What started as a malfunctioning elevator turned into a serendipitous meeting with Dylan—a confident stranger with piercing blue eyes and charm to spare. We exchanged pleasantries, talked life, and by the time the doors re-opened, he’d invited me to be his “fake date” at a wedding… to avoid facing his ex alone.
On a whim, I agreed.
Dressed in emerald green, I joined Dylan the next day, pretending to be his girlfriend. We crafted our backstory—met in Chicago, six months in, jazz lovers—and headed to the vineyard wedding. It felt like a harmless game… until I saw her.
Stephanie.
My childhood bully. The girl who turned my birthmark into playground ammunition, who once stole my art project and claimed it as hers. Now, she was here—flawless, icy, and staring me down like she hadn’t ruined middle school.
“You look familiar,” she said, smiling like a snake.
I lied. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
But she kept pushing, and just as her cruelty bubbled up, Dylan cut in. Calm. Sharp. “Why don’t you stop?”
She sputtered excuses. He didn’t let her escape without hearing the truth: she hadn’t changed, and he was grateful—for me, and for the reminder of why their relationship died.
The silence that followed was glorious.
We danced, and in that quiet warmth, something shifted. No longer fake. No longer scripted. Just two souls finding safety in each other.
Later, he asked if we should keep pretending.
I answered with a kiss.
Now, we’re real. Stephanie’s just a fading memory. Funny how one broken elevator can open the door to something whole.
