She didn't have plans when I asked her.

I saw it in her eyes.

But by Saturday she does have plans.

She's found some guy to play the part of a date just to force me into the role of understudy.

Tonight I won't be making it on stage.

It's fake.

It's all fake.

I know that. Can see that in the awkwardness of the conversation, the stilted, unsure movements.

But as the night goes on it becomes real.

The lie becomes the truth, the play stops imitating real life and becomes it.

I'd think they were doing it for my benefit except they have no idea I'm here.

When things progress to the holding hands stage I leave.

I don't want to.

I want to go over there and punch that guy and tell him not to touch my girl.

I want to make a scene and scare him off and . . .

But no.

Juliet wouldn't like that. It wouldn't win me any points with her. It would only make her more determined to . . . what? What is her plan?

She can't be playing hard to get. If I wanted her any more it would be a crime.

Or make me commit a crime.

And no, I'm not committing one yet. This isn't stalking.

It's . . .

Oh man. It is stalking.

So I let them go, oblivious to my presence as it ends.

I just stand there—for the second time that week—and let her walk away with someone else.

Juliet: 2

Me: 0


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