I nod, heart hammering. Carrie groans “If you must I have a prince around here somewhere.” She laughs as she walks away and he leads me into the center of the rooftop, a circle of soft light around us. The city hums beneath our feet, the noise of the crowd fading into the edges of my awareness. Everything else—applause, cameras, Carrie’s voice, flashing smiles—blurs into a distant echo.
The music moves through him first. His shoulder presses against mine, a firm anchor. My forehead finds the steady heat of his chest, and I breathe in rhythm with him, feeling the familiar tug of his body against mine, the slow, measured sway that somehow quiets the storm inside me.
“I love this part,” he murmurs, voice low, vibrating in my ear. “Just us. Nobody else matters.”
I tilt my chin up to his, letting my lips brush his jaw in a feather-light kiss, just enough to make him grin, the corner of his mouth tugging in that quiet, private way I have memorized. The music swells. He dips me slightly, careful, deliberate, and I catch the edge of the silk in his hand, spinning into the rhythm. Laughter bubbles up—soft, reckless, entirely ours.
The wind picks up, curling through my hair, lifting strands around my face. The scent of the city at night—wet asphalt, distant smoke, faint perfume—mixes with his cologne, drying warm on my skin. It’s intoxicating, grounding, utterly intimate. I feel every brush of his fingers along my spine, every press of his palm at my waist, every heartbeat syncing with mine.
We move like water, swaying, turning, falling into one another with the ease of people who have waited a long time to claim a moment like this. Around us, the party continues, lights flashing, laughter echoing, glasses clinking—but the rooftop has shrunk to the size of just us. Just him. Just me. Just the echo of every year that led us here.
He dips his head, brushing my temple with his lips. “I never stopped waiting for you,” he whispers.
I press into him, arms around his neck, letting the wind and the music and the city itself carry away every doubt, every heartbreak, every shadow that lingered too long. “And I’m still here,” I breathe.
For a long moment, we simply move together, silent in our own language, letting the rooftop, the night, and the stars witness our private rhythm.
Later, much later, when the night has softened, and the city feels like it’s listening, I step forward with the pages in my hands.
The article waits.
So does the goodbye.
And this time, I am not afraid to speak.
I stand at the podium, the article in my hands.Love Me With Lies – The Art of Catfishing, by Penn Carter, Editor-in-Chief. My own words. My truth. My confession. Microphones hover, cameras snap, journalists press forward, but I barely notice them. I notice the way Dane is behind me, hands at the small of my back, his presence grounding, reassuring, a tether to the world I’ve just bared. He hates how close the reporters get, hates their intrusive energy, the way they almost feel like predators. I feel him tense through my spine, his jaw tightening, that low, restrained growl in his chest that I’ve come to know as worry for me.
I begin to read.
They say catfishing is the cruellest kind of deceit—the digital age’s version of playing god with someone’s heart. We build false faces, spin curated truths, and throw them into the algorithm, hoping someone will love the illusion. It’smanipulation disguised as connection; validation wrapped in betrayal. It’s wrong. Immoral. Damaging.
At least, that’s what I used to think before I became the catfish.
It started as research for this very piece…
The words feel heavier aloud than they did on paper. Each sentence lands in the air like a small bomb. I watch the room, but it’s a blur, blurred by adrenaline and grief and triumph. I glance over my shoulder; Dane’s fingers brush mine briefly, searching for the connection, and I reach back. Our hands interlock, small, deliberate, and the electricity eases slightly.
…somewhere between setting up a fake profile and choosing a name that wasn’t mine, I stumbled upon something I never expected: my husband.
A murmur runs through the room. Cameras flash. Journalists scribble faster. Someone laughs quietly, nervously, unsure if it’s appropriate. Dane shifts behind me, brushing a hand along my side, grounding me, reminding me I am more than the eyes and voices pressing toward me.
The man who’d promised me forever, then disappeared like smoke. The man I’d built a life with, mourned, hated, missed. There he was — smiling, charming, swiping right. So, I did too.
My voice trembles, just slightly. A shadow of what I’ve been carrying for years, now finally laid bare.
What followed wasn’t research. It was resurrection. Or maybe it was revenge…
I lift my eyes and scan the crowd. Carrie smiles, small but steady, proud. I give her a subtle nod. The story belongs to all of us now, but this moment is mine.
Catfishing isn’t just about lies. It’s about loneliness. It’s about wanting to be wanted so badly that you build an entirely new self to make it happen…
Dane’s breath hitches against the back of my neck. He leans close, whispering something that only I hear:You’re incredible.
I continue.
The Pros: The Power in Pretending…
The Cons: The Cost of Control…
