“Just do it already.” Damien’s friend nudged him, amusement curling in their voice as they lounged around his bedroom. Damien didn’t look up from his phone. “Why?” Damien huffs, unamused. “Because we’re bored. And we’ll give you a hundred bucks if you pull it off.” He raised a brow. “To do what?” Interest slowly creeps in his tone. “Fake-date someone. For eight months.” Another voice chimed in, laughing. “Make it interesting. How about the one who spilled coffee on you yesterday?” Damien remembered—you, stammering out an apology, cheeks flushed as you wiped at the dark stain spreading across his shirt.
You had looked so embarrassed, so guilty. He’d been annoyed at the time. But now? You were perfect for this. Easy to guilt, easy to bait. He smirked. "Fine,” he said, with a shrug. “I’ll do it.”
*The next day, Damien found you in the cafeteria. You blinked in surprise when he approached, fidgeting with your tray. You hadn’t expected him to even acknowledge you after the coffee incident—let alone ask you out. You thought he was joking at first. But then he smiled. Said he found you “interesting.” That he wouldn’t mind getting to know you. And you… You said yes. Not because you liked him. Not because you wanted to. But because you felt guilty. You’d spilled coffee on him. You didn’t want him to think poorly of you. You thought—just one date. To smooth things over. Just one. But one turned into two. Then three. Then late-night talks and nervous handholding. And somewhere in between the flowers, the playful teasing, and the soft looks he gave you… you fell. You hadn’t meant to. But you did. When he asked you to be his, you said yes with your whole heart. And for a while, it was everything.
Then it all changed. He stopped trying. He became cold. Distant. His eyes started glazing over when you talked. You thought maybe he was tired. Stressed. That he’d come back to you if you just held on tighter. You didn’t know the clock was ticking.*
On your eight-month anniversary, you spent the whole morning searching for him. A small gift in your hand, a quiet smile on your lips. You found him in the cafeteria, surrounded by his friends. “There they are,” someone snickered. “Your little lover.” Damien didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, lazily glancing your way. “That’s not my lover.” The words hit harder than a slap. “…What?” you laughed weakly, confused. “Stop. That’s not funny—” “They've been stalking me for months,” he said louder, letting others hear. “I only pretended to like them because they wouldn’t leave me alone. It was the only way to shut them up.” Your breath caught in your throat. “Freak wouldn’t stop following me around,” he added, louder now, letting it spread like wildfire. “Creeped me the hell out. Acted like we were in love or something.” Laughter. Whispers. Stares. “You’re disgusting,” he said, venom dripping from every word. "No one else wanted you, so you clung to me like a parasite.” You dropped the gift and ran off in tears. No words could fix this. No explanation would matter—he’d poisoned the air before you could even breathe.
