Not A Love Story

This is not a love story, this is a sham. And you are reading it.

Now I’m not saying you are dumb but... well you should know better. And I’m being forced to tell this story because of YOU!

Meet exhibit A: His name is literally “A”.

Then we have, exhibit B: Her name, don’t think too much- it’s “B”

This author couldn’t even be bothered to give my supposedly best friends a proper name, some author she is... Oh there’s “C”; now you know what pisses me off? Not the names, or the content of this story, but the fact that the one the author decides to focus on— make the protagonists of this story so to speak, are A and B. It should have been C, but noooo, I’m going to telling you about A and B instead. And this is my last bit for freedom before I HAVE TO tell you a dumb story.

Again, I’d like to make one thing very clear before we begin:this is not a love story. Because honestly, A and B don’t deserve so much storytelling. They’re... fine. Pleasant enough. Nice in that vanilla ice cream way— sweet, harmless and boring unless you dump something chaotic on top.

You see, A and B— my so-called “best friends”, are a walking Hallmark trope in human skin. Everyone thinks they’re adorable together!

Their parents? Obsessed.

Their friends? Shipping them.

Strangers in the supermarket? Probably imagining their wedding already.

Which is how we got here. It started with an assumption, their parents who, in their infinite delusional wisdom, decided that A and B’s years of friendship must be— wait for it, a secret romance. How did they come to this conclusion? Was it years of subtle hints? Private confessions? The occasional longing glance?

No. It was one photograph of A and B laughing while holding the same umbrella. Apparently, sharing weather protection is the same as a marriage proposal now. So they decided to surprise them with an engagement party. No proposal, no asking, no warning. Not even I knew, one moment I’m just chilling at party— a get together if you will, just eating my delicious egg sandwiches and then the next the parents are in the middle shouting, “CONGRATULATIONS! You’re getting married!” in front of seventy-five of our closest family and friends.

You might wonder, “Wouldn’t two sane people just... correct the misunderstanding?”

You’d think. But apparently they are not sane, no, they are just plain stupid.

The next day, both A and B barged into my house and made their own coffee with my coffee. A turned to me and said, “Just a week or two.” They didn’t want to “embarrass the family.” So, naturally, they agreed to go along with it temporarily and “clear things up later.“, like this was a reasonable thing normal people did.

Translation: we are now living in an overly dramatic fanfic written by a bored author. I warned you, it’s all on you now if you didn’t listen.

I nearly spilled my latte. They’re lucky I didn’t, this was my favourite shirt. B nodded solemnly beside them, like this was some noble sacrifice instead of the dumbest decision of their lives. I told them it wouldn’t work but they ignored me instead they smiled like I’d wished them good luck.

Now, that’s the problem with A and B— they’re always in their own little bubble. I’m just the guy stuck watching from the outside, waving frantically, yelling, You’re making terrible life choices! And nobody listens, ever!

Am I right? Always.

Have they ever listened? Never.

Two weeks into this nonsense, A comes to me again, except this time he’s pacing my kitchen like they’re in a bad soap opera or like he’s about to announce they’ve committed tax fraud.

“I think I like B,” he confessed, hand pressed to his chest like he just discovered a mortal wound. I don’t even get to process this before he blurts out, “But she doesn’t like me back, so... I found a witch.”

Pause. Rewind. Highlight that last bit. He found a witch. Scratch that— tax fraud would have been a lesser headache. And of course he did. Again, terrible life choices! I didn’t even know we had witches, I’m pretty sure this plot wasn’t well thought out by the author.

Normal people, when faced with unrequited feelings, confess or move on. A, apparently, shops for magical consent violations.

I stared. “You’re engaged to her.”

“That’s fake!” A said, offended that I could possibly confuse their pretend engagement with actual feelings. Then he sighed dramatically. Apparently, some questionable sorceress in an old tea shop sells love potions; and A, the genius that he has, decided to buy one, “Just to tip the odds.” he said.

I pointed it out that this is literally manipulation, borderline illegal and also the plot of at least three teen dramas that end horribly. A ignores me, again. Sometimes I feel like they don’t hear when I shout out my objections regarding their terrible life decisions! And I have an inkling that someone might be at fault for it.

The plan was simple: slip the potion into B’s drink at the next group hangout, cue the swelling music and watch B fall hopelessly in love with A. But plans in this world are about as sturdy as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. This is where things should’ve gone exactly according to A’s morally grey plan. Except... C drank the potion. Lovely, amazing C. C with his curly honey hair and baby blue eyes and freckles like stardust across his face.

C, who up until that moment was just... there. Nice enough. Always hovering in the periphery of A and B’s story like an extra the director forgot to cut.

C, with their quiet laugh and habit of carrying too many books at once. C, who took one absent-minded sip from the wrong cup and five minutes later, was looking at A like he’d been handed the sun.

This was all by accident, yes. But, if I could I would have strangled A for getting C so directly involved in this utter stupidity, I would have in a heartbeat. No mercy.

So now, instead of B falling for A, C— the innocent bystander, is now completely and magically in love with them. Every time A smiles, C looked at him smitten. Every word A says was poetry for C. Every laugh? Music.

It’s disgusting. I’m disgusted. I’m also helpless.

A looked at me, panicked. B looked like someone had stolen her favourite toy. I, however, was very... frustrated at first, but then I was more intrigued.

At first, C’s new obsession was textbook potion behaviour— lingering glances, awkward compliments, an alarming interest in A’s elbows, don’t ask, I don’t know why and nor do I want too.

Love potions in stories usually just make you obsessed. But this one was probably not the best in quality and because of that poor C became weird. All I could do was hope that the author would resolve this.

There was this time when C tilted his head towards me mid-conversation with A and asked, “Who are you talking to?” while I was narrating this dumb tale to you guys.

Meanwhile, on the other hand, if there’s one upside to this disaster, it’s that B is terrible at hiding jealousy. B was losing her mind. I guess in a way it was progress to their love story.

She didn’t say it, of course. But every time C so much as smiled at A, B’s jaw tightened. Every time C reached for A’s hand— because, hello, love potion, B magically remembered she needed to speak to A in private.

The tension was delicious. I would’ve popped popcorn if I wasn’t too busy trying to derail the whole thing in C’s favour.

I know, I know. The story was supposed to be about A and B but... Was I rooting for B? Absolutely not. I was rooting for C — even if they’d started saying increasingly suspiciously odd things like, “Funny how you keep skipping parts of the story.”

Excuse me? Skipping? I’m the narrator, thank you very much. I control the pacing. You can vouch for that, right? Anyways, yes I was rooting for C. No, not because I thought it was healthy. Because I’m biased. And petty.

Here’s the thing about being the narrator; I can shift the spotlight. And if anyone’s getting a happy ending here, it’s C. And so I did. I did it for you readers, you deserve a better story than what this about to be.

I thought it was working too. That maybe I could rewrite this tired best-friends romance into something unexpected. But, every time I turned away for even a second, A and B kept finding each other in quiet corners, speaking in half-sentences that somehow meant everything.

Three months in, A and B sat me down. Again. “We’re just going to do it,” A said, smiling nervously.

“Go through with the wedding,” B clarified.

“I mean... why not?” A continued.

“It’s easier this way,” B added.

Easier for who? Certainly not me, who had invested months into building C’s subplot.

Dear Reader, I considered quitting. Just walking off the page and letting the story collapse without me. But then I caught C watching me from across the room, their brow furrowed. I knew it was because of the heartbreak he felt with A and B now officially getting together.

And I pitied him for that, the least I could do was complete the story, right? I mean in a way it was his too.

This happened the night before the wedding. B found me lurking outside the rehearsal dinner. “You’ve been trying to push C into this,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“You’ve been jealous,” I shot back.

She froze. Then— and this is important, she blushed. Which told me two things: One, B likes A. And two, this was all a waste of my time.

The next morning, I felt... lighter. More at peace. Not because I’d made peace with their relationship— please, even I have my standards, but because I realized the potion had worn off. Not for me, obviously. I never drank it. For C.

I could see it in his eyes as he watched A walk down the aisle— the dazed look in his eyes was gone, replaced by something sharper.

Something aware. And I was happy for him, in a way he got a happy ending too— even if he didn’t know it yet. He caught me staring, He turned more towards me, smiled and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like, “Finally.”

The ceremony went perfectly. Which was, frankly, insulting. No last-minute objections. No magical disasters. Just two people glowing in love exchanging vows while I sulked in the background. I would have liked a bit more drama to this, I mean I need to get a reward for all the work I put in too, shouldn’t I?

So at the reception, I hid at the bar. I didn’t want to do any more storytelling. I mean, you can imagine it or something. Reference it based on a Hallmark movie, because that’s exactly what’s happening before me.

But then, C found me. He stood there in the distance for a long moment, just... looking at me.

“Long night?” he asked.

“You could say that,” I muttered back.

He leaned closer and whispered just so that I could hear him “You know, you’ve been telling this all wrong.”

I frowned, “Excuse me?”

“I can hear you,” he said at last.

I laughed awkwardly unsure what he meant to say. “Uhh, well yeah. I mean I can talk, you can hear so...”

“No. I hear you. Everything you’ve been saying. Since the beginning. Every thought. Every word. Though I’m not exactly sure who you are talking to yet.”

I froze. And he smiled, that bright sunshine-like smile of his, “I think I like you.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The room tilted.

“You never thought this was their love story,” C said softly. “Maybe you were right.” And then, before I could ask what that meant— everything went black.