I’m scared to leave, worried that my content will be nothing without him. I’m afraid of being all alone while my best friends have their happily-ever-afters.
That’s all I really want, someone to call home. Someone to love me, forme, not just my content and a quick cash grab.
Pulling into the underground garage of my Santa Monica apartment, my jaw aches from clenching it. I slam the car door shut harder than necessary; the sound echoes off the concrete walls, and I take the elevator up.
The ride is silent except for the buzzing fluorescent light above me.
I pause in front of my apartment door, hesitating to go inside. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I exhale, finally unlocking my front door.
The familiar scent of peony and cherry blossom candles, along with the lingering aroma of takeout, greets me. It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
Brian is exactly where I knew he’d be: sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, thumb scrolling as if it’s the only muscle in his body that works. He doesn’t even bother looking up when I come home anymore.
“We need to film a video,” I say, dropping my tote on the entryway table. My voice is steady and practiced, just like my smile. “For the skincare collab.”
He groans dramatically, dragging his eyes up at me for the first time since I walked in. “Fine.”
I pace over to the hallway closet, dragging my tripod out from it, the legs squeaking as they extend. The ring light flicks on, buzzing faintly, and the apartment transforms under its glow.
He remains slouched on the couch, still scrolling through his stupid phone. His jaw tics when I adjust the angle.
“Hurry up,” he mutters, not even looking at me.
I make my way over to the couch after the tripod is set up, sitting closely next to him.
The moment I press record, he becomes a different person.
His phone vanishes, his posture straightens, and suddenly there’s a dazzling smile on his face; one he reserves only for strangers online. He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side as if he can’t get enough of me, his lips brushing my temple.
“Look at my girl,” he says, grinning into the camera, voice full of fake warmth. “Her skin’s glowing, right? This stuff is magic.”
I laugh on cue, the sound rehearsed and hollow, leaning my head against his shoulder as I broadcast the skincare I’m using.
My stomach twists. Ten minutes ago, I was just background noise to him. Now, in front of the camera, I’m his everything.
He kisses my cheek once, then again, lingering longer,tilting my face so the camera catches it. It looks sweet. It feels wrong.
His mouth is warm, but it’s empty. His thumb strokes my jaw for show, not for me.
I faintly feel a flutter through my chest, a glimpse of how he used to be with me, but that quickly fades.
We go through the routine: the product demo, the exaggerated reactions, the flirty banter that makes my chest ache with how fake it is. I can feel the stiffness in his body, the way every gesture is calculated, every laugh a little too sharp.
I plaster on a wider smile, even as my insides feel smaller, because this is what sells.
Couple content. Happy, glowing, showing the world that we are the perfect couple.
But not for long, I hope my experiment works so I can finally leave him and do whatIwant to do.
Twenty minutes pass in a blur, a blur of muted noises, our voices colliding that I don’t hear anymore.
It’s all I can handle before I stop recording. My face aches from forcing the smile, as my stomach clenches, leaving my palms sweaty. I quickly stand, reaching for the camera, to get away from him, but he’s already standing, muttering under his breath.
“I’m done with this shit,” he snaps, shoving my shoulder as he pushes past me. “Have fun fucking editing, and zelle me the money when it’s in.”
The breath bursts out of me in a sharp scoff. “Whatever.”
