Bailey Glass POV:
"I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool." The realization was a heavy stone in my stomach, weighing me down, yet pushing me forward.
Two days later, I booked a flight. One-way. To Portland, Oregon. My hometown. My escape. The final act of defiance.
Before leaving, I had one last appointment. A follow-up at the hospital, for my anxiety and depression. It felt like a symbolic closure, a medical stamp on the end of an era.
The hospital was bustling, but a section of the main lobby was cordoned off. A small crowd had gathered, craning their necks, whispering excitedly. Bright lights glared, and a cluster of technicians moved around, shouting instructions. Filming. Of course. This was LA.
I sighed, already tired of the spectacle. I just wanted to get my check-up and leave. I skirted the edges of the crowd, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.
Then, I heard a familiar voice. That deep, resonant laugh. My blood ran cold. I risked a glance.
There he was. August. He was in costume, looking impossibly handsome, surrounded by his entourage. And right beside him, a vision in a white dress, was Alana Edwards. They were filming a scene. My scene. A scene I' d written in my head countless times, a scene where he would finally see me, protect me, choose me. But I wasn't the star.
He turned, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. For a split second, our gazes locked. His brow furrowed. A flicker of surprise, then something unreadable, crossed his face. He started to move towards me, a slight hesitation in his step.
But I wasn't waiting. I turned on my heel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I didn't care what he saw, what he thought. I was done. I kept walking, faster and faster, until his face, his image, was just another fading memory in the rearview mirror of my life.
I didn't hear him call my name. Or maybe I did, and I chose to ignore it. Either way, I didn't stop.
Behind me, I vaguely heard Alana's voice, high-pitched and inquisitive. "August, who was that?"
I could almost picture his strained smile, his vague answer. Just an old acquaintance. Or perhaps, My girlfriend. The irony was thick enough to choke on. The girlfriend he was abandoning, just as he was becoming the man he always said he would.
Meanwhile, August stood there, watching my retreating back. He clenched his jaw. Alana, ever the observant co-star, tugged gently on his sleeve. "August? Everything okay?"
He managed a tight smile. "Fine, Alana. Just… a little distracted." He glanced back at the spot where I'd been. Gone.
"Who was that, really?" Alana pressed, her voice laced with a playful curiosity that held a hint of steel.
He hesitated. "Just Bailey. My… girlfriend." The word felt foreign on his tongue now.
Alana scoffed, a delicate, almost imperceptible sound. "Oh, that Bailey. She's always popping up, isn't she? Like she's checking up on you. So clingy."
He winced slightly. "No, she's… she's not like that. She just… gets a little insecure sometimes." He was trying to defend me, but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Insecure. His fault. All his fault.
Later, during a break, he scrolled through his phone. He opened our chat. The last message was mine, weeks ago, a mundane update about my flower shop. His last response was a curt "K." A sudden, cold dread settled in his chest. He scrolled further back, then further. Our conversations, once filled with laughter and daily anecdotes, had dwindled to terse replies, mostly from him.
He remembered my constant texts, my calls, my desperate attempts to connect. And how he' d dismissed them, thinking, She's always there. She'll understand.
A growing unease prickled at him. Why had she been at the hospital? Was she sick? He' d been so caught up in the drama with Alana, with his career, that he hadn't noticed the silence growing between us. He' d just assumed I was still "mad" about the livestream, that I'd cool off eventually, like I always did.
He needed to talk to her. To explain. To smooth things over. He dialed my number. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. Then, a message flashed on his screen: "The number you are trying to reach has been blocked."
Blocked? His face paled. He tried again. Same result. He opened Instagram, then Facebook. His profile. Our shared photos. Gone. My profile. Private.
A cold, heavy fear settled in his gut. This wasn't just a fight. This wasn't just me being "needy." This was… final. He suddenly realized what I'd forgotten to tell him. What I'd forgotten to do. He'd never signed the papers for the graphic design business. The one she said she was selling. It was gone. All of it.
