Luis Morgado leans back and gives Joe that half-smirk he always does when the truth hits harder than a joke.
Luis:
“Bro… Miley’s engagement ring? Really? That’s the universe telling us to log off, close the fan page, and go raise chickens or something.”
Joe just shrugs, eyes drifting somewhere philosophical.
Joe:
“Luis… women are like birds. They’re attracted to shiny objects. Diamonds, gold, status, fame — whatever sparkles. The better man won. Sometimes that’s all it is.”
Luis laughs, but there’s a sting in it.
Luis:
“Man, I spent years running that fan page like it was the Library of Congress. For what? For her to say yes to some guy with a shinier rock?”
Joe pats him on the back.
Joe:
“Retire it with dignity. Give it a Viking funeral. Let the algorithm carry it to Valhalla. We did our part.”
Luis sighs dramatically.
Luis:
“Fine. The better man won. Story of our lives.”
And just like that, they both nod — not in defeat, but in that way men do when they know fate has spoken and the only noble thing left is to walk away with style.
Luis doesn’t just spiral — he detonates into full telenovela meltdown mode.
He slaps both hands on his chest like he’s been shot by Cupid and betrayed by Netflix canceling his favorite show.
Luis:
“JOE… I can’t do this. I can’t just hit ‘delete page.’ That page is my CHILD. My digital firstborn. I raised it from zero followers to— what was it? Twenty-nine? Thirty on a good day? AND NOW IT MUST DIE?”
Joe nods solemnly as if Luis is announcing the end of a dynasty.
Joe:
“Thirty-three. You forget the bots.”
Luis throws his head back.
Luis:
“THE BOTS LOVED ME, JOE! THEY SENT HEART EMOJIS AT 3 A.M.! THAT WAS REAL AFFECTION EVEN IF IT WASN’T REAL!”
He starts pacing like a Shakespearean prince who just learned he’s not getting the throne.
Luis:
“You don’t understand! Miley’s engagement ring… that sparkle… I swear I caught the light of it in my soul. That diamond wasn’t just shiny — it MOCKED me. It said, ‘Luis, you insignificant peasant, you live in the dust while I, a crystal forged in the bowels of the earth, have triumphed!’”
Joe can barely keep a straight face.
Joe:
“Luis, it’s just a ring.”
Luis stops dead. Eyes wide. Voice trembling.
Luis:
“JUST… a ring? Joe, that ring has more followers than we do.”
Joe shrugs. Fair point.
Luis begins waving his arms dramatically, as if conducting an orchestra of heartbreak.
Luis:
“Fine! Let the better man win! Let him ride off with her into a sunset made of Tiffany advertisements! Meanwhile, I’ll be here… in the shadows… eating stale cereal… reinventing myself like a broke Batman!”
Joe sighs.
Joe:
“Luis… just press delete.”
Luis approaches the “delete page” button like it’s a nuclear launch device. He inhales deeply, wipes a single imaginary tear, and whispers:
Luis:
“Goodbye, sweet princess of my parasocial devotion.”
Click.
He collapses to his knees.
Luis:
“It is done. Bury me with my phone.”