People lie. Not because they have to, but because it's in their nature.

They smile when they hate you, compliment when they envy you, and act kind when they need something. Strip away the pretense, and all you have left is raw self-interest. The only real difference between people is how well they hide it. Some are amateurs, clumsy in their deceit—transparent in their hunger for approval. Others, polished and rehearsed, have mastered the art of deception so well that they convince even themselves.

But I see through them.

I always have.

The café hums with the gentle lull of conversation, laughter punctuating the air like a badly timed orchestra. The clinking of cups, the occasional scrape of a chair, the faint, persistent hiss of the coffee machine—all of it blends into a meaningless backdrop. I stir my coffee absently, my eyes drifting across the room, picking apart the little performances around me.

By the window, a couple sits close—too close. The man leans in, his hand resting lightly on hers, his voice low, his smile measured. I don't need to hear the words to know they're hollow. He doesn't love her. Not really. Love is nothing more than a transaction—comfort in exchange for companionship, security in exchange for obedience. It's the same dance, played out over and over.

His fingers tap against the table, restless. He laughs at something she says, but it's delayed—half a second too late, forced. His eyes flick to his phone, then back to her. Waiting. Hoping for something better.

The woman, meanwhile, is testing the waters. I see it in the way she holds eye contact with the waiter just a fraction longer than necessary. The slight shift of her shoulders, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear—subtle, but deliberate. She's calculating. Wondering if she could do better.

Pathetic.

At another table, a well-dressed man speaks into his phone, his voice smooth, controlled. His suit is tailored—not designer, but crafted to give the illusion of wealth. A salesman, or worse, a scammer. The way he tilts his head, how his free hand moves as he speaks, the almost imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his lips—it's all there. He's selling something, and he's good at it. Not the small-time kind, either. The ones who sell false hope are always the best at making you believe.

Near the door, an old man sits alone, his posture slightly hunched, his fingers trembling as he turns the pages of a newspaper. His face is lined with the weight of years, his eyes dull—like someone who has spent a lifetime pretending to be better than he is.

He probably thinks he's different. That he's one of the rare few who lived an honest life, who resisted the pull of greed, of ambition. But I've seen his type before. The quiet kind, the ones who never took more than they were given, who prided themselves on their restraint. And yet, regret lingers in the way he exhales, in the tired set of his shoulders. He never acted on his worst impulses, and somehow, he still lost.

What a joke.

People are predictable once you stop listening to what they say and start watching what they do.

I glance at my phone. A message.

"Hey, I missed class today. Can you send me the notes? I'll owe you one."

I smirk. Owe me one? How laughable. He doesn't mean it. If I needed something from him, he'd hesitate, find an excuse, maybe even ignore me altogether. That's how people work. They take. They promise repayment, but when the time comes, they pause. They weigh their options. And if there's nothing in it for them, they disappear.

I type a response.

"Sure."

I attach the notes and send them over. Not because I care. Not because I expect gratitude. But because someday, I might need something—and he'll remember this moment. People are investments. You feed them when it's convenient, and when the time is right, you collect.

I take the last sip of my coffee, setting the cup down with a quiet click. The waiter passes by, and I leave a tip—not too much, not too little. Just enough to ensure he remembers me favorably. People are simple creatures. A little generosity now can pay off in unexpected ways later. You never know when you might need someone to look the other way.

As I step outside, the city greets me with its usual chaos. Cars honk impatiently, people move with purpose, their faces set in quiet determination or worn thin with exhaustion. A machine of ambition, greed, and self-interest.

Some fight against it. Others are consumed by it.

But me?

I thrive in it.

Because unlike them, I don't pretend.