Andrew’s phone lit up.
Another engagement.
Another anniversary.
Another couple who looked like they had hacked the “forever” formula.
His stomach tightened.
Not because he wanted the flowers. Not because he wanted the relationship.
But because tonight—the one night a year designed to remind him he was alone—was doing its job.
His feed was a fucking warzone.
Explosions of “I said YES!” and “My forever” were everywhere.
Landmines of staged candlelit dinners and over-processed smiles.
Captions so sugary they could put a diabetic into a coma.
He scrolled past another post.
Then another.
Then another.
Each one hit harder than the last. The pressure built, slow but suffocating. The kind of feeling that starts as an annoyance but ends with you staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe, just maybe, you did fuck up somewhere along the way.
His friends were out. His ex had moved on. His younger cousin—who still thought adding “bro” at the end of every sentence made him sound wise—was already engaged.
Another year.
Still single.
Watching people treat relationships like a Black Friday PS5 drop—grabbing whatever they could before someone else did.
Watching couples run straight through red flags like they were goddamn finish lines.
Watching people settle for the first person who spelt their name correctly in a text message.
Somehow, these were the ones who had someone.
Andrew exhaled, shaking his head.
But he kept scrolling.
Like a masochist.
Like his brain was on a mission to self-destruct.
For some fucked-up reason, he couldn’t stop torturing himself.
It was like his mind had entered full meltdown mode, forcing him to look at every single post like it was his job to confirm that yes, he was indeed still alone.
Then he saw it.
At first, he thought he was seeing things.
The couple in the picture. The big, glowing smiles. The over-the-top caption:
"I can’t believe I get to love you."
His stomach dropped.
Anna.
Last week, she sat in his car, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
She said she felt like a prisoner in the relationship.
Told him that her boyfriend got pissed anytime she went out and called her selfish for having a life outside of him.
Two days ago, she admitted she didn’t know how much more she could take.
That the love she thought they had wasn’t love and something about him scared her.
Last night, Andrew saw him at a bar.
His hands weren’t exactly loyal.
But tonight?
Tonight was a love story.
But not the good kind.
This was a production.
A staged, polished, high-definition, AI-enhanced, Hollywood-backed, award-winning masterpiece of “we’re so happy” propaganda.
Andrew gritted his teeth.
This wasn’t love.
This was a fucking illusion.
It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, like reality had just yanked him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
These people weren’t celebrating love today.
They were performing it.
The ones who rushed into relationships to avoid loneliness weren’t proving anything. They were distracting themselves from the silence.
The ones ignoring the cracks in their relationship weren’t winning. They were praying their problems would magically disappear before everything collapsed.
The ones posting their way through the pain weren’t holding onto love. They were holding onto the only thing they had left—the illusion.
The people who needed today the most—the ones who had to post, who had to prove, who had to convince the world they were happy—were the ones already fucking falling apart.
Most of them wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late.
But not everyone.
There were people in love today who were genuinely happy.
People whose relationships weren’t performances.
People who weren’t posting to prove anything, because there was nothing to prove.
But they weren’t the ones who made Andrew feel like shit.
It was the ones desperately trying to convince the world that their love was real.
Andrew exhaled, and this time, something shifted.
Not just in his body, but in his mind.
He didn’t feel the weight in his chest for the first time.
The tightness had gone.
The quiet panic that whispered “You’re the one getting left behind” wasn’t there anymore.
Because he realised he wasn’t.
The ones rushing into love weren’t ahead.
They were running in circles, burning time and mistaking motion for progress.
He wasn’t watching a finish line disappear in the distance.
He was watching people sprint in the wrong direction.
This whole time, he thought he was the outsider looking in.
But he was one of the few who finally saw the game for what it was.
Two days from now, the world will be in full performance mode.
The captions will flood in, the pictures will be posted, and public declarations of love will take over every platform.
The pressure will reach its peak.
Most people won’t question it.
Most will convince themselves they need to catch up.
Most will feel the pull to do something—anything—to avoid feeling like they’re missing out.
And that’s how the cycle continues.
But not this time.
Not for you.
You’ve seen the illusion.
You know better.
And now, you have a choice.
This can be the year you let the pressure get to you again.
Or this can be the year you finally get clear on what the fuck you’re doing in your love life.
Most people will pick the first option.
A few will finally stop bullshitting themselves.
They’ll stop wasting time on fake connections, on meaningless situationships, on the hope that something “just works out.”
They’ll finally choose better.
Friday’s coming. The world will keep performing. The cycle will repeat.
But not for you.
Not this time.