Living together was a slow-motion disaster. Jamie left dirty dishes stacked like modern art and sang off-key show tunes every morning while I alphabetized the spice rack and craved silence. Miss Helen visited constantly with muffins and watchful eyes, forcing us into stiff hugs and invented inside jokes. One night I overheard him telling someone on the phone that I drove him crazy but was also funny, sharp, and caring. The next morning he left me pancakes shaped into the word “SORRY.” Then he announced he had a real date. I stormed next door, admitted to Miss Helen that I missed him when he was gone, and ran home to stop him.

I told Jamie the truth: I liked him for real. He admitted the date had only been a test to see if I would stop him. He canceled it, we sat on the couch with our arms touching, and when Miss Helen walked past the window we waved back without pretending. As we continue figuring out what comes next in the apartment we once faked our way into, one quiet question remains—how many other desperate arrangements are still waiting for the moment when the performance finally becomes the truth neither person planned to feel?