The Click

Vivian Reed’s knuckles whitened around her coffee mug as she watched Zoey scroll mindlessly through her phone, eyes hollow. It had been ten days since Jax had shattered her daughter’s heart with a cold, public breakup. Ten days of Zoey skipping school, ignoring friends, and sketching angry, dark swirls in her sketchbook. Vivian knew Jax’s type—charming, emotionally volatile, the kind of boy who made girls feel like they were winning a prize while he dismantled their self-worth. She’d seen it before—in Zoey’s father.

I swore I’d never let history repeat itself.

The idea flickered like a faulty neon sign: Catfish her. Show her a decent guy exists. The guilt was instant, acrid. It’s manipulation. It’s wrong. But the image of Zoey crying into her pillow last night over Jax’s latest cruel Instagram story—"Officially single & thriving #upgrade"—crushed Vivian’s hesitation.

She waited until Zoey shuffled downstairs for water, then dove into the digital underworld. Creating "Ethan Hayes" was disturbingly easy. She chose a photo: a guy in his early twenties, tousled brown hair, warm hazel eyes, leaning against a vintage bookshelf. Intelligent. Approachable. Safe. She sent Zoey’s "ArtByZoey" profile a friend request.

Zoey awoke to a sunrise bleeding orange and pink across her bedroom walls—and a notification. "Ethan Hayes wants to connect." His profile picture stopped her breath. He looked… real. Not like Jax’s performative gym selfies. Curiosity overrode caution. She accepted.

Ethan: Hey. Love your art feed. That charcoal piece with the fractured mirror? Haunting.
Zoey: Wait, you actually looked?
Ethan: Why friend an artist if you don’t appreciate art?

Vivian, sweating over her laptop, mimicked a thoughtful guy’s texting style: slightly awkward, genuine compliments. Zoey’s replies grew faster, lighter. She mentioned her favorite indie band. "Ethan" claimed to love them too. Lucky guess, Vivian thought, recalling a discarded concert tee in Zoey’s laundry.

Across town, Leo Chen shelved philosophy textbooks at "Pageturners." His phone buzzed—a missed call from the student loans office. Again. He sighed. Rent was due.

Vivian needed a face for "Ethan." Photos wouldn’t suffice forever; Zoey might demand a video call. Panic propelled her to the organic market. As she debated free-range eggs, she collided with a shopping cart.

"Whoa! Sorry about that." The guy steadied her. Hazel eyes. Tousled brown hair. An uncanny resemblance to "Ethan." Vivian stammered, "No, my fault! I’m Vivian."

"Leo," he smiled, rubbing his neck. "Distracted by Kierkegaard’s existential dread, apparently."

He’s perfect. Vivian blurted her plea: Zoey’s heartbreak, the fake profile, her desperation. "I know it’s insane. I’ll pay you. Just… be Ethan for a month. Show her not all guys are Jax."

Leo’s initial shock morphed into wary calculation. "Pay me? To… digitally date your teenager?"

"She’s seventeen. You’d just text. Flirt. Be kind. $500. Cash. One month." Vivian’s voice cracked. "Please."

Leo pictured his overdue tuition notice. $500 meant breathing room. "Text only? No meetings?"

"None. You vanish after thirty days. Ethan ‘relocates’ for a job."

“…Deal.”

"Ethan" became Zoey’s sunlight. They discussed surrealist art, shared playlists, debated the best coffee shops. Leo, guided by Vivian’s notes ("Zoey hates cilantro," "Her cat is named Bowie"), found himself enjoying the conversations. Zoey was sharp, funny, vulnerable in ways that tugged at him.

Zoey: Sometimes I feel like my emotions are a tangled ball of yarn. Messy.
Ethan: Maybe it’s not about untangling it. Maybe it’s about seeing the colors in the mess.

Vivian monitored, heart aching as Zoey’s laughter returned. She joined family dinners, talked about "Ethan’s" dream to open a community art space. Vivian’s guilt festered. You’re building her happiness on quicksand.

Meanwhile, Sophie and Raj grew suspicious. "Who is this Ethan guy?" Sophie demanded, scrolling through his sparse profile. "No mutual friends? No tagged photos? Reverse image search came up zip. That’s weird, Zo."

"He’s private!" Zoey defended, but doubt flickered. She sent "Ethan" a risky text: Send me a voice note? I wanna hear you say my name.

Vivian panicked. Leo couldn’t impersonate a voice! She had "Ethan" reply: Superstitious. I only do voice after meeting IRL. Coffee soon?

Leo’s conscience screamed. Zoey’s texts felt authentic, not some shallow flirtation. He researched Jax online—smirking photos, predatory comments on girls' posts. She deserves real protection, not this lie. He called Vivian.

"This feels wrong. She trusts ‘Ethan.’"

"You’re helping her heal!" Vivian insisted, voice tight. "Stick to the plan, Leo. Fourteen more days."

Raj, a budding coder, dug deeper. He found metadata anomalies in "Ethan’s" profile pic—suggesting digital alteration. He confronted Vivian subtly: "Zoey seems happier. This Ethan… where’d she meet him again?" Vivian’s evasive answer confirmed his fears.

Zoey planned a surprise: a portrait of "Ethan," based on his photo. She needed finer details—his exact eye color, the scar near his eyebrow. She begged for a quick video call. "Just two minutes! For art!"

Trapped, Vivian instructed Leo: "Wear a hat. Low light. Mumble about bad Wi-Fi and hang up fast."

The call connected. Zoey glimpsed hazel eyes, a familiar bookshelf behind him—Pageturners? Before Leo could disconnect, Zoey gasped. "Leo? From the market? You’re… Ethan?"

Silence. Horror crackled through the line. Leo’s face paled. Vivian’s phone rang—Zoey, screaming: “YOU SET ME UP WITH SOME RANDOM GUY YOU PAID? HOW COULD YOU?”

Zoey’s rage was volcanic. "Was ANY of it real? Or just Mom’s script?" She threw the half-finished portrait at Vivian. It fluttered to the ground—Leo’s kind eyes rendered in loving pencil strokes now accusatory.

Leo arrived, shamefaced. "I’m so sorry, Zoey. The texts… those were me. The feelings… they weren’t fake. I wanted to tell you."

"Feelings?" Zoey choked out. "You got paid to talk to me! That’s not feelings, that’s fraud!" She turned on Vivian. "You thought Jax broke me? You just did worse. You made me doubt real connection. Was ANYTHING you ever said true?"

Vivian crumbled. "I was terrified. Jax was destroying you. I wanted to show you…"

"You lied! You controlled me! Just like Jax did, just like Dad did!" Zoey fled to her room, slamming the door.

The fallout was brutal. Zoey moved to Sophie’s. Vivian’s world narrowed to silent rooms and unanswered texts. Leo returned the money, adding a handwritten apology: "I crossed a line. I saw your strength and art and forgot the lie. I’m truly sorry."

Weeks passed. Raj shared his findings: Jax had been cheating on Zoey for months. The validation was cold comfort.

Zoey found Leo’s note tucked in her sketchbook. His words echoed. I saw your strength. She visited "Pageturners," finding him organizing poetry.

"It wasn’t all fake," she stated quietly. "The things you said about my art… about feeling messy… that felt real."

Leo met her gaze. "Because it was. The situation was garbage, Zoey. But you? Your thoughts, your passion? That’s real. I profited off your pain. I’ll never forgive myself for that."

"And my mom?"

"Was desperately wrong. But her fear? That was real too."

Zoey started therapy. Vivian did too. They met in neutral spaces, conversations halting, raw.

"I wanted to fix your pain," Vivian whispered over bitter coffee. "I forgot you needed to fix it yourself."

Zoey traced the rim of her cup. "Ethan showed me I could trust again… but it was you who broke that trust. How do I reconcile that?"

"I don’t know," Vivian admitted, tears falling. “But I’m here. Learning. If you’ll let me.”

Zoey’s new art series, "Digital Ghosts," explored identity and deception online. It went viral at a local gallery. Vivian attended, standing quietly in the back. One piece dominated: a blurred face made of shattered glass, reflecting a mother’s anguished eyes and a daughter’s tear-streaked face. The title: Profile Picture (After the Fall).

After the crowd thinned, Zoey walked over. No hug, but no anger either. Just exhaustion and a fragile truce.

"Leo apologized again. He feels awful," Zoey offered.

"He should," Vivian said softly. "So do I. Every day."

A pause. Zoey handed her a small, wrapped canvas. Vivian unwrapped it—a stunning, hopeful piece: a single, vibrant phoenix rising from a pile of charred computer parts and broken heart charms. The colors were bold, defiant.

Vivian looked up, speechless.

"It’s not forgiveness," Zoey said quietly. "It’s… possibility. Maybe."

Vivian clutched the painting, the first fragile thread of light in their long darkness. The lie had been a bomb, but in the rubble, they were both—painfully, slowly—learning to rebuild something real.