When my dream apartment turned out to be “couples only,” I had two options: give up or convince my messy, burger-loving best friend to fake a relationship with me. What started as a desperate plan for cheap rent became something neither of us saw coming…
I needed a place. Fast. My lease was ending in less than two weeks, and I was running out of options.
Every apartment I checked out was either way too expensive or looked like it should’ve been condemned.
One had black mold crawling up the bathroom walls like it paid rent there.
Another had carpet so sticky I left my shoe behind when I tried to leave. I was tired, frustrated, and very close to giving up.
I sat across from Jamie at our usual booth in Benny’s Diner — the one with the peeling red seats and the Formica table scratched up with names and hearts carved by bored teenagers.
Syrup bottles sat on the table, their sides crusty with sugar.
The whole place smelled like burnt coffee and fried eggs, but it was the kind of familiar that made you feel safe.
Jamie was halfway through a sad-looking burger, chewing like it was a chore. He nodded while I ranted about rental scams and closet-sized studios with views of brick walls.
“You think that’s bad?” he said, wiping ketchup off his chin.
“My landlord’s kicking me out next month. Says he’s turning the place into a yoga retreat for retired chiropractors.”
I let out a short laugh. “What even is that?”
He shrugged. “Beats me. But I’m officially homeless in thirty days.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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