Chapter 4 Just a fiction
It's been three days since I "woke up" from the most vivid dream of my life, and I was still trying to convince myself that's all it was.
A dream. A stress-induced hallucination. My brain's melodramatic way of processing my frustration with romance tropes by shoving me inside one. That made sense, right?
I'd spent most of those three days doing internet research like some conspiracy theorist. Sleep paralysis. Lucid dreaming. Maladaptive daydreaming. There was even a Reddit thread about people who'd lived entire lifetimes in dreams that felt completely real. Another about false awakenings so convincing you couldn't tell which reality was true.
All of it almost worked.
"It was just a dream," I muttered, shoving my notebook into my bag. "A really detailed stress dream brought on by too much bad fiction and unrequited feelings."
My reflection in my phone's dark screen looked skeptical.
Yeah, well. Join the club.
The lecture hall for Criticism and Theory was already half-full when I arrived. Professor Williams stood at the podium, shuffling papers while early arrivals settled into their seats. I chose my usual spot near the back—the kind of seat that said I'm here, I'm technically participating, but please don't call on me.
Within minutes, Professor Williams launched into some point about narrative authority and reader response theory. I was half-listening, pen hovering over my blank notebook, when the inevitable happened.
"But what about character agency within predetermined narrative structures?"
Of course. There was always that one guy in the front row, glasses sliding down his nose, ready to make everyone else feel intellectually inadequate before 10 AM.
I slumped lower in my seat, half-thinking about the dream that wouldn't leave me alone.
Just a dream. Just a—
"Characters are the beauty of fiction."
The voice came from my left. I turned.
John Matthews sat two seats away, leaning back in his chair with that effortless confidence that came from never having to worry if people liked you. Had he been there the whole time?
"Who cares if it's real or not?" John continued, and Professor Williams nodded, encouraging him. "Who cares if they're aware or not? They do the same things we do in reality—we play roles, they do too."
Several students murmured agreement. The bookworm in front looked annoyed someone else was getting attention.
"Interesting parallel," Professor Williams said. "You're suggesting the boundary between fictional and real behavior is negligible?"
"I'm saying everyone performs." John shrugged, but there was something sharp in his observation. "Your job, your relationships, your personality—it's all performance to some degree. At least fictional characters are honest about it. They know they're playing a part."
My pen had stopped moving across my notebook.
He wasn't wrong. God, I hated that he wasn't wrong.
Wasn't that exactly what I'd been doing? Playing the role of "supportive best friend" while dying inside? Performing "I'm totally fine" when John and Evelyn started dating?
"Good point, John," Professor Williams said, moving on.
I stared at my blank notebook page, that weird feeling settling in my chest.
The usual shuffle of bags and laptops signaled the end of class.
I was halfway to the door when I heard my name.
"Sarah! Hey, wait up!"
I turned. John jogged toward me, backpack slung over one shoulder, that easy smile on his face.
My traitorous heart did a stupid little flip.
Stop it. He's dating your best friend. Your BEST FRIEND.
"Hey," I managed, trying to sound normal. "Good comments in class."
"Thanks." He fell into step beside me as we walked into the hallway. "So listen," John said, "I wanted to ask you something."
Oh god. What was he going to ask about? Did he somehow know I'd spent a year pathetically crushing on him?
"Evelyn's been stressed with midterms," he continued. "I wanted to do something nice. Surprise dinner at my place. But here's the thing, I'm a disaster in the kitWilliams."
I blinked. "Okay?"
"Would you help me?" His smile turned slightly sheepish, which was annoyingly endearing. "I know it's last minute, but you're good at this stuff, right? And Eve always talks about how you two used to cook together."
She did? We made boxed mac and cheese exactly twice.
But looking at John's hopeful expression, I found myself nodding. "Yeah. Sure. I can help."
"Really? That's amazing!" His face lit up. "We could hit the grocery store after your next class? Then head to my place to cook before Eve gets out of her bio lab?"
We. Like it was a plan. Like we were a team.
"Sounds good," I heard myself say.
What was I doing? This was a terrible idea. Spending time alone with John, helping him be romantic for my best friend? This was like volunteering for emotional torture.
But maybe that's what I deserved.
"You're the best, Sarah." John squeezed my shoulder briefly before heading toward his next class. "I'll text you!"
I stood in the hallway, watching him disappear into the crowd.
The best. Right. The best friend. The best helper. The best person to watch from the sidelines .
The grocery store's fluorescent lights were giving me a headache.
Or maybe it was the surreal nature of shopping for dinner ingredients with my crush while planning a surprise for my best friend who was dating said crush.
Normal Friday evening. Totally normal.
"So what does Eve like?" I asked, grabbing a cart that immediately veered left. Of course. Even the shopping cart was trying to escape this situation.
"Pasta," John said, falling into step beside me. "She mentioned once that her mom used to make this amazing carbonara."
Of course he remembered.
I grabbed a box of spaghetti with more force than necessary. "Carbonara's pretty easy. Eggs, bacon, parmesan, black pepper."
"See? This is why I needed you." John reached past me for a package of bacon, his arm brushing mine for just a second.
I moved away quickly, pretending to be very interested in the pasta selection.
"So is this your signature move?" I asked, desperate to fill the silence. "Surprise cooking dates?"
John laughed—god, even his laugh was annoyingly perfect. "With Eve? Yeah. She loves this stuff. Grand gestures, you know?"
Of course she did. Evelyn loved romance and surprises and boys who actually put in effort.
Unlike me, who'd spent a year hoping John would notice me and never once actually talking to him until now.
"She means the world to me," John said simply, grabbing eggs from the refrigerated section.
The spaghetti box crumpled slightly in my grip.
Right. Cool. Great. Love that for them.
"That's sweet," I managed, my voice only slightly strangled. "She's lucky."
"I'm the lucky one." He said it so genuinely, without any performance, that it actually hurt more.
We finished shopping in relative silence, just the squeaky wheel of the cart and the terrible grocery store muzak filling the space between us.
This was fine. I was fine. This was just me being a good friend, helping out, totally n
ot thinking about what it would be like if John wanted to surprise me with a home-cooked meal.
Nope. Not thinking about that at all.