Format: 12-Scene Narrative | Genre: Brutal Satire, Parasocial Romance Breakdown
By Gerard King – www.gerardking.dev
“She said she hated stalkers. Then she married the guy who had 42 photos of her sleeping — and called it love.”
Chloe built her brand on being unbothered.
She told fans to “get a life,” accused them of obsession, and called anyone who knew her dog’s name a creep.
But the truth?
She married the worst of them all — not because he won her over…
But because she couldn’t stand not being the center of someone’s universe.
She doesn’t love him.
She loves his orbit.
Twelve chapters. Twelve punches per chapter. One pathetic love story hiding behind PR statements and eyeliner.
She went viral for saying, “I don’t owe fans sh*t.”
“Stop filming me at airports. I’m a human.”
They called her brave.
She tweeted, “Parasocial = Pathetic.”
She made merch: “Not Your Girlfriend.”
Blocked 50 fan pages in a week.
Called one a “literal predator” for using a photo she posted.
Made a YouTube video: “Why I Had to Set Boundaries.”
The comments clapped.
Her DMs? Still full.
And in all caps: one name kept showing up.
"It’s me. Again. I’ll always wait." – @DevotedMax69
He knew her birthday, shoe size, and middle name.
She called that “disturbing.”
But still… she never blocked him.
He sent her a long email every Monday like clockwork.
Subject: “Just Checking In, Babe 💌”
She mocked him on her podcast.
Called him “creep of the week.”
Then kept reading his emails in private.
Out loud.
Alone.
To feel wanted.
Even if it made her skin crawl.
The views slowed down.
The headlines dried up.
A younger girl copied her lip routine and took her brand deal.
Suddenly “Not Your Girlfriend” felt more like a prophecy.
She posted a sad selfie.
Caption: “Is love even real anymore?”
Guess who liked it first.
Guess who sent flowers to her PO box.
She posted the flowers.
Didn’t tag him.
But he knew.
And so did she.
She messaged him: “Why are you still here?”
He said: “Because I know you better than anyone.”
She said: “That’s what creeps say.”
He replied: “Then call me yours.”
She rolled her eyes.
Told her assistant: “Watch me use this loser.”
They FaceTimed.
She fake-laughed.
He said “You’re my moon.”
She screenshot it for the group chat:
“I’m gonna marry this idiot for fun.”
They all laughed. Then… she actually did.
She posted a blurry pic of his hand.
Caption: “Sometimes the safest place is the one you judged.”
Everyone: “Wait... that guy?”
Yes. That guy.
He had a “Chloe shrine” in his basement.
She saw it. Took a selfie in front of it.
Posted it with “LOLOL ❤️”
Suddenly it was romantic.
Parasocial but make it Pinterest.
She said, “He’s loyal.”
She meant, “He’s obsessed enough to never leave.”
“He’s not a stalker,” she told Vogue.
“He’s always respected my boundaries.”
Even though he printed out her deleted tweets.
She said, “I fell for someone who truly saw me.”
She meant: he never stopped staring.
He said, “I’m her biggest fan and her husband.”
People gagged.
She smiled.
Because the headlines were back.
And the cameras were rolling.
Attention is a hell of a drug.
And she was relapsing.
He still calls her “Queen” every hour.
She hasn’t called him anything in weeks.
When he touches her, she stiffens.
But smiles.
Because the internet is watching.
She does GRWM videos pretending they’re soulmates.
Then sleeps on the couch.
He doesn’t care.
He just wants proximity.
She just wants relevance.
Love?
No. Mutual addiction to being perceived.
She tweeted: “Be careful who you marry. Some people love what you represent, not who you are.”
Everyone thought she meant him.
She meant herself.
He posted a photo kissing her cheek.
She looked dead in the eyes.
Comments were split:
🔥 “Power couple”
🧊 “Blink twice if he’s in the room.”
She didn’t blink.
She smiled.
Because smiling gets likes.
And silence keeps secrets.
“You seem anxious,” the therapist said.
“I’m married to my shadow.”
“But he worships you.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Do you love him?”
“I love what he gives me.”
“What is that?”
“Unconditional obsession.”
“That’s not love.”
“No. But it’s attention.”
“And attention...?”
“Is the new affection.”
They celebrated with a fake Q&A.
“What do you love most about each other?”
He said: “Her laugh.”
She said: “How loyal he is.”
She meant: how trapped he is.
He meant: how owned he feels.
They posted a TikTok kiss.
Didn’t speak for two days after.
She wore a shirt that said “Privacy Please.”
He printed her face on socks.
It was hell. With filters.
She went live at 2 AM.
Drunk.
Alone.
“Do you ever hate who you ended up with?”
People flooded the comments.
Someone typed, “But he’s your biggest fan?”
She paused.
Laughed bitterly.
“That’s the thing,” she slurred.
“It was never about love.”
Just dopamine.
And now I can’t live without it.
She posts less now.
But never stops watching the likes.
He still calls her perfect.
She still flinches.
They go to red carpets, hand in hand.
She pretends.
He believes.
They’re a cautionary tale, dressed like a fairytale.
She hates him.
But hates obscurity more.
So she kisses him again.
And whispers, “Thank you for still looking.”
Parasocial Romance | Brutal Satire | Fame Culture | Stalker Narrative | Internet Psychology | PR Love
This piece dismantles influencer hypocrisy, obsessive fandom, and the emotional economy of being adored.
Designed to feel like a diary ripped from the Notes app of a media-trained, secretly-rotting-from-within celebrity.
Use it as part of your writing portfolio, short film adaptation, or a dark voiceover concept piece.
“It’s not real love if you don’t secretly hate each other. But it’s real content.”
