I Faked Being in a Relationship to Get the Apartment of My Dreams, but My Partner Got Too Good at His Part — Story of the Day

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.”

I pulled out my phone and opened a listing I’d saved. “Look at this,” I said, sliding it across the table.

“Two bedrooms, huge windows, real wood floors. And the rent? Totally doable.”

Jamie leaned in, squinting at the screen like he was trying to read fine print without his glasses.

“Dang. That’s nice. You’ve got to grab that.”

I chewed on my lip.

“There’s a catch.”

“Of course there is. What is it?”

“The landlord only rents to couples.”

He blinked.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Something about preserving moral values and avoiding ‘chaos’... whatever that means.”

Jamie chuckled, but when he saw my face, he stopped.

“Wait. You’re serious?”

I gave him a look.

“Are you saying we pretend to be—”

I raised one eyebrow.

He groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but fine. Let’s fake it.”

The house was even more beautiful in person.

White wooden trim, a porch swing that creaked gently in the breeze, and rose vines climbing up the railings like they had nowhere else better to be.

The sun hit the front steps in just the right way, warm and golden, like it was part of the welcome.

Jamie let out a low whistle. “Okay... I get it. This place is dreamy.”

I nodded, trying to play it cool even though my heart was pounding. I wanted this place so bad it made my teeth hurt.

The front door opened before we knocked. Out stepped Miss Helen.

She wore a pale yellow cardigan and had soft gray curls tucked neatly behind her ears.

Her eyes, though? Sharp as pins. The kind of eyes that saw everything.

“Afternoon,” she said with a polite smile. “You must be the couple who called.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thanks so much for showing us the house.”

She motioned us in with a wave that smelled faintly of lavender soap. “Come on in, then. Let’s have a look around.”

We barely got inside when she asked, “So how long have you two been together?”

Jamie and I froze for half a second.

“Uh—” I started, scrambling for words.

“Three years,” Jamie jumped in, fast and confident.

“Met at a community poetry reading.”

I blinked. That wasn’t bad.

“We both hated the poet,” I added, giving a nervous laugh.

Miss Helen raised an eyebrow. “That’s a shame. I love poetry.”

She turned and walked deeper into the house. We followed her through rooms that smelled like lemon polish and old pine wood.

Jamie was careful not to touch anything. I kept my hands clasped tight in front of me.

In the kitchen, Miss Helen paused, watching us. Jamie stood a solid foot away from me, hands in his pockets.

“Couples,” she said, her voice pointed, “shouldn’t be afraid to show a little affection.”

Jamie’s eyes met mine. I shook my head slightly — too late.

He kissed me. Right there, on the mouth. No warning, no time to prepare.

His lips were warm, and his aftershave smelled like citrus and nerves.

I didn’t slap him. But I thought about it.

Instead, I smiled through clenched teeth, my heart thudding like a kicked dryer.

We got the keys. Then she told us she lived next door.

Great. Just great.

Living together was... a disaster. A full-on, slow-motion kind of disaster — the kind you could see coming from a mile away but were too tired to stop.

Jamie left dirty dishes in the sink like he was building some modern art sculpture. Forks balanced on top of plates, coffee-stained mugs stacked like leaning towers.

I had labeled everything in the pantry — beans, rice, cereal, flour — thinking it would help. He said it felt like living in a grocery store and never followed the system.

I liked quiet mornings — soft footsteps, the sound of the kettle warming, maybe a little peace.

Jamie? Jamie sang off-key show tunes while making his coffee like he was auditioning for the loudest musical ever made.

He added sound effects with his spoon. It made me want to scream.

But the worst part? Miss Helen.

She visited a lot. Like, a lot. She’d knock on our window holding a basket of muffins, her expression cheerful but always questioning.

Her eyes scanned the room like a detective on a mission.

We had to act. Big time.

Hugs that felt stiff and weird. Fake smiles that hurt my face. Inside jokes we invented five minutes before she walked in.

“Remember the blueberry incident?” I’d say.

“Oh, classic blueberry incident,” Jamie would nod like it meant something.

One evening, right after she left and the door shut behind her, I lost it.

“You left your wet towel on my bed. Again,” I snapped, holding it up like it was evidence in court.

He rolled his eyes. “You alphabetized the spice rack. Again.”

“At least the spices aren’t trying to grow mold!”

“You’re impossible!”

“So are you!”

We glared at each other. Then stormed off to opposite sides of the apartment.

That night, I heard him talking on the phone in the living room. I stayed quiet behind the hallway door.

“She drives me crazy,” he said.

“But she’s kinda great. Like... I don’t know. Funny. Sharp. And she cares, even when she’s mad.”

I didn’t breathe. He didn’t know I was there.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen and found pancakes waiting for me. They were shaped into letters.

“S-O-R-R-Y.”

I laughed so hard, I nearly choked on the "Y."

Then one evening, Jamie leaned against the doorway of the kitchen and cleared his throat.

“I’ve got a date,” he said.

I froze, holding a spoon mid-air over my cereal bowl. “A what?”

“A date. You know, dinner, conversation, hopefully not awkward silence.”

“With who?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but it came out higher than I wanted.

“A girl I met online. Her name’s Katie. She seems cool.”

My stomach twisted like someone had wrung it out like a wet rag. “You’re going to blow our cover,” I said. “What if Miss Helen sees you?”

“She won’t,” he replied, grabbing his jacket. “Just cover for me. Go have tea with her or something.”

I stared at him, but he didn’t flinch. That made it worse.

I stormed into my room, slamming the door so hard a picture frame rattled on the wall. I paced for a while, arms crossed, biting my lip.

Then I found myself pulling on a sweater, grabbing the store-bought pie we’d never touched, and heading next door.

I knocked. Miss Helen opened the door with her usual calm smile.

“Oh, come in, dear. I just made a fresh pot.”

The tea was warm, just like always, and the pie—thankfully—was hers.

Her living room smelled like cinnamon, books, and old wood. Her cat was curled up in the corner like a silent witness.

She poured the tea slowly. “Everything alright between you two? I notice things, you know.”

I looked down at my cup. “We fight sometimes. He’s messy, and I like rules. But when he’s not around…”

I paused, the words thick in my throat. “I miss him.”

Miss Helen tilted her head, watching me closely. “And when he is around?”

“I smile,” I said, softer now. “Even when I’m mad. Especially when I’m mad.”

She smiled gently. “Sounds like love to me.”

I stood up quickly, almost knocking over the teacup. “I have to go,” I said, grabbing my coat. “I might be making a huge mistake.”

And I ran out the door.

I ran back, heart pounding like a marching band in my chest. My shoes slapped the sidewalk. The wind pulled at my hair. I didn’t stop to breathe until I reached the door. I fumbled with the key, pushed it open, and burst inside just as Jamie was slipping his arms into his jacket.

“Don’t go,” I blurted out, louder than I meant to.

He turned, surprised. “Why not?”

I stood there, chest rising and falling, the words tumbling out fast.

“Because I like you. Not fake-like. Real-like. Because when you sing in the morning, I want to throw something at you… but I also want to hear the next note. Because you drive me up the wall, but I’d rather lose my mind with you than stay calm with anyone else.”

He stared at me for a second, eyes wide. Then he smiled — slow and real.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said.

“I only set the date to see if you’d stop me.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You manipulator.”

He grinned. “You alphabetizing tyrant.”

We both laughed — the kind of laugh that shakes loose the worry.

Jamie pulled out his phone and canceled the date. Then we sat on the old couch, side by side, our arms touching.

The ceiling fan spun slowly above us, steady and quiet.

Outside, Miss Helen walked past our window. She gave us a small, knowing wave.

We waved back.

And this time, we weren’t pretending.

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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: On my birthday, I sat alone at a candlelit table for two—again. Three years, three no-shows, and one late husband who always had excuses. But that night, I’d had enough. I told him it was over… and I thought I meant it—until I learned the truth he’d been hiding. Read the full story here.

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