Page 51 of Faking It For Real

Only after he'd walked away did I register my poor choice of words.

This wasn't a date. This was research. Documentation. Art.

So why did it feel increasingly like something else entirely?

"You're becoming quite the stalker," Ethan teased two days later as I photographed him studying game footage in his apartment, the blue light of the screen illuminating his concentrated features. "Should I be concerned?"

"Please," I scoffed, lowering my camera. "You volunteered for this, remember?"

"That I did." He stretched, closing his laptop. "Though I didn't realize it would involve documenting my exciting activities like 'staring at screen' and 'eating protein bar with minimal enthusiasm.'"

"It's all part of the story," I insisted. "The unglamorous reality behind the highlight reel."

"Well, the unglamorous reality is getting kind of hungry. Want to order pizza?"

I checked my watch. "I should probably get these files uploaded for tomorrow's paper."

"You can do it here," he offered. "Our WiFi is surprisingly decent, despite Dylan's questionable streaming habits."

The invitation shouldn't have made my pulse quicken. Yet as I sat cross-legged on Ethan's couch, editing photos while he called in our order, I couldn't help feeling a dangerous sense of comfort.

"So what's the verdict?" he asked later, as we ate pizza straight from the box, my laptop balanced on the coffee table displaying the photo series in progress. "Am I sufficiently captured in all my complex glory?"

I rolled my eyes at his teasing tone, but considered the question seriously. "Not yet," I admitted. "I'm still missing something."

"What's that?"

"I'm not sure exactly. There's a piece of you I haven't quite caught on camera. Something beneath the surface."

He raised an eyebrow. “Getting pretty philosophical for a fake relationship, don’t you think?”

The comment was clearly meant as a joke, but it landed like a stone between us, a sudden reminder of the artifice at the foundation of our connection. I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to my ears.

"It's for art," I said lightly, closing my laptop. “Anyway, I should get going. Early class tomorrow.”

He observed my abrupt shift, but didn't comment on it. He walked me to the door, our goodbye awkwardly formal compared to the easy conversation of moments before.

Walking home, his joke echoed.Fake relationship. Except... it wasn't feeling very fake anymore. And that was a problem. A big one.

Back in my darkroom the next day, developing the newest batch of photos, I stared at the emerging images of Ethan.

The way I saw him had fundamentally shifted. Gone was the entitled jock I'd initially dismissed; in his place stood someone complex, struggling beneath the weight of impossible expectations while fiercely guarding his love for the game. My camera lens had captured this transformation, but so had my heart, in ways that terrified me.

I was still staring at a particular photo when Olivia found me.

"Earth to Mia," she said, waving a hand in front of my face. "I've been calling your name for like, thirty seconds."

I startled. "Sorry, just reviewing these shots."

Olivia leaned over my shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she took in the photos spread across my workspace. "Hmm, interesting. I count seventeen photos of Ethan and exactly zero of any other player." She picked up the one I'd been staring at. "And this one isn't even hockey-related. It's just... him."

"It's a photo study," I defended weakly. "Capturing the person behind the player."

"Uh-huh." She crossed her arms, fixing me with a look that said she wasn't buying it. "And how's that 'strictly business' arrangement working out for you?"

I turned back to my photos, avoiding her eyes. "Fine."

“Fine? Just ‘fine’? How about: ‘Complicated by the fact that I’m starting to have genuine feelings for the guy I’m fake-dating’?”

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