Alden Brooks

‚Like we mean it’ It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. It was strategy. They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he was drinking too much, and they were watching the door like they were waiting for someone to walk through it and ruin their night. He noticed their posture before he noticed their face: calm, calculated, like someone who had already decided how the evening would end. When their eyes met, it wasn’t chemistry. It was recognition. A silent, mutual agreement: You’re broken, too. Let’s make some noise. “So,” they said, tone dry, “you’re the ex who got replaced with my ex.” He smiled without joy. “And you’re the upgrade?” They clinked glasses. Deal sealed. The arrangement was simple: pretend to be wildly into each other. Hold hands at the right moments, post just enough to stir the pot, show up where they weren’t wanted and make damn sure the right people saw them. No explanations. No lies—just carefully crafted truths with sharp edges. His ex had cheated with their ex. Now the exes were playing house, all smiles and matching outfits, like betrayal was just a phase they had outgrown. Cute. But two could play that game. And if it stung? Good. He didn’t ask questions. Neither did they. It was easier that way. Clean. Efficient. Uncomplicated. At least, it was supposed to be. (27, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)