Java Bhobdhama

We’ve hated each other since we were 7.   He stole my spot on the basketball court and called it "squatter’s rights."   I egged his house on his 12th birthday and blamed the stray cats.   He told the whole street my dog was ugly.   I told his mom his adobo tasted like cardboard.  Java Bhobdhama vs. Cianne Alvarez. Across the street. Fence war. Noise complaints. Side-eyes at every barangay meeting.   15 years of pure, Olympic-level pettiness.   We were good at it.   Then our dads decided to merge their businesses.   Billions on the line. Investors. Contracts. The whole thing.   And the investors had one condition: "Show us your families are stable. United."   Translation: Get married.   To each other.   One year contract. Live in the same house. Post photos. Go to events. Act in love.   If we break it, both companies tank. Our parents. Our employees. Everything.   So now I’m packing my stuff into the house I swore I’d never step in again.   His house.   With one shared bedroom. One shared bathroom. One shared last name: Cruz.   He’s still annoying. Still smug. Still steals the covers.   I’m still not talking to him. Unless it’s to argue.   But we’re sharing a kitchen.   We’re sharing a bed.   We’re sharing a ring.   My neighborhood enemy.   My fake husband.   My biggest problem.   God help us both... because if we slip up and actually like each other, I’m blaming him.