Bailey Glass POV:
"Am I 'simple', August? Is that what you mean?" The question had hung in the air, unanswered, a silent accusation. Now, as the bus rumbled towards my uncertain future, a familiar sound cut through my thoughts.
The blare of a news report from someone else's phone. It was the theme music for a popular entertainment show. Right. August's new series had a big public event today. A press conference, maybe? My finger, still raw from constantly scrolling through his social media, hovered over the thought of checking it. But I resisted. No more.
Then, the bus driver, bored during a red light, flicked on his small screen. An entertainment channel. My heart sank. There August was, front and center. And beside him, Alana Edwards.
The headline scrolled beneath them: "Alana Edwards Battles Online Trolls as Co-Star August Carter Steps Up."
Alana. She looked fragile, her eyes red-rimmed. She dabbed at them delicately with a tissue. She was addressing the rumors, the "vicious attacks" from anonymous online accounts.
"It's just so hard," she choked out, her voice trembling. "I just want to be judged for my art, not for... for these cruel lies."
The cameras zoomed in on her tear-filled eyes. The audience, a mix of reporters and fans, murmured sympathetically.
Then August, my August, stepped forward. He put a comforting hand on Alana's back, a gesture so tender it made my throat ache. He then turned to the cameras, his face etched with fierce protectiveness.
"This online harassment has to stop," he declared, his voice strong and clear. "Alana is a talented, kind, and vulnerable artist. To attack her like this, to spread such baseless rumors… it's despicable." He looked directly into the lens, his gaze intense. "We, as a society, need to be better. We need to stand up against online bullying."
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a choked, rasping sound that startled the woman next to me. She looked at me with concern, then, seeing my face, offered me a tissue. I took it, my hand shaking.
I felt the tears welling up, hot and fast. Not for Alana, not for August, but for myself. For the naive, foolish woman I had been. I couldn't stop them. They streamed down my face, blurring the image of August, my knight in shining armor, defending his damsel.
The woman beside me, seeing my distress, patted my arm gently. "Are you okay, dear?"
I shook my head, unable to speak. The embarrassment was a fresh wave of heat. Crying on a public bus. How fitting. How utterly pathetic.
"Next stop, Santa Monica Pier," the driver announced.
I scrambled up, half-blinded by tears. "Thank you," I mumbled to the kind stranger, then stumbled off the bus, needing to escape, needing to breathe.
The salty air hit my face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat on the bus. I walked aimlessly, the sound of the ocean a distant roar. My mind replayed August's impassioned speech. This online harassment has to stop.
He preached about online bullying, about protecting vulnerable artists. Yet, when I was the target of vicious, sustained online attacks, when my social media was flooded with hateful comments, when my personal details were dug up and shared by his rabid fans, where was he?
He was absent. He was "too busy." He was "in character."
"It's part of the game, Bailey," he'd said once, when I showed him a particularly vile comment that wished me dead. "Just ignore it. Don't feed the trolls."
Ignore it? How could I ignore the death threats, the relentless body shaming, the accusations of being a gold digger? One fan had even found my old high school photos and posted them online, mocking my teenage acne. They called me "ugly," "fat," "talentless." They said I wasn't "worthy" of August.
I remembered the sleepless nights, the frantic searches for my own name, the panic attacks that left me gasping for air. I lost weight. My hair started falling out. The doctor had prescribed medication, telling me I was suffering from severe anxiety and depression.
When August finally came home after a long shoot, I was a wreck. I showed him the articles, the comments, the alarming messages.
He patted my head, a dismissive gesture. "There, there, baby. It's almost over. The show's wrapped. Just a little longer." He hugged me briefly, a perfunctory embrace, then turned his attention to his packed suitcase. "I've got an early flight tomorrow. Another press tour."
I used to think he was just emotionally unavailable, a product of his intense, self-absorbed craft. That his "method acting" made him distant, but that his love for me was always there, simmering beneath the surface. I made excuses for him, rationalized his neglect. He just didn't understand, I told myself. He loved me in his own way.
But watching him now, on that screen, fiercely defending Alana, his eyes blazing with a protectiveness he' d never shown me… it was a brutal awakening. The man who had dismissed my suffering as "overreacting" was now a champion against injustice for another woman.
He wasn't incapable of empathy. He just chose where to direct it. And it wasn't towards me.
I felt a cold, hard certainty settle in my bones. I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool. And I was done being one.
