Everyone has seen them at the gym, at the juice bar, at the Friday night bonfire where Samson lifts the picnic table with one hand and Delilah laughs so hard she almost drops her phone. Everyone texts about Samson’s hair…. How it’s always perfect, how it falls in waves down his back, how it probably smells like coconut and wild honey. Everyone wonders if he uses conditioner, if he’s ever had split ends, if he’s ever been weak.

Everyone watches Delilah watch Samson. She’s always leaning in, whispering, her nails tracing the edge of his ear, her lips close enough to brush his jaw. Very ASMR. Everyone says Delilah is dangerous, that she’s too pretty, too clever, too much. Everyone says Samson is dumb as a rock, that he’d let Delilah braid his hair and tie him to the bedpost if she asked. Everyone laughs. Everyone has thought about tying Samson to the bedpost at least once.

Everyone follows Delilah’s Instagram. She posts stories of Samson sleeping, Samson flexing, Samson eating grapes off the vine. She posts cryptic captions: “What makes a man strong?” and “Secrets are best kept between lovers.” Everyone screenshots and speculates in group chats. Everyone wonders what Samson tells her in the dark, what he dreams about when his head is in her lap.

Everyone sees the new post: Delilah, scissors in hand, a lock of hair coiled around her fingers. The comments explode. Everyone says it’s just a joke, that Samson would never let her cut it, that it’s probably a filter. Probably AI. But the next day, Samson shows up at the gym with a hat pulled low, his shoulders slumped. Everyone pretends not to notice, but everyone notices.

Everyone hears the rumors: that Delilah got a brand deal with a razor company, that Samson cried in the locker room, that someone saw Delilah leaving town in a silver car with the windows down and her hair blowing wild. Everyone says she was always going to leave. Everyone says Samson should have known.

Everyone sees Samson at the bonfire the next Friday, alone. He doesn’t lift the picnic table. He doesn’t even look at it. His hair is gone, his eyes are small and red. Everyone avoids him, but everyone watches. Someone hands him a drink. Someone else asks if he’s okay. He shrugs. He says he’s fine.

Everyone waits for the comeback, the redemption arc. Everyone expects Samson to grow his hair back, to hit the weights harder, to post a thirst trap and get a thousand likes. But weeks go by, and Samson just gets quieter. He stops coming to the gym. He stops coming to the bonfire. Delilah’s Instagram goes private.

Everyone talks about what happened. Some say Delilah was paid off. Some say Samson was cursed. Some say it was just a haircut, that he’ll be fine. But everyone remembers how strong he was, how the ground seemed to shake when he laughed, how Delilah’s hand looked in his hair. Everyone misses it, just a little.

Everyone knows the story, but no one knows how it ends. Not really. Everyone wonders if Samson will ever come back, if Delilah will ever post another picture, if anyone will ever be that strong or that beautiful again. Everyone tells themselves they wouldn’t have fallen for it, that they would have kept the secret, that they would have been different.

And lately everyone has been wondering if Samson will show up at the gym, naked except for a ragged towel, and bang on the walls hard enough that the whole damned thing comes down on top of everyone.