a café on the edge of town with some friends from campus. I deliberately put my phone on airplane mode. I let his messages hang for hours. In my head, I had already pictured the normal outcome: Alan calling over and over, Alan panicking, or at least Alan sending something irritated like 'Where are you?'
Three hours.
I kept checking the café wall clock on purpose. My fingers tapped against the table while I waited for a human reaction from someone who was supposed to be my boyfriend.
"Alina, you keep spacing out," Sasha said, nudging my arm. "Your coffee's practically growing a crust."
"Oh. Right. I forgot." I gave her a thin smile.
"What's with you? Missing Alan already?"
"Ooooh," my other three friends chimed in together.
"Don't you get bored seeing him every day?"
"You two are glued together."
"What are you even talking about? I can spend a whole day without him."
"Sure. And then suddenly someone's going to get all moody."
"Is he possessive?"
"Honestly, if a possessive guy had that much money, I'd still say yes," one of them said, and the whole table burst out laughing.
The noise died the second the person they were talking about appeared at the door.
Instead of showing up red in the face or out of breath, Alan walked in wearing a neat flannel shirt, carrying a bouquet of white roses—like he knew exactly where I was without needing to be told.
"Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I'm late picking you up," he said softly, setting the flowers in front of me. He greeted my friends so politely that all of them collectively held their breath in awe.
"Oh my God, Al... Where do you even find a guy like this? He's so attentive!" Sasha whispered, completely jealous.
Alan even joined in our conversation. He listened to campus gossip about a strict professor with an enthusiasm that felt... too sincere. So sincere it felt fake.
I smiled slightly, but inside my head, the file on my suspicions was only getting thicker.
The result of this stress test: he didn't panic at all. I ghosted him for three hours, and he should have at least asked where I'd been with an annoyed tone. Instead, he walked in with flowers as if he already knew my exact coordinates. Not a single trace of a guy frantically searching for his missing girlfriend. How did he know?
While my friends were melting over his warmth, I was busy noting the anomaly. His reaction wasn't normal.
Step two: Fatal Damage.
That afternoon at Alan's apartment, I deliberately borrowed his laptop. Sasha had borrowed mine earlier at the café; her assignment wasn't finished, so she took it home.
While Alan went to the bathroom, I started digging. Search history, hidden folders, anything that could serve as proof of a weakness. Ex-girlfriends, embarrassing photos, evidence of cheating.
Zero. Completely clean. He didn't even follow any female celebrities. No professors either—just Airin, his sister, and me.
My frustration peaked. My hands were shaking as I tried to move the laptop to the table. And that was when the incident happened—maybe my subconscious did it on purpose.
CRASH!
The laptop slammed hard against the floor. The sound of the hinge snapping rang loudly in my ears. The screen cracked like a spiderweb. It was an expensive laptop, basically the lifeline for his thesis.
I screamed on reflex.
Alan came out of the bathroom. "What happened?"
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Alan..." my voice trembled.
Alan picked up the laptop and set it on the table.
"I really didn't mean to." My tone was half regret, half terror, waiting for his reaction.
Alan stood up and looked at me, his eyes still completely calm. "It's fine. It's just a laptop."
"But I feel so incredibly guilty," I kept going. "You shouldn't just forgive me like that."
"Alina, I'm not mad. Hey, don't cry." He looked at me, then pulled me into a tight hug.
"Why? That laptop was so important to you."
"Things can be bought again."
"No, you're supposed to be mad! All I do is take up your time, whine without understanding how you feel, break your things, spend your money... I don't understand how you can still stick around."
"Alina, if you only knew that my love runs deeper than just material things. It's bigger than a small mistake."
"But—"
"Let it go. I'm not demanding anything. I'm not asking you to be anyone else. You are you, and I accept you."
Those words actually made me feel worse. Why wasn't he angry? Why was such a massive loss treated like nothing? This wasn't patience anymore; this was extreme self-control. It was as if he was genuinely terrified that if even one negative emotion slipped out, I would run away.
That night, curiosity wouldn't let me sleep. I opened my laptop and started with one keyword: Gora.
I uploaded the photo of the empty can I'd secretly taken the day before into Google Lens.
Nothing.
Not on any marketplace. Not on any import beverage site. Not even in weird collector forums.
Gora beverage. Gora supplement. Gora nutrition drink.
I kept searching until my eyes started to sting.
A Telegram collector group admin gave me a short reply: The branding looks decent, but it has never been registered anywhere. Are you sure it's real? Could just be a prop from a movie set.
My thoughts started spiraling.
If it wasn't sold legally anywhere, then where was Alan getting it from? Why did he need it every single day? And what happened if he didn't get it?
My fear had shifted. At first I'd been afraid he was hiding something romantic.
Now I was afraid Alan might be dependent on something dangerous.
The next morning in the campus cafeteria, Alan sat across from me, relaxed, holding a can of Gora. He hadn't ordered any food.
"Alan," I said, sitting down across from him and trying to keep my face neutral. "How's the laptop? Can it be fixed?"
"Yeah. I took it apart. No critical components are broken," he said, calm as ever.
I watched the can in his hand. "Can I try one? I'm honestly curious. You drink that thing all the time and you always look completely fine."
Alan's thumb stopped just before opening the tab.
He looked at me for a long moment, like he was weighing something heavy. Then he let out a short breath. I caught his jaw tightening for just a fraction of a second before the smile came back.
"Later. I promise I'll let you try one," he said.
I nodded, satisfied. Small victory.
But as Alan drew his hand back, I caught the quick movement of his fingers putting the can away again. Something flickered across his face, then vanished. My small victory evaporated and was replaced by a cold feeling crawling up the back of my neck.
He wasn't being careless.
He was just changing strategies.
That afternoon, I stopped by Alan's apartment. The hallway still smelled faintly of rain. My excuse was simple: checking on the laptop.
"Still working on it. The hinge has to be handled carefully," Alan said when he opened the door.
He really was fixing it himself. The laptop sat open on the desk, its circuits exposed. Alan handled it with the precision of a surgeon.
"I thought you were only good with software," I said, watching him place tiny screws with exact accuracy.
"Sometimes a broken system needs work at the hardware level. Not just deleting data," he replied, eyes still on the board.
"Let's hope it doesn't blow up like that time in the lab."
"That's different. I didn't even touch anything." He laughed, not looking up.
At the corner of the desk sat a sealed pack of Gora cans, still wrapped in plastic. The red and white stood out sharply against everything else.
"Your order came in," he said, handing me one can.
Just as I was about to pop the tab, Alan's phone—lying near the laptop—vibrated.
He glanced at the screen, and this time his reaction slipped.
His eyes hardened.
"Sorry. I need to take this. It's important," he said quickly, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind him.
My fingers paused over the tab.
"Cold probably tastes better anyway," I muttered.
I walked toward the double-door refrigerator in the corner of the room. When I opened it, the inside of Alan's fridge looked like a monument to controlled obsession. Fruits and vegetables arranged by color and size. Everything fresh, spotless, almost decorative instead of edible.
"Why does he even keep all this? I've barely ever seen him eat fruit or vegetables," I whispered.
I reached deeper inside, moving past a perfectly lined-up row of apples. At the bottom shelf, hidden behind the vegetable drawer, something else caught my eye.
I pulled the drawer all the way out.
No green vegetables.
Only Gora cans.
The exact same ones I'd been trying to find.
Finally. The cold ones.
My brain registered it as a win.
But my gut clenched.
My hand trembled when I touched one. The thin layer of frost stung my fingertips. Logic told me to stop.
But curiosity had already passed obsession a long time ago.
I pulled the tab.
Ssst.
The gas escaped, carrying a smell that hit the back of my nose immediately.
Not strawberry.
Not the chemical edge of a supplement.
Metallic. Sharp. Iron-rich.
The exact smell of a nosebleed. Or the taste that fills your mouth when you bite the inside of your cheek.
I swallowed, and even that felt bitter.
I lifted the can toward my lips.
Just one drop.
I only wanted proof that I was wrong. That this was just beet juice with a weird texture.
The cold liquid touched my tongue.
The world went silent.
Iron. Thick. Metal.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I choked.
The can almost slipped from my hand.
I screamed and stumbled backward, the sound tearing out of me raggedly.
"Alina."
That voice.
I jolted so hard the can completely left my hand. Dark red liquid splashed across the white marble.
I spun around, my back slamming into the refrigerator door, chest heaving.
Alan was standing there.
The pleasant expression was gone. That precise, calibrated smile—gone too. What I saw in his eyes was something I had never seen there before.
Raw, unguarded fear.
He wasn't scared because I had found the secret.
He was panicking.
"Alina, listen to me..." His voice trembled, and he took one careful step forward.
I shook my head frantically, tears already spilling. "Stay back."
The words came out sharp enough to echo.
Alan froze.
The impact of it all turned my vision black and white.
I needed to run.
But the air had gone somewhere I couldn't reach.
My legs gave out right there, in front of the shattered remains of the mask I'd spent weeks trying to see through.