“I will accept no less than soccer-protective-boyfriend energy in my life.”
“Daphne Sommers is a journalism icon and a goddess and if she breaks his heart I will riot.”
I read them again, slower this time, because the sheer audacity was almost impressive. Fans loved a narrative. They loved a villain turned soft, a grump softened by warmth, a mean girl reformed by love. They loved chaos reframed as destiny. Social media manufactured mythology with the efficiency of a conveyor belt: take footage, add a heartbreak soundtrack, sell tickets to the funeral.
I wanted to be furious. Part of me was—because someone somewhere would monetize my words and edit my sarcasm into cruelty and call it “authenticity.” Part of me was tired—sick of being the headline and the body copy and the reaction gif for strangers with no stake in the actual story. And part of me, spiteful and ridiculous, was a little pleased. Dangerous to admit, even in the privacy of my apartment, but there it was: someone had noticed. Someone had said out loud what I’d been trying to make small, the thing I didn’t admit to myself when I was sober enough to ignore it.
I tapped the first comment to open the full thread. It spiraled—memes, reaction videos, a slideshow of our worst moments with romantic captions. Someone mocked up a fake magazine cover with us in matching, terrible sweaters, the headline screaming ROM-COM OF THE SEASON.
A notification floated up. Nora had sent three more texts. Talia wanted a scanned copy of the contract. Mom wanted reassurance that I was eating enough. My producer wanted a list of story angles.
I took a breath and forced my fingers to do what they were supposed to: work. I thumbed a quick message to Talia—reading. will send you my version of the timeline. keep legal on standby.—and a short, carefully neutral reply to Cameron’s latest: soft rollout confirmed. coordinating schedule. Efficient. Clean. Unemotional.
Then I closed the laptop and sat very still, letting the ridiculousness of it settle like dust.
The truth was, the internet could craft whatever fairy tale it wanted. They could tag me #reluctantsoftgirl or paint me as a saint or a harlot depending on which ten-second clip fit their mood. None of that changed the fact that I’d signed a contract, that Kieren had thrown a punch for me, and that tomorrow I’d have to stand in public and pretend our hands weren’t the first thing we reached for when nobody was watching.
I told myself one last time—quiet, sharp, and practical—this is a story. Don’t be the headline you hate.
Then I went to make more coffee, which felt both like a necessary ritual and a small defiance.
Until I got more tags.
Someone had made a collage.
I wasn’t tagged in the original, but it didn’t matter—my name was in the comments, trending right next to #StormWalker and #SoftGrump.
The first photo was us laughing at the taco stand. I could practically hear the snort I let out when I spilled salsa on my shirt. The second was the soccer field—right at the moment our hands brushed. I’d been swatting at a mosquito. He thought I was high-fiving him. It became a meme within hours.
The third one, though, was the hand-holding moment.
Caught in perfect lighting. A little blurry, like it was taken too fast, but somehow it made the moment feel… real. My hand in his. His expression unreadable, except?—
No. Not unreadable.
I stared at the final photo.
He was looking at me like I was gravity. Like I was something pulling him in whether he wanted it or not.
I didn’t remember it feeling that intense. Not in the moment.
But maybe it had.
My stomach twisted. I wanted to blame the burrito. Or the way he’d handed me that soccer ball like I wasn’t the most uncoordinated person alive. Or the way his fingers had curled around mine—not like a photo op. Not like a prop.
Like it mattered.
I shut my phone. Tossed it onto the bed like it had personally betrayed me. Which, in a way, it had.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be fake. Temporary. Mutually beneficial.
Not… whatever this was.
Not me replaying the way he laughed on the field when I did my ridiculous goal dance. Not the way his voice went lower when he said my name. Not the way his jaw clenched when he saw that car across the street and took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wasn’t supposed to notice those things.
I definitely wasn’t supposed to feel them.
