Off-script: My Accidental Fake Boyfriend

Riley’s Pov

If there were to be an Olympic sport for pretending you’re fine, I would have qualified years ago.

The campus festival lights flickered above me like I was walking through a beautifully edited dream sequence. Music thumped from the main stage. Glitter cannons exploded somewhere to my left. Half the theatre department was already tipsy on something that definitely wasn’t water in those plastic bottles.

Backstage was worse.

Costumes dragged across the floor. Props lay abandoned mid-crisis. Makeup artists hunted for faces to paint. Our director’s voice carried through two walls, sharp and already fraying at the edges.

I took a slow breath. The air felt thin. Metallic.

Four years on stage, and my body still reacted like this; pulse hammering, throat tight, palms cold.

Tonight wasn’t just a performance. To everyone else, it was the festival’s closing act. Applause. Confetti. Photos for social media. For me? It was the first round of the biggest audition of my life.

Three weeks of rehearsing until my reflection stopped looking like a robot. Three weeks of forcing emotion into my voice until it sounded real instead of rehearsed.

If I didn’t get this role, none of it would matter. I checked my phone. No new messages. Where was Matty when I actually needed him?

Lately he’d been screening my calls. Ignoring texts. Showing up late. Canceling last minute with excuses that were starting to sound rehearsed. Still, like every other day, I shoved the doubt down and texted June.

Dressing room. Now.

After circling through chaos and bodies and no free space, I reached the last door. A crooked sign read: KEEP OUT. Right. As if theatre kids respected boundaries. I pushed it open. And immediately wished I hadn’t.

Matty was rather very busy, only it wasn’t the kind of busy he made excuses with.

His mouth was on Alexa’s. For a second, my brain stalled. Like it needed buffering time. He’d sent me a voice note an hour ago. Can’t make it yet, babe. Swamped.

Apparently.

“Riles, you find a spot yet?” June called from somewhere behind me. They broke apart. Too late.

“My God, Riles, I can explain—” Matty rushed out, shoving Alexa away.

“Of course you can,” I said. My voice sounded calm. Detached. Not mine.

“She kissed me first. I was going to tell you.”

“Clearly.”

Alexa didn’t look sorry. Not even a little. If anything, she looked amused.

Of course, it was Alexa. The girl who treated casting lists like personal attacks. The girl who smiled too wide every time I got a role she didn’t. The girl who’d go to lengths to ruin me, if it meant she could take my spot.

“How could you be dumb enough to fall for it?” I muttered.

He flinched.

I stepped back into the hallway. Students milled around. A free show, apparently.

“Riles, please,” he followed. “Riles—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Tears burned, but I swallowed them. I wouldn’t cry. I had told Matty about my parents divorce because my dad cheated and how it broke, Matty held me while I sobbed and swore, he’d never put me through that kind of pain.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction now. I laughed instead. Sharp. Wrong.

“I’d say she won,” I said lightly, “but is it really winning if the prize is trash?”

His eyes dropped to the floor. Good.

“Riley, why are you not in costume?” our director barked, storming into the corridor.

My brain lagged.

“Huh?”

“You’re on soon. You look nothing like ready.”

“Right.” I straightened. “Focus.”

Less than thirty minutes. I turned to leave. Matty grabbed me from behind.

“Riles, it was a mistake.”

I peeled his hands off me. “What, you tripped? Accidentally landed on her mouth?”

“It won’t happen again. I swear.”

“It won’t,” I agreed calmly. “Because we’re done.”

His face crumpled. “You can’t just throw away a year like it’s nothing.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you did.”

“I’ll do better. Please.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix everything,” I said. “Not when it leaves scars. It’s really over between us.”

“Riley, I know you’re upset but please, stop trying to hurt me.”

The hallway had gone quiet. Watching. Always watching. Now his voice blurred into background noise, apologies dressed up as regret. And that’s when I understood. He expected tears. A breakdown. Forgiveness.

I felt it rising; the tremor in my ribs, the sting in my throat. No. If he wanted a scene, I’d give him one I controlled. I straightened my shoulders.

“Hurt you?” I said softly. “Let me show you what that looks like.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Watch me.”

I scanned the room deliberately. Not frantic. Careful. Choosing.

And then I saw him.

Tall. Unfamiliar. Standing slightly apart from the chaos like he’d taken a wrong turn into theatre kid hysteria. Perfect. This was insane. I knew that. But I also knew exactly what it would do.

I walked over. Stopped in front of him. Held his gaze for one measured second. There was something sharp in his eyes. Observant. Confused. That flicker almost made me hesitate.

Almost.

Then I kissed him. Slow. Intentional. Reckless.

The hallway fell silent. Even the director went still. His lips didn’t respond at first. He was too surprised. Then, almost against his own hesitation, he did. And that nearly undid me.

“Holy—” the director muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

And only then did I pull away from him. My heart was racing, but not from heartbreak. From impact. “I’m sorry.” I whispered, then walked away before anyone could see the cost of it.

This night was really turning out to be a nightmare.