I was dreaming about bread.
Not eating it. Just... owning it. Like a man of power. Warm sourdough in one hand, rent money in the other.
Then—knock knock knock.
My eyes snapped open. The dread arrived even before consciousness fully clocked in.
It's the landlord.
Of course it's the landlord. It's always the landlord. That knock had the rhythm of unpaid bills and disappointed sighs. I'd been rehearsing my apology for two weeks. It was tragic, moving, Oscar-worthy.
I stumble out of bed—one sock on, hair committing tax fraud—and open the door mid-monologue:
"I swear I'm getting the money by next week, if you could just hold off for like three days and possibly pray for my soul—"
But it wasn't the landlord.
It was her.
Clara Vale.
Standing in my doorway like karma with highlights. In heels. Judging me with the power of a thousand finance bros.
My soul left my body.
"—Eek!"
Yes.
I squeaked.
Like a cartoon squirrel facing death by boot.
She didn't say a word. Just looked me up and down like she was calculating how much therapy this moment would cost.
I forgot how to breathe.
She took a step forward.
My brain short-circuited.
I was in boxers.
She was in Prada.
What the hell was happening?
HER – Upon Entering
I step inside without asking.
He stumbles back like I'm royalty and he forgot to bow.
God help me.
His apartment is... alive. Not in a charming, vintage way. More in a biohazard crime scene meets bachelor rot way.
The sink—dear god, the sink—looks like it hasn't been washed since Yugoslavia still existed. I wouldn't be surprised if a new civilization had evolved between the spoons and the spaghetti strainers.
The air smells like caffeine, regret, and failed dreams.
The floor sticks to my heels. I look down.
Dried Coca-Cola.
I take a slow, stunned breath.
"How waste of a human being was he," I think, dead inside.
"And I want him to act as my boyfriend... in front of my family... in three days?"
The math isn't mathing.
He's darting around like a pigeon caught in a bakery.
"Do you—coffee? I mean, would you want—do you drink—uh—yes, okay!"
He's already pouring old instant coffee grounds into a mug. I hear something hiss. That can't be normal. He's doing this in panic mode, probably trying to act human in front of the woman who's about to ruin his life.
He hands me the mug.
I don't take it.
Not because I don't want it.
Because he's trembling like a human earthquake.
"Theo."
He looks up. Puppy eyes. On fire.
"I need you to be my boyfriend."
His hand jerks. The mug slips.
CRASH.
Coffee meets the floor.
Again.
He stares at the fresh stain like it personally betrayed him.
I stare at him.
We're both silent for one long, painful beat.
"Why," he croaks, "do I feel like I'm in danger."
THEO – Seconds Before Disaster
Coffee. Okay. Make coffee. That's what normal people do when strangers barge into their homes and start judging the crust of their existence.
I grab the mug. I pour. I turn.
"Theo," she says, with the tone of a mafia boss about to ruin your week.
"I need you to be my boyfriend."
My neurons—already melting—just stop firing.
The mug slips.
"NOPE—!"
She jumps like a cat, agile and pissed, just in time to dodge the flying caffeine grenade. The mug explodes behind her like some kind of caffeinated landmine.
I freeze.
She huffs. Brushes off her coat like it personally offended her. Glares at me like I'm the reason global warming exists.
Then—
She starts clapping.
Sarcastically.
Mockingly.
Applauding me like I'm the world's most embarrassing street performer.
"Wow," she says.
"What the hell are you doing, man?! How much more useless can you possibly be?!"
I want to dissolve. Evaporate. Get kidnapped by a sentient coffee stain and be reborn as a teaspoon.
But instead… the yelling fades.
We both just kind of stand there. Breathing. Stewing.
And then she... steps inside fully. Looks around at the apocalypse I call home. Moves a pile of I think that's laundry? Or a pillow? Or possibly both?
She makes some space on the floor.
And sits.
On the floor.
Like she does this all the time. Like she's not wearing something that costs more than my fridge.
I'm so confused I forget to be anxious.
She exhales.
"Okay," she says. "Here's the deal."
And then she starts explaining.
HER – Explaining, While Sitting Among the Chaos
Three days. Family dinner. Fake boyfriend. Her dad, old money, arranged marriage drama, social landmines. I'm the random name she blurted out in a fit of rebellion and bad decision-making. Congratulations to me—I've been chosen.
THEO – While Listening
Somewhere between "I told him you were my soulmate" and "you just have to wear something with buttons," something inside me detaches.
Like my soul. But in a fun way.
I'm not sitting in my disgusting apartment anymore.
Nope.
I'm ascending.
I'm flying.
Beside the stars.
She's still talking, her voice sharp and elegant, and all I can think is:
This is either a mental breakdown… or the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I blink.
She finishes her explanation.
I look down at the spilled coffee.
Then back at her.
"...So, like. Do I have to wear a tie?"
Her head whips toward me like I've asked if socks go on hands.
She squints.
"Do you even own a good tie?"
I blink.
"I have… a red one. It's shiny."
She doesn't respond. Just stares at me like I've committed a hate crime against fashion.
Then she stands, brushes invisible dust off her coat, and says:
"First, we fix you."
THEO – While Walking Out
We're halfway down the street when it escapes me. Slips out like a cough.
"Will you, uh… pay me?"
She stops walking.
"Excuse me?"
I scramble, hands waving.
"It's not like that—I'm new here. I came to New York to, you know, make it. Make my grandmother proud."
I don't tell her the rest.
How my grandma took me in after my parents were both gone before I hit high school.
How she raised me with pennies and poetry and hot soup. How she still sends me handwritten letters even though her fingers are too stiff to hold a pen properly.
How I promised her I'd be something.
How I've failed her every single month I've been here.
How I can't even afford rent right now, and there's no way in hell I'll go crawling back to her porch with nothing but a dream and a broken microwave.
I say none of this.
I just smile—awkward, apologetic.
"I mean, just enough to cover rent. And maybe get her something nice. She's all I have."
She looks at me for a long moment.
Then crosses her arms and says with acid-sugar precision:
"Do you think I'm that heartless? That I'd use you for free?"
I laugh nervously.
She doesn't.
We walk in silence the rest of the way.