behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter One

HARPER

Love is a lie. That's what the sign above the door says. Large looping letters, little hearts along the edges, a lipstick mark pressed into the bottom left corner like a goodbye kiss. It hangs crooked above the tacky red awning of a bar that smells like spilled whiskey and decisions people regret by morning.

A week ago, I would've laughed. I would've told you love was real-messy, yes, imperfect, always-but still something worth holding onto. I would've pointed at that sign and said, "Some heartbroken fool lost their damn mind."

Now I know better.
Love is a lie.
Men are a fucking joke.

Love isn't warm breakfasts or quiet I-missed-yous pressed into your shoulder at night. It's not shared playlists or keys on the same hook. Not flowers by the bed or the way someone says your name like it's a secret only they get to keep.

Apparently, love is getting your dick inside the new girl from marketing. In my bed. While I was across the city, photographing a charity event for his company-smiling at strangers, adjusting lenses, making sure the lighting on the CEO's wife didn't age her more than necessary.

I came home early. That's the worst part-I thought I was doing something sweet. I even brought takeout from his favorite Thai place, spicy noodles and spring rolls, still warm in the bag.

The bedroom door was open. They didn't even bother to close it. Her legs were tangled in the sheets we picked out together at a stupid boutique. He was laughing, his head tipped back, the exact sound I used to fall asleep to. For a second, I didn't even understand what I was seeing. I thought I'd walked into a scene from someone else's life.

And then he looked at me. Just looked.

That was it. No scrambling. No apologies. No I can explain. Just a look. One second of wide eyes, and then that stupid blank face he gets when he knows he's fucked up and doesn't want to deal with it.

Like I was the problem. Like I should've knocked first. I didn't even scream. Didn't cry. Didn't throw the takeout or rip the sheets off the bed. I stood there with the bag in my hand, my chest hollowing out while she grabbed for the blanket and he reached for his phone.

I left the food on the kitchen counter. Left the espresso machine I saved up for and the plants I nursed through five winters. Left the handmade mugs, the records, the stupid matching towels with our initials. I took my camera bag. A jacket. My charger. That's it.

And now Audrey-sweet, loud, ride-or-die Audrey-is upstairs in that apartment, collecting the last pieces of me. My clothes. My backup lenses. The necklace I left on the bathroom sink. Because I couldn't do it. I couldn't walk back into that space and see what was left of my life with Isaiah. I couldn't risk running into him again, hearing that voice say my name like he still has the right.

So instead, I'm here-leaning against the car seat beneath a bar sign that says Love is a Lie, the neon letters buzzing too bright for my headache. The lipstick mark on the corner feels like mockery. The night air is sharp against my cheeks, but I don't move. I feel like I've been moving non-stop since I walked out that door. Cab. Audrey. Another cab. The blur of Vancouver rushing past the window. I didn't even cry when I got to her apartment.

There's something worse than crying. It's the numbness. The quiet. And here I am, wrapped in it. My best friend is upstairs packing my life into suitcases because I couldn't face the man I spent the last six years with.

I hate that. The helplessness of it.
The mess of needing help.
But I do, fuck I do. And I need money. So much money, because where the fuck would I stay now? I can't go back to Florida- I'm not strong enough. I have a life here. I spent six years building up a life for myself. I have a nice job, nice friends, nice... well, I had a nice life.