By the time the cameras started rolling, there were already a hundred balloons trembling over the stage like pastel storm clouds waiting to explode.

They floated above the glossy set lights and chrome stools, tethered by thin white ribbons that caught the glare as the studio audience screamed on cue. The LED wall behind the host flashed hot pink and electric blue: POP THE BALLOON OR FIND LOVE! In the lower corner, the little red “LIVE” icon glowed for the millions watching on YouTube from all over the United States.

Jules stood just offstage, fingers pressed so tightly around her clutch that the fake leather creaked.

She could feel the LA heat even inside the studio—those heavy warehouse walls in the Valley that always smelled faintly like dust, coffee, and burned-out ring lights. A floor manager in a headset counted down from five with his fingers, jabbing the air, and the crowd obeyed like a trained choir.

“Three… two… one…”

Spotlights slammed on. Confetti cannons fired a test burst that fluttered down like neon snow. And Wanda, the host whose face lived in a million TikTok stitches, strutted into the center with a wireless mic and a smile big enough to swallow the entire room.

“Hi everyone!” she shouted, voice echoing off the rafters. “I’m Wanda, and welcome back to another episode of Pop. The. Balloon. Or. Find. LOVE!”

The audience roared. Someone in the front row waved a cardboard sign shaped like a heart with their @ handle written across it.

Jules watched from the shadows and tried not to think about how ridiculous this all was.

There were five men already on their marks, each standing behind a silver stool with a balloon hovering above their heads. Their names were taped in block letters to the floor. Cameras floated around them like mechanical birds—on jibs, on tracks, on the shoulders of sweaty operators in black t-shirts.

A production assistant touched Jules’ elbow. “You’re first,” the woman whispered. “You look amazing. Remember: hit your mark, smile at Camera Two, don’t look at your mic, and just have fun, okay?”

Just have fun.

Sure. In front of half a million people and a comments section that could go feral in under thirty seconds.

Jules forced a breath into her ribs. She smoothed the front of her dress—a soft, long-sleeved navy thing she’d thrifted and tailored herself. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t sparkle. It skimmed her knees and made her feel covered, grounded.

Her roommate had told her she should wear something tighter. “Show some leg,” Mia had argued, perched on the edge of their small couch in Koreatown, feet tucked underneath her. “This is a Los Angeles dating show, not a church picnic.”

“It’s filmed in a warehouse off Burbank Boulevard,” Jules had answered. “And I work with kids. I’m not going to show up on the internet half naked.”

Mia had rolled her eyes and muttered something about “old soul energy,” but she’d helped curl Jules’ hair anyway, tugging each strand gently, spraying it into place.

Now, under the studio lights, Jules could feel those curls prickling against the back of her neck.

“Bring her out!” Wanda shouted. “Gentlemen, get excited!”

The audience clapped and whooped. The floor shook slightly under her heels.

The PA tapped her again. “Go, go, go,” she whispered. “You’re on, Juliet.”

It’s Jules, she wanted to say.

But the music swelled, and her name was already booming through the speakers.

“Please welcome our first single lady of the night… Jules!”

She stepped out into the light.

For a second, the brightness blinded her. Then her vision adjusted, and she saw it all: the five men lined up with plastic smiles, their balloons bobbing above them; the rows of faces in the stands; Wanda striding toward her in a jewel-toned jumpsuit that probably cost more than Jules’ monthly rent.

Wanda extended a mic. “Welcome in!” she sang. “Thank you for being here. What’s your name and how old are you?”

Up close, the host’s lashes were thick enough to create their own weather.

“My name is Jules,” she said into the mic, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “And I’m twenty-eight.”

“And what do you do for work?” Wanda asked, tilting her head, smile already primed.

“I work with a nonprofit,” Jules said. “We provide educational support for children in overlooked communities.”

There was a brief, polite ripple of applause. On the big screen behind her, a graphic popped up: JULES, 28 – NONPROFIT QUEEN.

Wanda’s smile softened just a notch. “That’s incredible,” she said. “Give it up for her, everybody. That is important work.”

The crowd clapped again, louder this time. A teenage girl in the second row cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “We love you, Jules!” in that high American accent that always made everything sound like an exclamation mark.

Wanda winked. “And what do you do for fun?” she asked.

Jules hesitated. Honesty or strategy? The producer backstage had told her to “lean into your brand” but also “keep it spicy.” Whatever that meant.

“I like to stay in,” she said. “Cuddle, watch movies. I like to journal sometimes and… maybe go to a museum.”

Across the stage, a loud POP cracked through the air.

The balloon above one of the men burst into blue shreds.

The audience “oooh”-ed. The camera whipped toward the culprit.

“Okay, we have our first balloon pop!” Wanda crowed. “Let’s talk to him and see what’s going on.”

The guy who had popped his balloon lounged against his stool, smirking. He wore a designer hoodie with the tag still hanging from the side, like he wanted the price to be part of his outfit.

“Hi there,” Wanda said, thrusting the mic toward him. “What’s your name and how old are you?”

“Yo yo,” he said, leaning into it. “I’m Terrence. Thirty-three.”

Jules catalogued him automatically. Sculpted beard. Diamond stud in one ear. Expensive sneakers, the kind teenage boys lined up overnight for at malls in the Midwest.

Wanda flipped her hair. “Okay, Terrence, you were first to pop your balloon. Is Jules someone you would initially be interested in?”

He looked her up and down, slow and obvious, like he was inspecting a product.

“Nah,” he said. “I think she pretty… pretty boring.”

The audience laughed. Wanda’s eyebrows shot up.

“Okay,” the host said, drawing the word out. “Jules, is Terrence someone you would be initially interested in?”

Jules swallowed.

“He looks good,” she said carefully. “But it’s not just about looks for me. It’s about having hobbies we can share. And it seems like we don’t have much in common. So… yeah. For sure we don’t.”

Terrence snorted. “You even more boring than I thought,” he said. “Like, I like hitting the clubs, turning up with my boys. I like to have fun. And no offense, you look like you’ve never had fun in your life.”

The words stung more than she wanted them to. Not because she believed him, but because part of her knew that half the comments section would.

“That’s… something I’m definitely not interested in,” Jules said, keeping her tone calm. “So. It’s good to know. And I’m glad he popped his balloon.”

The audience oooh-ed again, this time at her comeback. Wanda’s eyes flared with the thrill of it—conflict made good content.

“Let’s move on,” the host said, laughing. “Have fun at the library, Terrence.”

The men next to Terrence cackled. He rolled his eyes and looked away, as if getting roasted on a streaming dating show wasn’t a big deal.

For the first time that night, Jules let herself breathe.

One down.

Four to go.

While confetti cannons reloaded and Wanda bantered, a man in a leopard-print button-up shirt rushed toward the building’s side door outside, nearly tripping over the cables snaking along the asphalt.

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late,” he muttered, sliding his phone into his pocket. The Uber had dropped him two blocks down because of a street closure, and he’d sprinted the rest of the way under the hot California sun.

He pushed through the heavy metal door into a blast of cold air and noise.

The backstage hallway buzzed with activity. Crew members wheeled carts stacked with equipment. A stylist wrestled with a rack of sequined dresses. A coffee machine gurgled desperately in the corner, pumping out burnt espresso for anyone who needed a jolt.

A harried production assistant with a clipboard almost collided with him.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said. “Are you…?”

“Ro,” he said, breathless. “I’m one of the contestants. I’m late, I know, I know, I’m sorry. Traffic on the 101 was insane and my Uber driver decided to lecture me about Bitcoin—”

She squinted at her sheet. “Ro… short for…?”

“Romero,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Ro.”

She found his name and exhaled. “You’re in the second round,” she said. “They already started the first taping. You missed that call time, but we can still get you in for the next one.”

On a monitor behind her, the image flickered: Jules standing under the studio lights, Terrence’s balloon in tatters above his head.

“Can I still get in there?” he asked, nodding toward the feed.

She shook her head. “They already started,” she said. “Casting’s locked for that segment.”

His shoulders sagged. This had been his chance, hadn’t it? His best friend had signed him up as a joke, but when the email came from the Los Angeles casting office, something in him had tugged, like maybe this was fate being messy and modern and filmed in 4K.

“Look,” the assistant said, softening. “You can wait for the next round. They’re shooting all day. Just… stop moping, grab a water, try to not spill anything on the wardrobe, and I’ll come get you when we’re lining up.”

He managed a grateful half-smile. “Thank you,” he said.

He slid into a plastic folding chair in the corner, beneath a poster of last season’s cast. On the screen, Jules laughed at something Wanda said, and the camera punched in for a close-up. Her eyes looked steady, even as her fingers twisted in the microphone’s cord.

Ro watched her for a moment, feeling an odd little twist in his chest.

“She looks so… real,” he murmured.

“Who?” the coffee machine wheezed.

He shook his head at himself and leaned back, the metal chair squeaking under his weight as the show rolled on.

Back on set, the show moved into the first “get to know you” round. The text on the LED wall behind them shifted to QUESTION ROUND in loud, animated letters.

“Okay, Jules,” Wanda cooed. “Why don’t you ask our men a question? Let’s see what they’re made of.”

Jules inhaled.

She had a whole list in her head. Things she’d scribbled in her journal at 1 a.m. after another disappointing first date at some Silver Lake coffee shop with exposed brick and seven-dollar cold brew.

Do you go to therapy?

How do you talk about women when we’re not in the room?

What does commitment mean to you?

But this was a game show. There were time limits and brand deals and producers waving notes just offstage.

“I guess I’d like to know…” she said slowly, looking at each balloon-anchored man in turn. “What do you look for in a partner?”

“Great question,” Wanda said, pivoting to the contestants. “Let’s hear from the guys. Name and age, please.”

The first man stepped forward, resting one elbow casually on his stool. He was handsome in that glossy Instagram way—perfect fade, neat beard, button-down shirt open one too many buttons.

“Hey, I’m Carlos, and I’m twenty-nine,” he said. His voice had that smooth, practiced vocal fry that suggested he’d done this on camera before. “I’m looking for someone to help me build my business. I’m pretty successful, and I need a woman who will show up for me, take care of the house, the food. I do well financially, so I take care of her, she takes care of me.”

As he spoke, a graphic popped up behind him: CARLOS, 29 – ENTREPRENEUR. There was no mention of what the business actually was.

Jules nodded politely, even as a little warning bell dinged in her head. She believed in partnership, in showing up for someone. But she also believed in being a whole person, not an unpaid employee in a man’s startup life.

“Okay, heard,” Wanda said. “Next! Name and age.”

The second man adjusted his watch so the camera could catch the logo. “I’m Ricky,” he said. “Thirty-one. I’m looking for someone gorgeous that I can show off. So, because of that…”

He reached up and, without breaking eye contact with Jules, popped his balloon with a deliberate fingernail.

Latex snapped. The audience gasped and then giggled.

“Wow,” Wanda said. “So is Jules not your type, Ricky?”

“If grandma were my type, then yeah,” he said, smirking. “Like… I mean, look at what she’s wearing.”

The camera panned down Jules’ dress, then cut quickly back to her face.

Jules could feel the burn rising up her neck. She clutched the mic a little tighter.

“And what do you have to say about that, Jules?” Wanda asked, voice syrupy. “Let’s hear it.”

“I mean, I like how I dress,” Jules said, forcing her voice to stay even. “Dressing modestly is a personal decision, and I don’t feel the need to wear revealing clothes. It’s not the kind of attention I want, nor need.”

“Well, good,” Ricky laughed, “’cause you’re not gonna get any attention looking like that. So.”

There were scattered “ooooh”s from the stands. Someone in the back shouted, “You’re rude!” but the sound was swallowed by the room.

“Was Ricky originally your type?” Wanda pressed, turning the knife.

“I think he’s cute,” Jules said honestly. “But I try not to judge solely based off looks. That’s kind of surface-level stuff, and I’m looking for a real connection.”

“Well, you gotta hook a guy first,” Ricky said. “You gotta show some skin. A guy needs a girl he can show off to his friends.”

“That’s your preference,” Jules replied. “Not mine. I like how I present myself, and I know what’s important is what’s on the inside.”

The audience clapped, some genuinely, some because the “APPLAUSE” sign lit up.

“Fair points,” Wanda said, smoothly pivoting. “Thanks, Jules. Moving on.”

Backstage, Ro watched the interaction and winced.

“This city,” he muttered under his breath. “This country sometimes.”

But he couldn’t look away from the girl in navy, standing her ground under a thousand watts of judgment.

The third man stepped forward. He wore a bomber jacket and held the mic loosely, like he was used to performing.

“Hi, I’m Joel, and I’m thirty-six,” he said. At the bottom of the screen, the editors added: JOEL, 36 – DJ.

“And what are you looking for in a partner?” Wanda asked.

“I want someone who supports me and my passions,” Joel said. “I got big dreams, and I need a girl who’s gonna show up, be my cheerleader.”

“And what are your passions?” Wanda asked, giving him an opening.

“I do music. DJing,” he said. “I got some singles on SoundCloud, that kind of stuff.”

In Jules’ mind, she could see it: late nights in dim clubs, her sitting alone at a table with a watery drink while he shouted into the mic, hands in the air, telling the crowd to make some noise. Her schedule bending around his gigs. Her own dreams shrunk to make space for his.

“Okay, cool,” Wanda said. “Thanks, Joel. Next. Name and age, please.”

The last man stepped forward.

He wore clean jeans, a simple shirt, and nerves.

“Hi, Wanda,” he said, giving a small smile. “My name is Kyle. I’m twenty-eight years old.”

“And what are you looking for in a partner, Kyle?” Wanda asked, leaning in.

He hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jules, then at the audience, then at the cameras.

“Well, I am going to be the guy to say it,” he said. “I am looking for my future wife. I want someone that I can spend the rest of my life with and eventually start a family with. You know, being a great dad is actually one of my ultimate goals. So, yeah.”

The audience melted.

“Awwww,” rippled through the seats. Somewhere, a woman shouted, “Marry me, Kyle!” and her friends screamed.

In a living room in a suburb outside San Diego earlier that day, Kyle’s mom had cupped his face in her hands as he adjusted his collar.

“So you really think you might find her today?” she had asked, eyes already shiny.

“Kind of feels like it,” he’d said, shrugging one shoulder. “Just a gut feeling.”

She’d laughed, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,” she’d said. “You are a good man, and any woman would be lucky to have you. A special someone is right around the corner. Oh, I hope this works out for you today, honey.”

“I love you,” he’d said, kissing her cheek.

“Love you too,” she’d replied, and watched from the doorway as he got into his car and drove toward Los Angeles, toward cameras and edited reality.

Back on set, Jules felt something warm uncoil in her chest at his words.

Future wife.

Family.

Those were things she wanted, too. Not the way social media made them look, all presets and matching outfits. But the real version. The kind where someone showed up for parent-teacher nights and Sunday dinners and middle-of-the-night nightmares.

She tucked that feeling away like a fragile bird.

Before that warmth could spread, Joel’s voice cut across the stage again.

“What’s funny?” he sneered, looking at Kyle. “Mama’s boy much? What are you, thirty?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Kyle said. “And what’s wrong with having a good relationship with my mom?”

“It’s just… women don’t want a man who can’t live without his mama,” Joel said. “It’s sad. And if you’re really looking for ‘the one,’ this is not the place, my guy.”

The crowd shifted. Some laughed nervously. Others booed.

“Seriously, dude,” Joel continued. “What do you mean?”

Wanda jumped in quickly, sensing the tension. “Let’s keep it playful,” she said. “Jules, it’s your turn now to pop one balloon.”

Jules’ heart stuttered.

She had to eliminate someone. On national—well, global—YouTube.

She scanned the remaining balloons: Carlos, who wanted a house manager; Ricky, who’d already popped his; Joel, who needed a cheerleader; Kyle, whose eyes had softened when he talked about being a dad.

The choice was easier than she expected.

She walked slowly over to the stool in front of Joel.

“Ready?” Wanda asked, shoving the mic under her chin.

Jules lifted a hand.

The balloon popped.

Confetti sprinkled down.

The audience shrieked.

“Okay, Jewel, tell us why you chose him,” Wanda said.

Jules turned toward Joel. He looked both offended and unsurprised.

“Well,” she said, “I believe in supporting my future husband. But I also believe in a balanced relationship. We should be each other’s cheerleaders. He should support my passions, too. But I’m not so sure that’s what he’s hoping for.”

“Huh?” Joel scoffed. “Yo, I’m no one’s cheerleader.”

He shrugged, trying to play it off. “Whatever,” he said. “I’m glad she popped my balloon.”

“Really?” Wanda asked, pouncing. “Why’s that?”

“I would never date a girl as mid as her,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you, it was just that one answer, you know. I’m sure you—”

“Well, I’m sure you probably couldn’t keep up with my lifestyle anyway,” he added, cutting himself off. “Good luck finding your, uh, cheerleader.”

“You sound really insecure,” Jules said quietly. “So… seems like I made the right decision.”

Joel rolled his eyes, muttered something about “over this,” and stalked offstage toward the hallway, where Ro watched him go with a frown.

Up close, the DJ’s bravado looked more like brittle glass.

The next few exchanges blurred. Wanda kept the energy high, navigating between quips and cutting comments like a pro. The audience played their part, gasping and clapping on cue.

But a thread had been pulled.

Kyle shifted on his feet, his earlier certainty wobbling under Joel’s mocking. Ricky and Carlos exchanged smug glances, both clearly there to sell something—watches, personalities, brand deals.

During a brief reset, while a makeup artist dabbed powder on Ricky’s forehead and a sound tech adjusted Jules’ mic, Kyle stared at the floor.

You really think you’ll find love here? Joel’s voice echoed in his head. It’s not about love. It’s about gaining followers.

He had scrolled through the show’s Instagram page the night before, lying on his bed in the guest room at his mom’s house. Every photo was finely curated: bright lights, dramatic tears, captions asking “Would YOU have popped the balloon?” with thousands of comments, most of them laughing, some of them mean enough to make his stomach twist.

Maybe Joel was right. Maybe this was a stupid way to find something real.

But when he looked up and saw Jules, standing there under the hot lights with her shoulders squared and her dress refusing to apologize for being modest, something in him dug in his heels.

He wanted to believe.

Not just for himself.

For her, too.

“Okay, Jules,” Wanda said, voice sliding back into the spotlight. “For our last question round, please ask the remaining men one more question. Make it a good one. This one will help you make your final decision.”

The LED wall behind them flashed FINAL QUESTION in glittery letters.

Jules steadied her breath.

Her heart knew exactly what it wanted to ask, even if the producers would have preferred something shallow.

“I guess I’d like to know…” she said, looking at Carlos and Kyle, the last two with intact balloons. “Do you believe in true love?”

The audience let out a collective “ooooh.”

“A romantic!” Wanda squealed. “We love that. All right, gentlemen. What do you think? True love—real thing or fairy-tale nonsense?”

Carlos stepped up first, adjusting his cufflinks.

“True love seems like something out of a fantasy world for women,” he said. “It’s not realistic. Look, you gotta meet someone you’re attracted to and settle down with them. Doesn’t matter if there’s ‘true love’ as long as there’s mutual attraction there. That’s what really makes a relationship work, in my opinion.”

He shrugged, as if he’d just spoken obvious truth.

Half the audience nodded. The other half looked unconvinced.

“And what about you, sir?” Wanda asked, turning to Kyle. “Do you believe in true love?”

Kyle swallowed.

He could hear Joel in his ear, still.

But then he glanced at Jules.

Her face was open, expectant. Not naïve exactly. Just… hopeful in a way that scared him a little, because he recognized it in his own chest.

“Well,” he said, “I have to admit I am a bit of a hopeless romantic.” A few women in the stands squealed. “I do believe in true love, and I’m willing to wait as long as it takes for it.”

He took a breath and kept going, voice steadier now.

“To me, the person that you spend the rest of your life with is a crucial decision,” he said. “And I want to make sure I love them even when our looks fade.”

The crowd went wild.

Wanda clutched her chest dramatically. “We love a soft king!” she yelled. “Make some noise for Kyle!”

The “APPLAUSE” sign lit up. People stomped their feet. Someone shouted, “He’s so real!” and Jessie from Brooklyn tweeted “I STAN KYLE” before the round even ended.

Carlos rolled his eyes.

Jules’ fingers trembled around her mic.

It might sound silly, she thought, but I still believe in it, too.

The segment ended with Wanda hustling them offstage, past the cameras, into the backstage chaos where producers and PAs flowed around them like a river.

“Kyle and Jules, you were a match made in YouTube heaven,” Wanda said into the camera, standing between them. “You two can step backstage while we get ready to bring out our next contestant.”

Kyle smiled. He was good at that, Jules noticed now that she was closer to him. His teeth were straight, but his eyes did most of the work. They crinkled a little at the corners when he smiled for real.

She let herself feel it: the flicker, the tiny spark of maybe.

“Hi,” he said as they walked down the hallway toward the “couples lounge,” which was really just a corner with a backdrop and two folding chairs.

“Hi,” she said, hugging her arms to herself. “You did great up there.”

“So did you,” he said. “I liked what you said about shared values. That stuff matters.”

They sat. A camera crew hovered a few feet away, filming “candid” footage of their first conversation. A producer whispered, “Just talk, don’t worry about us.”

Jules tried to pretend the lens wasn’t there.

“I’m really excited for our date,” Kyle said suddenly.

She turned toward him, hope brightening. “Really?” she asked. “Me too. I mean, out there you said you wanted to go on a date, and you gave me all those nice compliments, and I thought we had some things in common, so… I’m excited.”

He hesitated.

The camera zoomed in.

“What?” she asked, sensing something shift.

He laughed, but it didn’t sound the same as the laughter on stage. This one was thinner. Hollow.

“You didn’t think I was actually serious, did you?” he said.

Her stomach dropped.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He glanced over her shoulder, checking where the crew was standing. The closest cam-op was talking to a grip, lens lowered.

“Kidding,” Kyle said in a lower tone. “Come on. You seem smart. You know what this is.”

Her mind didn’t catch up fast enough. “You said you were looking for your future wife,” she said, voice careful. “You talked about being a dad and true love and—”

“It’s what I knew you wanted to hear,” he cut in. “Was I wrong? It obviously worked, didn’t it?”

She stared at him.

“You’re not serious,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Look, I’m just here to get the internet to fall in love with me,” he said. “I’ve been stuck around twelve thousand followers on my fitness account forever. This show? Free exposure. I’m trying to get to fifty K by the end of the week.”

He flicked an invisible speck off his jeans.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he added. “You’ll probably get some followers, too. I mean, not a lot, ’cause look how you’re dressed. But still.”

“You’re just like them,” she said slowly. “At least they said it to my face.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not stupid enough to ruin my brand out there,” he said. “Out there, I’m America’s sweetheart. Back here, I’m realistic. I’m here to get girls to follow me. And it worked on you, so it’s probably going to do great for my numbers.”

She could feel heat building behind her eyes. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall while the cameras were still near.

“What?” he said. “You didn’t actually think you were gonna find true love on a YouTube game show, did you? Wow, you are even more gullible than I thought you were.”

He stood, stretching.

“Bye, Jules,” he said.

And just like that, he walked away, toward a PA who was waving him over to film a confessional segment about “our connection.”

Jules sat very still.

The camera crew drifted away eventually, after realizing the audio they were getting was not exactly brand-safe. A producer muttered into their walkie that they’d “work it in post” somehow. Maybe with sad music. Maybe not at all.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

MOM: How’s it going? Any cute guys?

She stared at the text and felt something splinter quietly inside her.

She didn’t text back.

She stood, legs shaky, and stepped into the hallway.

The backstage corridor was a blur of motion. A makeup artist rushed past with an armful of brushes. A contestant in a gold dress practiced her “surprised” face in a mirror. A crew member wheeled a huge ring light toward the next set.

Jules slipped past them, head down.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had tied a balloon string around her ribs and pulled.

She found a quieter side hallway, away from the main traffic, and leaned against the wall. A giant foam board sign advertising the show leaned nearby, balanced precariously against a stack of plastic crates. Bright letters screamed: DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE?

She almost laughed.

Her phone buzzed again.

She hit “Call” instead of “Text,” almost without thinking.

Her mom picked up on the second ring. “Hey, honey!” she said. “I was just thinking about you. How’s it going? Are you having fun?”

Jules opened her mouth, then shut it.

“Coming here was a mistake,” she blurted.

There was a pause. “Oh, sweetheart,” her mom said softly. “What happened?”

Jules pressed her forehead against the cool wall. “I think I’m going to pass on the next round,” she said. “Doesn’t seem like I’ll find what I’m looking for here. That was horrible.”

“What did he do?” her mom asked, her voice tight.

Jules exhaled shakily. “He just… lied,” she said. “He said everything he knew I wanted to hear, and then he turned around and told me it was all fake. He’s just here for followers.”

“I know this hurts,” her mom said. “But that says everything about him and nothing about your worth, okay?”

“I know,” Jules whispered. “I know, but I’m just so tired of looking. It’s like I’m meant to be alone forever.”

She didn’t mean it—not really—but in that moment, it felt true enough that the words slid out before she could stop them.

“You are not meant to be alone forever,” her mom said firmly. “You’re allowed to feel sad. You’re allowed to be tired. But you don’t get to give up on yourself, you hear me?”

Jules smiled weakly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Come home after,” her mom said. “We’ll make popcorn and watch something where the good guy actually deserves the girl.”

Jules nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call you when I’m out.”

They hung up.

She slipped her phone back into her bag and took a step forward.

At that exact moment, someone barreled down the intersecting hallway, arms full of extension cords and a box of props, not looking where he was going.

He clipped the foam board sign with his elbow.

It teetered, tilted, and started to fall—right toward Jules.

“Look out!” a voice shouted.

Something slammed into her shoulder, knocking her sideways.

The sign crashed where she’d been standing, scattering glitter and cardboard.

For a second, everything went white.

Then it cleared, and she realized she was on the floor—well, half on the floor, half braced against another body that had broken her fall.

“Are you okay?” the voice asked.

She looked up.

A man in a ridiculous leopard-print shirt stared down at her, concern crinkling his dark eyes.

His hand was still on her arm, fingers warm.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push you down.”

“Oh—no,” she said, breathless. “You didn’t. You… saved me. Thank you. I’m fine.”

The clumsy crew member shouted an apology over his shoulder and kept going, dragging the cable snake behind him.

They both stared at the fallen sign.

The words DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE? grinned up at them from a new angle.

“That was close,” the man in leopard said. “But thank goodness I was here to be dramatic for no reason.”

She laughed, a small, startled sound that loosened something in her chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you in the show or…?”

“Oh,” she said, pushing herself up to sit. He offered a hand, and she took it. “Yeah. I just finished the competition. But it was a complete waste of time.”

He pulled her gently to her feet. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I was actually looking forward to being on it, and then…” He gestured vaguely toward the monitor hanging on the wall, where a replay of Kyle professing his romantic ideals played on a loop. “…then I realized the same thing.”

She followed his gaze.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Nobody’s actually serious about finding their match.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s like nobody believes in true love anymore.”

She smiled sadly. “Tell me about it.”

They stood there for a moment, catching their breath amid the hum of distant audience noise and the squeak of cart wheels on concrete.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t even asked your name. I’m Jules. Short for Juliet.”

Something bright flickered in his eyes.

“I’m Ro,” he said. “Short for Romeo.”

There was a beat.

Then they both laughed, the sound overlapping, warm and astonished, echoing down the corridor of a Los Angeles warehouse where love was supposedly just content.

Later, when the episode aired and the YouTube algorithm blasted it across homepages from New York to Nebraska to Nevada, viewers would latch onto that tiny moment at the end—the way the camera accidentally caught a glimpse of two people in the background of a wrap-up shot, standing close, talking, laughing, totally unaware of being filmed.

Comment sections would fill with things like, “Forget Kyle, I’m invested in Leopard Shirt Guy & Jules,” and “Tell me I’m not the only one who saw the Romeo & Juliet energy in the back there???”

Someone would slow the footage down and zoom in, circling them in red.

But that night, in the too-bright backstage hallway in LA, there was no trending tab. No subtitles.

Just two people who had both considered giving up on something they weren’t ready to bury yet.

“You’re really not going back in?” Ro asked, glancing toward the main set.

Jules shook her head. “No,” she said. “I think I’m done letting strangers pop balloons over my head and then insult me for sport.”

“Fair,” he said. “I haven’t even gone in yet, and I already want to quit. The PA out there told me, ‘This is the chance of a lifetime.’ I watched ten minutes on the monitor and realized the ‘lifetime’ they meant was like… three weeks of clout.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re here for followers too?”

He hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I thought I was,” he admitted. “My buddy signed me up because my photography business is struggling. He figured, hey, if you can get twenty thousand people to look at your face, maybe ten of them will click on your portfolio, right? But then I got here and saw everyone being mean on purpose for comments—”

“And you realized you didn’t want to be part of that,” she finished softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a drama kid at heart, but not like that.”

She studied him for a second.

He was handsome, but not in the aggressively polished way of the guys on stage. His hair curled slightly at the ends, like it refused to be tamed completely. His shirt—loud leopard print—should have looked ridiculous, but somehow it worked on him.

“What about you?” he asked. “Why did you come?”

She laughed once. “Because my roommate dared me to,” she said. “She said I needed to ‘put myself out there.’ I work a lot. I don’t go out much. It seemed… I don’t know. Ridiculous but maybe worth a shot.”

He nodded, like he understood more than she’d said.

“So,” he said. “How’d that work out?”

She exhaled. “The first guy called me boring because I like staying in and journaling,” she said. “The second one said I dress like a grandma. The third wanted a cheerleader who doesn’t have her own dreams. And the fourth…”

Her voice faltered.

“And the fourth?” he asked gently.

“He said everything I’ve ever wanted to hear about love,” she said. “And then told me backstage that it was all a script.”

Ro winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It does.”

They stood there, the neon spill from a vending machine illuminating half his face.

“And you still believe in it?” he asked. “Love, I mean. After all that.”

She looked at him.

“Yes,” she said. “I do. I wish I didn’t sometimes. It would be easier to be like them. Get followers. Call everything fake. But I work with kids, you know? I see little humans every day who haven’t had their hearts broken yet. They still believe anything is possible. I can’t look at them and think, ‘Nah, you’re doomed, grow up.’ I refuse.”

He smiled, slow and genuine. “Good,” he said. “Me too.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “My grandparents were married for sixty-two years,” he said. “They lived in a tiny house in Fresno, grew tomatoes in the backyard, fought about everything, and still held hands at the grocery store in their eighties. When my grandpa died, my grandma sat on the porch every night and talked to the sky like he was still there. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

He shrugged, looking a little shy for the first time. “Kind of ruined casual dating for me,” he admitted. “Hard to get excited about ‘u up?’ texts when you’ve seen that.”

They laughed.

A PA walked by, headset askew. “Leopard boy,” she called. “You still want to do the next round? They’re wrapping this segment and prepping the next one.”

Ro looked from the PA to Jules.

He thought of the images on the monitor: men sneering for likes, women crying on cue, hearts reduced to thumbnails on a US-based reality channel.

He thought of his bank account, the overdue notices. He thought of the way his chest had squeezed when he’d first seen Jules on that screen.

“No, thanks,” he called back. “I’m good.”

The PA blinked. “You sure?” she said. “This could be your big break.”

He grinned. “I think I just had it,” he said.

She shrugged and walked on, already onto her next crisis.

Jules stared at him. “That was maybe the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said in a hallway that smells like energy drinks and old tape,” she said.

He chuckled. “So,” he said. “Since we’re both emotionally done with this place… want to get out of here?”

She glanced toward the door that led back to the set, where Wanda was probably introducing the next contestant with fireworks and branded slogans.

Then she looked at the exit sign glowing soft red over the door that led outside, to the cracked LA sidewalk and the hot evening air and whatever came next.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

They signed release forms, handed back their mic packs, and stepped out into the California dusk.

The sun was bleeding gold and pink behind the low industrial buildings. You could see the Hollywood sign if you craned your neck just right and squinted past the billboards.

A billboard above the warehouse already advertised the show. Two sculpted people leaned toward each other, balloons floating over their heads, a logo promising LOVE OR POP in giant letters. A QR code in the corner invited drivers on the 170 freeway to “Watch Now.”

Jules pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “It’s weird,” she said. “I thought walking out would feel like failing. It just feels… like leaving a party that was too loud.”

“Yeah,” Ro said. “The drinks were watered down and the DJ sucked anyway.”

She smirked. “Don’t tell Joel that.”

They walked in silence for a block, passing a taco truck with a line of crew members ordering late dinners. The scent of grilled onions and cilantro drifted through the air, making her stomach keenly aware that she’d eaten nothing but nerves and craft services pretzels all day.

“You hungry?” he asked, as if reading her mind.

“Starving,” she admitted.

“There’s a diner on Ventura a few blocks from here,” he said. “Open late. They have terrible coffee and the best pancakes in the Valley. Want to risk it?”

Her first instinct was to say no, to protect herself, to retreat to her apartment and her journal and her favorite comfort movie. But then she thought about sitting alone on her couch, replaying Kyle’s words until they hollowed out any remaining hope.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s risk it.”

They ordered pancakes and fries and two coffees that did, in fact, taste like they’d been sitting on a hot plate since morning.

They slid into a red vinyl booth, the kind that squeaked when you moved, and sat across from each other under a fluorescent light.

“So,” Ro said, stirring his coffee. “I know your name, your age, your job, and your stance on balloon-based dating shows. What else should I know?”

She smiled. “I grew up in Phoenix,” she said. “Moved to LA for college. Stayed because the kids at my nonprofit stole my heart. My dad drives a delivery truck. My mom makes the best enchiladas in the Southwest. My roommate thinks I’m an eighty-year-old woman in a twenty-eight-year-old body because I like reading more than clubbing. I talk to God sometimes, even when I’m mad at Him. And I still cry at the end of every rom-com, even if it’s bad.”

He nodded solemnly. “These are all excellent qualities,” he said. “Especially the enchiladas and the crying.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Who is Ro, aside from ‘Leopard boy’?”

He groaned. “I can’t believe that’s my legacy,” he said. “Okay. I’m thirty. Born in Fresno, moved to LA because I thought you had to be either here or New York if you wanted to do anything creative. I do freelance photography—weddings sometimes, headshots, family portraits. I assist on bigger shoots when I can. I live with two roommates in a two-bedroom in North Hollywood where the water heater is older than I am. My mom texts me every Sunday with a Bible verse and a passive-aggressive ‘Are you eating enough vegetables?’ My dad calls me ‘kid’ even though I’m taller than him. I’ve had my heart broken once very badly and some other times just… inconveniently. I hate dating apps, but I sometimes redownload them at midnight like a raccoon going back to the same trash can.”

She laughed. “Relatable,” she said. “My thumbs could navigate those apps with my eyes closed.”

They shared stories: the worst dates they’d ever been on, the most ridiculous lines they’d ever heard (“A guy once told me he could ‘fix’ my outfit,” Jules said. “I told him I wasn’t a software bug.”), the way Los Angeles could feel like a giant high school where everyone was competing to be voted “Most Likely to Go Viral.”

Between bites of pancakes and fries, the tightness in her chest loosened.

It wasn’t love at first sight.

It was something quieter.

Recognition. Relief. The sense of finally sitting across from someone who wasn’t performing for an invisible audience.

When their plates were almost empty, Ro wiped syrup off his hand with a napkin and glanced up.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure,” Jules said.

“Do you ever feel like… maybe we’ve been doing this whole thing wrong?” he asked. “Like, swiping and shows and lists and aesthetics. Like we turned dating into a job and forgot it was supposed to be… I don’t know. Human.”

She looked down at the crumbs on her plate.

“Every day,” she said.

He nodded. “Same.”

He took a breath. “So,” he said. “What if we try something different? No grand expectations. No pretending this is some fairy-tale, no pressure. Just… two people who like the idea of true love enough to not give up on it yet.”

She waited.

“Can I see you again?” he asked. “Outside of neon lights and fake balloons?”

Her heart did that small, inconvenient squeeze again.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”

His shoulders dropped, like he’d been holding more tension than he’d let on.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, good. Great.” He laughed at himself. “Cool, I’m super smooth, obviously.”

“You saved me from a falling sign,” she said. “That buys you at least one follow-up coffee.”

He grinned.

They exchanged numbers. Not Instagram handles. Not TikTok accounts.

Real numbers.

Later, when she got home, Jules curled onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, and opened her journal.

The page stayed blank for a long time.

Then she wrote:

Today I walked out of a show that treats feelings like fireworks. Today I got my heart stepped on by a man who didn’t mean a word he said. Today I almost got knocked out by a cardboard sign. Today I met a man in a leopard shirt named Romeo who believes love might still be worth it.

I don’t know what any of this means yet.

But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m meant to be alone forever.

She closed the journal and exhaled.

Outside, somewhere in the sprawling, glittering mess of American freeways and suburbs and cities, Ro probably sat in his cramped North Hollywood apartment, editing a photo, wondering the same thing she was:

What if this, the quiet beginning, was worth more than any dramatic ending a producer could script?

Months later, when the edited episode finally dropped, the thumbnail featured Kyle’s earnest face and the words HE SAID HE BELIEVED IN TRUE LOVE… BUT WATCH WHAT HE DOES BACKSTAGE! in bold letters.

It exploded on YouTube. Commentators in New Jersey, Miami, and Seattle made reaction videos. TikTok creators in Houston and Atlanta lip-synced to snippets of Ricky calling Jules a “grandma” and pointing out the irony of a guy who still lived with his mom mocking a man who loved his.

But the part that got the most attention wasn’t Kyle’s betrayal or Wanda’s rehearsed shock.

It was the three seconds, right before the end screen, where the camera accidentally caught two people laughing together in a hallway as a foam board sign lay on the floor between them.

Viewers slowed it down. Zoomed in. Stitched it.

Someone found Ro’s photography website, buried in his bio. Someone else recognized Jules from her nonprofit’s page, where she’d been tagged helping kids with homework in South LA.

“THE REAL ROMEO & JULIET,” one comment read, liked over eighty thousand times.

“This is the only ship I care about,” another said. “She walked away from five clout chasers and literally ran into a guy who knocked her out of the path of a falling sign. You cannot write this.”

Jules and Ro texted each other screenshots, half laughing, half horrified.

“We are memes now,” he wrote.

“We were always memes,” she replied. “Now we’re just public domain.”

They decided together not to feed it too much. They posted one picture on Instagram—just their hands, fingers laced, coffee cups in frame. The caption read: Found something real offline.

Comments flooded in. Some cynical. Most joyful.

Offline, they did the work that love actually required.

He came with her to a Saturday reading program at her nonprofit and ended up with three kids hanging off his arms, demanding piggyback rides. She held reflector boards at his photoshoots and learned the difference between good light and magic light.

He met her parents in Phoenix; her dad grilled him with quiet questions about responsibility and plans. He answered honestly. Her mom hugged him at the end of the weekend and slipped him a Tupperware of enchiladas “for the road.”

She met his family in Fresno; his grandmother eyed her for exactly twelve seconds, then declared, “You’re skinny, we’re feeding you,” and did. His grandpa—his other grandpa, the one still alive—made jokes about the leopard shirt until they all cried laughing.

They fought, sometimes. About small things. Miscommunications, schedules, fears.

But underneath the fights, there was something that didn’t shake: the shared decision they’d both made, separately and then together, to believe that true love wasn’t a punchline. That it was not perfect, not easy, not glamorous enough for thumbnail text.

Just… possible.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon in their second year together, they sat on the couch of the one-bedroom apartment they’d finally managed to find in a walk-up near Echo Park. The window was open. You could hear kids playing in the alley, a plane carving a line across the sky on its way out of LAX.

The YouTube algorithm, doing what it does, auto-played a suggested video.

“RECOMMENDED: POP THE BALLOON OR FIND LOVE – WHERE ARE THEY NOW?” flashed across the screen.

Ro reached for the remote.

“You want to…?” he asked.

She thought of the balloons. The envelope. The way her heart had dropped and then, somehow, been caught again.

She smiled.

“Let it play,” she said. “I like the ending better now anyway.”

The intro rolled. The same bright colors. The same host voice.

But this time, as confetti burst on a screen in a living room in Los Angeles, two people on the couch leaned into each other, not for the cameras, not for the comments, not for clout.

Just because it felt like the most honest thing in the world.