The script and the spark

The night before the double date, I met Derek at a quiet little lounge tucked into the corner of the city. It wasn’t loud or flashy — low lighting, velvet booths, warm wood, and a playlist filled with soft soul and jazz.

We needed a plan. That was the excuse.

He was already seated when I arrived, two drinks on the table — one in front of him, one waiting for me. I slid into the booth across from him, nerves coiled tightly in my chest.

"You ordered for me?" I asked with a smile.

He smirked. “I took a wild guess. Whiskey, ginger, lots of ice.”

I blinked. “How’d you—?”

“You mentioned it at the party. Between sniffles.”

I laughed, a little embarrassed. “Great. So my emotional breakdown also came with a drink order.”

He raised his glass. “A well-rounded evening, clearly.”

We clinked glasses, and it began. The planning. The lies. The fake history we needed to memorize.

“So,” I started, flipping open my notebook — yes, I brought a notebook. “We’ve been together for five months, we met at an art exhibit—”

“Wrong. We met at a dog café,” he interrupted, grinning.

“A dog café?”

“Yes. You were there with your friend Sasha. You spilled a cappuccino on my shoe.”

“That… is disturbingly specific.”

“Exactly. Specifics are believable.”

I tilted my head. “Why are you so good at this?”

He sipped his drink slowly. “Let’s just say, I’ve had to play roles before. In business. In life. You learn what to show and what to hide.”

I studied him for a moment longer. There was something behind his charm. Something that didn’t feel fake at all.

We spent the next two hours crafting our fictional love story. The little details, inside jokes, quirks. Our favorite Netflix show, the song that played on our first date, the fake restaurant we celebrated our two-month anniversary at.

But somewhere between the laughter, the teasing, and the drinks that kept quietly refilling — it didn’t feel like lying anymore.

I looked at him and forgot we were pretending.

Around midnight, we stepped out of the lounge. The air was cool and crisp, the streetlights humming softly above us. He walked me to his car and opened the door like some kind of gentleman from an old black-and-white movie.

“I’m glad we did this,” I said as he started the car.

“Me too,” he said. “I didn’t think fake-dating someone could be… fun.”

We pulled up to my apartment. For a moment, neither of us moved.

“Well,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt, “tomorrow’s the big performance.”

He looked at me, his voice low. “You don’t have to act like you’re fine. Not around me.”

I smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, Derek. But I’m starting to think... I might be.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze holding mine for a moment longer than it should have.

Then I stepped out, clutching my purse, and walked into my building.

One night.

One fake story.

And somehow, it already felt a little too real.

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