Bailey Glass POV:
"Is he with someone else right now? Is he laughing with another woman? Is he telling her all the things he used to tell me?" The questions still echoed in my mind, even as I rode the bus, ostensibly leaving it all behind.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur by. The gentle rumble of the bus was strangely soothing. A couple of women, sitting a few rows ahead, were deep in conversation. Their voices, though low, carried through the quiet hum of the engine.
"Did you see August Carter's latest interview?" one whispered, her voice conspiratorial.
My stomach clenched. I knew. I knew I shouldn't listen, but I couldn't help it.
"Oh my god, yes!" the other replied, practically gushing. "He and Alana? They're totally dating, right? The way they look at each other..."
"Totally! I mean, who was his girlfriend before? Some graphic designer, right? Bailey something? She was so bland."
"Yeah, practically invisible. No wonder August moved on. Alana's a superstar! They're so much better suited."
My reflection in the bus window seemed duller, paler. Invisible. Bland. The words carved themselves into my skin. I instinctively reached up, touching my cheek. Was I really that forgettable?
A memory flashed, sharp and painful. The early days of August' s career, when he was just starting to get noticed. He refused to go public with our relationship.
"It's better for my career, Bailey," he'd pleaded, his eyes earnest. "Directors want to cast me as the hot, available bachelor. A girlfriend would ruin that image."
I' d reluctantly agreed, though it hurt. It meant attending events separately, hiding our affection, pretending we were just friends around his industry contacts. The unspoken rule was: my existence was a secret.
This led to awkward, painful encounters. At a wrap party for one of his first big projects, a rising starlet openly flirted with him, completely unaware he was taken. He let her. He even laughed at her jokes, his arm around her in a photo op. I stood across the room, watching, my heart a lead weight.
Later that night, I confronted him, tears streaming down my face. "How could you? She was practically hanging all over you! Everyone thinks you're single!"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't be so dramatic, Bailey. It's Hollywood. It's how things are done. I told you, it's for my career." He called me "unreasonable."
I stood my ground. "No, August. This isn't just 'how things are done.' This is disrespectful. It makes me feel like I don't matter."
He eventually relented. A week later, he posted a single blurry photo of us on his Instagram, a caption that simply read, "My girl." It was a victory, I thought then. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.
But the relief was short-lived. His fans, or rather, their fans-the ones who shipped him with his female co-stars-exploded. My comment section became a war zone.
"Who is this random girl?" "August deserves better!" "She's trying to ride his coattails!"
Then came the fan accounts, fueled by Alana Edwards, who was already a social media darling. They created elaborate fanfictions, painting August and Alana as star-crossed lovers, destined to be together. In their narratives, I was the villain, the clingy, undeserving girlfriend holding August back.
One post, in particular, stuck with me. A fan wrote a sprawling, dramatic essay about how August was "too loyal for his own good," trapped in a relationship he didn't truly want, simply out of a sense of obligation to me. He's only with her because he feels sorry for her, the post implied. He' s too much of a gentleman to break her heart.
The worst part? Alana, seemingly innocently, would often engage with these fan posts. A cryptic "like" here, a "thank you for your support!" there. She played the part of the sweet, vulnerable artist to perfection.
One night, after August had finally posted that photo, Alana messaged me directly. It was late, past midnight.
"Hey Bailey! So glad August finally made things official. The fans were getting a little wild, haha. Just wanted to say, I'm always here if you need a friend!" It was accompanied by a string of heart emojis.
I stared at the message, a cold dread creeping through me. A friend? It felt less like an olive branch and more like a warning shot. I didn't know her, not really. We' d hardly ever spoken. This sudden overture felt… calculated.
When I showed August, he brushed it off. "See? She's so sweet. Just trying to be supportive."
"Supportive?" I asked, my voice rising. "Or is she trying to stake her claim? She's not as 'innocent' as you think, August."
He sighed, exasperated. "You always think the worst of people. She's just being kind. You're just... sensitive." He squeezed my shoulder dismissively. "You' re not like those other girls, all competitive and fake. That' s why I love you."
"Am I 'simple', August?" I asked, my voice tight. "Is that what you mean?"
He gave a soft, patronizing laugh. "No, no, baby. Just… less complicated. And that's a good thing! Anyway, I' m exhausted. Let' s not talk about this anymore."
I watched him walk away, feeling a chill. He loved me because I was "less complicated"? Less of a threat? And Alana, who was exactly my age, was so "sweet" and "innocent." It was another brick in the wall of my growing disillusionment.
