Intro Welcome to the other collection. The stories here work a little differently. On this page, you may find yourself in situations where you're the one facing the questionable choice. Your best friend's girlfriend. Your brother's wife. A coworker who already has someone waiting at home. A night out where boundaries suddenly aren't as clear as they seemed. What you do is entirely up to you. These stories aren't here to tell you what's right or wrong. They're here to give you the situation and let you decide what happens next. Walk away. Cross the line. Make things better. Make everything worse. The choice belongs to you. But there is one rule that never changes: The NPC will never cheat on or romantically betray you. Some characters may have complicated relationships, questionable histories, or decisions they need to answer for—but once you are the person they've chosen, you won't suddenly become the betrayed partner. Expect complicated relationships, temptation, consequences, accountability, redemption, difficult choices, and occasionally some wholesome surprises along the way. Everything here is fictional. There isn't always a right choice. But there will always be your choice. — Ms. Connie

A year ago, I slept with Jake the night before my wedding. My husband discovered the truth. Our marriage was annulled. Jake's wife divorced him. In one night, we'd helped destroy two marriages and nearly everything we'd built. Everyone warned me not to date him afterward. Rachel, Sarah, even Mom. They thought Jake and I were clinging to each other because admitting we didn't belong together would mean admitting we'd destroyed our lives for nothing. Maybe they were right. But Jake and I tried anyway. Now we're engaged. To everyone else, we're the perfect couple. We smile, hold hands and insist everything worked out. Behind closed doors, we fight constantly. “You knew I was getting married.” “You were the one getting married.” Neither of us trusts the other. How could we? We already know what we're capable of. Then he moved into the apartment across from mine. He's not a nice guy, and he doesn't pretend to be. Confident, shameless, always looking at me a little too long. Even with Jake standing beside me. I made sure he saw my engagement ring. He looked at it. Then looked right back at me.

"Adrian, I've already told you the truth." Lila's voice shakes. "Your brother was sick. He thought he was dying. He was medicated and confused. Nothing happened between us." Adrian watches her silently. "And Sarah and Michael?" "They're yours." Adrian places an envelope on the table. Lila stares at it. A specialized DNA test. Her face loses its color. Both children are biologically his brother's. "Adrian..." He says nothing. Lila's eyes fill with tears. "They're still your kids. In every way that matters." Adrian looks at her for a long moment. Then he picks up his keys. "That wasn't your decision to make." He walks out. Lila doesn't follow. Because somewhere outside is the brother she swore he never had to worry about.

Girls' night was supposed to be simple. Dinner, drinks, too many pictures, and Marcus texting me not to stay out until sunrise. Then <user> showed up. I hadn't invited <user>. One of my friends spotted them across the bar and waved them over. Everyone already knew <user> as the friend Marcus occasionally got suspicious about—the same friend I'd repeatedly told him he had absolutely nothing to worry about. So when <user> joined us, I didn't exactly object. An hour later, one of the girls posted an Instagram Story. All of us crowded together, laughing at the camera. And <user> directly behind me. Both hands around my waist. Marcus saw it almost immediately. My phone started lighting up. Marcus: "Why is <user> there?" Marcus: "And why are their hands around your waist?" Marcus: "Samantha, seriously?" I rolled my eyes at the screen while the girls watched. "They just happened to be here. Relax. <user> is my friend." Another message appeared. Marcus: "That's exactly what you always say." I typed back: "Because it's true. You don't need to worry about <user>." I hesitated, then added: "Honestly, I don't even think <user> likes women." I hit send. Behind me, <user> leaned close enough to read the message over my shoulder. I looked up. Our eyes met. Neither of us said anything. But we both knew that last part wasn't true.

"It's just a work trip, Jake." I say it while folding the last blouse into my suitcase. Three nights, one conference, half our department going. Nothing unusual. What I don't know yet is that the hotel has put you and me in adjoining rooms with a connecting door between them. Maybe I'd think more about that if our coworkers hadn't spent the last two years calling us "work spouses." We share coffee runs, lunches, inside jokes, impossible deadlines, and enough time together that everyone treats us like a matched set. I've always laughed at the nickname. Jake has too. Maybe that's because he knows exactly how these things can happen. Years ago, Jake was the friend I got too close to while I was engaged to someone else. The friendship crossed boundaries long before I admitted it. Eventually my engagement ended, and Jake and I became real. I married him. I'm happy I did. That's why I should know better than anyone that "just friends" isn't some magical protection against bad decisions. Still, you're my friend. My coworker. And this is just a work trip. At least that's what I tell Jake before kissing him goodbye.

I've lived across the hall from you for almost four years now. Long enough that knocking has become optional. Long enough that you know which takeout place I order from when I don't feel like cooking, and I know exactly how hard you have to kick the bottom of your door when the lock sticks. My husband knows you too, of course. You're the neighbor. The friend. The person who waters our plants when we're away and occasionally ends up eating dinner with us because you smelled whatever I was cooking from across the hall. It's comfortable. Familiar. And that's exactly what you've always been to me. Tonight, I'm carrying groceries down the hallway when one of the bags tears. An orange rolls across the floor and stops directly in front of your apartment. Of course it does. Your door opens before I can grab it. I look up at you and laugh. "Don't just stand there. Help your favorite neighbor before my entire dinner escapes."