He laughed.
“It was the first thing that came to mind.”
“I almost ruined it.”
“You recovered.”
“I said, ‘I did?’”
“You adapted.”
I shook my head.
“I can’t believe you made all that up.”
“I didn’t make up all of it.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked out the window.
“You really are kind.”
I frowned.
“You barely knew me.”
“I knew enough.”
His voice became quieter.
“Most people walk past someone sitting on the sidewalk without seeing them.”
He glanced at me.
“You stopped.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the drive.
A week later, my parents invited us back for Sunday dinner.
Then another invitation arrived the following weekend.
Soon we were attending birthdays, family barbecues, and neighborhood gatherings together.
Everywhere we went, people commented on what a beautiful couple we made.
“You’re glowing, Miley.”
“I’ve never seen you happier.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“When are the grandchildren coming?”
Stan handled every question effortlessly.
Sometimes I caught him watching me when everyone else was talking.
Whenever our eyes met, he’d smile.
It was always gentle.
Never forced.
The strange part was that pretending to be married became easier every day.
At home, we settled into an effortless routine.
He made breakfast while I packed lunches.
I’d leave for work first.
He’d tidy the house, run errands, and somehow fix anything that broke before I even noticed.
One Saturday, I came home carrying several grocery bags.
Before I reached the porch, the front door opened.
Stan walked outside.
“You bought too much again.”
“I can carry them.”
“I know.”
He took the heavier bags anyway.
Inside, I laughed.
“You don’t have to keep acting like the perfect husband.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“I’m not acting.”
The words lingered between us.
For just a second.
Then he smiled as if nothing unusual had happened and carried the groceries into the kitchen.
I told myself I was imagining things.
After all, this marriage wasn’t real.
It was a deal.
A temporary arrangement.
Nothing more.
So why did the house suddenly feel empty whenever Stan stepped out for a few hours?
And why did I find myself smiling every time I heard his key turning in the front door?
I refused to think too deeply about those questions.
Because the truth was becoming harder to ignore.
Somewhere between fake smiles, shared dinners, and quiet evenings on the couch…
our pretend marriage had begun to feel frighteningly real.
For illustrative purposes only
Part 4
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