Chapter 22 #2
Glass of red in hand, I grabbed my laptop and the phone I hadn’t dared turn on since Dane took it from me.
Outside, the porch fairy lights stirred in the wind, scattering soft golden orbs against the whitewashed walls.
I tucked my knees into my chest, pulled the shawl tight around my shoulders, and inhaled a breath I didn’t realise I’d been starving for.
Then I turned the phone on.
It vibrated violently — like something possessed, something furious at being abandoned.
I answered Carrie’s messages first, assuring her I was safe, alive, not curled on the kitchen tiles, drowning in tears.
Then Dane.
A photo.
He’s lying in bed, shirtless, face buried in white pillows, the soft curve of his mouth barely visible.
“My bed sheets smell like you.”
My smile was immediate. Reflexive. Helpless.
I typed:
“And what does that smell like?”
His reply was instant.
“Promises and a forever. Mixed with my body wash and whispers in the dark.”
Heat curled through me, soft at first, then sharp.
His words settled inside me like warmth on a cold night a place to rest, if only I knew how.
“You have a way with words, Mr… shit, I don’t even know your last name. But your words pull me in and hold me there. They make me feel things. They remind me that language has bones.”
I barely had time to bask in that feeling before the dating app notifications began popping up an avalanche I wasn’t ready for.
Messages from Blake. From strangers. From men I didn’t care to name.
My chest thudded to a different beat.
I reopened my text to Dane and immediately panicked. Was it too much? Too poetic? Too…me? Did I sound unhinged? Unsteady? Like the unravelling woman I am?
Still no reply from him.
God, I hate this feeling.
I blinked the thoughts away and hovered over Blake’s name. Then over the other men chasing a thrill, a night, a distraction from their own emptiness.
Then Dane’s message buzzed through:
“All in good time, Penn. I’ll show you who I am.”
My heart tripped over itself a soft, stuttering fall.
“Oh, so you’re playing mysterious now?” I typed, adding a pointless “lol,” because vulnerability terrifies me.
I opened the app’s DMs to distract myself. Scrolled. Most were pitiful attempts at seduction cheap one-liners and hollow praises. I mentally filed them under absolutely not.
What I’m doing isn’t cheating. It’s research.
That’s the lie I keep feeding myself.
Then Blake’s messages hit me like a freight train.
Babe, you, ok?
Babe.
I’m worried it’s been ages.
Pandora.
Have I scared you?
Don’t be afraid, Pandora.
There’s a reason we met.
I want to love you.
Let me in.
The apologies came next.
Flowers.
The teddy.
Him.
Pandora, don’t break my heart.
Please.
Are you ok?
Wow.
Ok.
I see this is just a game to you.
Everything inside me froze.
He’s falling for me.
Me.
His wife.
The ghost he abandoned.
The memory he once loved.
And he doesn’t even know it.
I’m the same woman he discarded when I stopped shining, and now, he’s falling for her all over again under a false name and a fake photo.
It’s brutal.
It’s ironic.
It’s poetic justice.
My mouth still remembers him, and I hate that. I hate that his ghost can still drown out Dane’s sweetness. That trauma can still override tenderness.
I lay down on the porch boards, letting the night swallow me whole. My phone buzzed. More messages, more lies.
I drank.
The wine kissed the back of my throat with sharp berry and silk. I drank again. Half the glass disappeared before I set it down beside me, staring out into the dim solar-lit garden the place we built for our sleeping angel.
Still no message from Dane.
My stomach knotted painfully.
Did I sound like a teenage girl?
“Oh, mysterious.”
Jesus.
He’s probably laughing at me in his apartment, regretting ever touching me.
More messages from Blake.
I can see you’re online.
Why won’t you talk to me?
And suddenly I felt…wanted.
In the wrong way.
By the wrong man.
For the wrong reasons.
Blake was acting like a teenage boy discovering love for the first time. But he wasn’t like this then. Back then, he was calm, controlled, rugby-king Blake. Now he was unravelling over a version of me he’d never allowed to exist.
If you can see I’m online, you’d know it’s the first time I’ve opened this since the last message I sent you. Needy’s a bad colour on you, babe.
His typing bubbles blinked in and out, frantic, desperate.
Another message.
I panicked.
I don’t want to lose you.
You can’t lose what was never yours.
Wrong.
I feel like I’ve known you forever.
It’s… something I’ve felt before.
I finish his sentence in my head.
Had before.
The dots flicker.
Yes.
My heart hiccups.
Another message.
What a fool he was.
You’re stunning, Pandora.
So pure.
So real.
I want to kiss every broken piece until you’re whole again.
A tear slides down my cheek quiet, unwilling, true.
Then Dane’s name flashes.
Can I call you?
Everything inside me shifts.
Rearranges.
Softens.
Blake fades.
Like he always does.
Like he always will.
Seconds later, the phone rings.
“Hello?”
God, I sound stupid.
“Hey, you.”
His velvety voice slides through me in warm spirals.
“Hey, you,” I whisper back, suddenly feeling sixteen again, hiding in my bedroom talking to a boy I shouldn’t want.
“God, I miss you,” he says, voice cracking at the edges.
No one’s ever missed me before.
Not like that.
Not with weight.
“It’s foolish,” I murmur, ashamed of my own ache. “I’m a mess, Dane. You’ve seen it.”
I move inside, into the dim hush of my room.
“Tell me…” his voice dips lower, “did you like spending the night with me, Penn?”
My heart stutters.
“Oh, Dane… shit… I—” I collapse back into bed, shoes still on.
“Just answer, peach.”
Peach.
God.
My insides melt.
“So?” he pushes gently.
“So?” I echo, chewing my thumbnail.
“You haven’t answered.”
“Which question was that?”
“Did you enjoy our night?”
“Oh, Dane… yes. More than I should have.”
“Do you think you’ll miss sleeping next to me tonight?”
My breath catches. My eyes drift to Blake’s side of the bed. The charger. The book. The glass of water he always left half-drunk.
He’s everywhere.
Still.
Like a haunting.
But he won’t walk through the door again.
Not ever.
“Truth be told,” I whisper, “since Blake left…”
He inhales sharply, but he lets me speak.
He always lets me speak.
“I’ve tossed and turned every night, crying, drinking, aching. Missing the shape of someone beside me. But with you…with you holding my hand last night…I slept.”
Silence.
Thick.
Sacred.
“I miss you too, Penn,” he finally says, voice rough. “One night, and I saw it what forever with you might feel like.”
Forever.
The word hits like a blow and a balm.
“Can we have more nights like that?” he asks.
My chest tightens.
Hope hurts.
“Dane…” I whisper.
“Don’t overthink it,” he chuckles softly, saving me from myself.
“Good night, Dane,” I murmur.
“Good night, beautiful.”
His voice lingers long after the line disconnects, warm, steady, dangerous in all the right ways.
For a long moment, I lie there, phone pressed to my chest, breathing around the ache he leaves behind. My house feels different. My body feels different. My heart feels… awake.
I could sleep.
I should sleep.
But I don’t.
I push the sheets away, reach for my laptop.
The screen blooms blue in the dark.
A new document. A blinking cursor. A confession waiting to be written.
I type the title.
Kiss Me with Lies: The Art of Catfishing.
It looks harmless.
But the truth?
This isn’t just a story anymore.
It’s a mirror.
A mask.
A beginning I might not be able to end.
Kiss me with Lies: The art of catfishing
By Penn FIND LAST NAME, Editor-in-Chief
I start with the headline bold, detached, and professional.
It’s the kind of title that promises insight, not heartbreak.
The kind that hides how close the knife really is to my own skin.
I take a sip of lukewarm wine, steady my hands on the keyboard, and start to type.
We live in an age where love is a transaction of pixels and half-truths. Where connection comes in curated bursts filtered faces, clever bios, and the illusion of being seen.
But what happens when the person behind the screen isn’t who they say they are?
I pause. The irony is heavy, almost cruel. Because tonight, I’m not just writing about the lie. I’m building it.
Catfishing the act of luring someone into a relationship through a false identity, has evolved from a fringe deception into a digital epidemic. It’s not always about money or manipulation. Sometimes, it’s about something far more human. Loneliness. Loss. The desperate hunger to be loved again.
My reflection glares back at me from the laptop screen tired eyes, smudged mascara, a woman haunted by what-ifs and maybes.
I think about Blake. About how easily he smiled for strangers, how his words once made me believe in forever.
And then I think about Dane the way he said breathe like it was a promise.
The way his voice steadied the shaking in my chest without even trying.
I shouldn’t think about him. But I do.
Sometimes, catfishing isn’t born from cruelty. Sometimes, it’s born from grief. From the unbearable silence after someone stops choosing you. From the need to be seen, even if you have to become someone else to make it happen.
The words pour out faster now, less journalism, more confession. My chest aches with every paragraph, my heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the keys.
We pretend it’s research. We call it curiosity. But what we’re really doing is searching for the version of ourselves we lost when love left the room.
I stop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinks at me, impatient.
Outside, the city hums lights flickering in windows, strangers falling asleep next to other strangers, everyone pretending they’re okay. And in here, I’m building a mask. A name. A face.
I am becoming a woman who isn’t me.
I am becoming…Pandora.