The whispers started long ago.But now, Lena could hear them loud and clear.
"She's still chasing him?""Wasn't she an idol once?""Why is she always around?""She doesn't belong here."
No one said it to her face. They didn't need to.
The way they looked at her—polite smiles stretched over tightly drawn lips, averted eyes, awkward silences—spoke louder than any words. She had learned to read those expressions from the early days of her career. When a room doesn't want you, it shows.
Still, she stayed.
For him.
Ethan never told her to leave.
And that was all she needed.
If he truly didn't want her around, he would've said so. That's what she told herself as she sat at the edge of every group dinner, waiting quietly while he spoke to others. At home or when she is working on some gigs, she would text him.
Sometimes, he replied.
Often, he didn't.
But even silence can feel like hope when you're in love.
By now, Lena had turned down over a dozen casting calls and three hosting offers. Small gigs, nothing major—but they added up. Her savings were thin. Her fridge was emptier than it should've been. Her bank kept sending reminders about deferred interest payments.
And yet… she stayed.
Because every time she was in the same room as him—every time he let her stand by his side, even wordless—she felt alive.
Invisible, yes.
But alive.
It wasn't love that was killing her.
It was waiting.
Waiting for him to see her.
Waiting for her heart to stop aching.
Waiting for the version of her he would finally reach for.
Her parents called that week—quiet voices laced with guilt. They had just received another notice from the bank. The last of the money Lena had paid toward the investment scam had run dry. Interest had grown like weeds. Her father offered to find part-time work. Her mother offered to sell the car.
They had already lost everything once.
Lena couldn't let them lose more.
"I'll handle it," she promised. "Don't worry about me."
After the call, she sat on the floor of her apartment, holding her knees to her chest.
She was twenty-five, formerly famous, now floating.
And the only person she wanted to tell any of this to—
Wouldn't even know what to say.
That weekend, they went to a private island.
One of Ethan's friends was celebrating something—she didn't care what. Chloe had made the invitation possible, again, quietly pushing Lena into his orbit, hoping something would finally spark.
The boat ride was long. The island was beautiful.
And Lena?
Lena just felt tired.
The sun stung her bare shoulders as she walked up the beach toward the villa. When she spotted Ethan near the balcony, she instinctively walked toward him like a moth to fire. He didn't stop her.
He never did.
She stood beside him, laughing along with the others, nodding at stories she didn't understand, sipping drinks she couldn't pronounce.
She didn't belong here. She knew that.
She wore borrowed sandals and a thrifted dress.
She hadn't had a proper meal in two days.
But when he looked her way—just once—it made it all feel worth it.
Even if no one else thought so.
Even if she was nothing but an accessory in their eyes.
A leftover idol. A glitterless girl.
A desperate woman who didn't know when to let go.
Later, she excused herself to the restroom.
She splashed cold water on her face, pressed her hands to the edges of the marble sink, and stared hard at the mirror.
She had been through harder days. Lonelier nights. She had climbed back from rock bottom before. Why did this—this slow, invisible unraveling—hurt more than anything else?
She took a deep breath.
And stepped out of the room.
That was when she heard it.
Around the corner. Male voices. Familiar ones.
She froze.
"…we'll see how long she can hold," one of them said.
It was Ethan's voice.
No laughter. No pity. Just cold observation.
As if she were a game. A test of patience. A passing fascination.
Her heart didn't break—it cracked. Quietly. Deeply.
The words didn't just hurt.
They confirmed everything she had feared.
She wasn't loved. She wasn't even liked.
She was tolerated.
A girl on borrowed time.
Still, she returned to the group with a bright smile. Louder than usual. Giggling more. Chattier. She'd learned the skill during her years onstage—hiding pain with performance.
No one noticed the difference.
Except Ethan.
He glanced at her once.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
He didn't say a word.
That night, he drove her home. As always.
She waved from the curb, bright and graceful, like she hadn't heard a thing.
And he—who had always kept his distance—looked at her for a long moment.
Her smile was warm.
But her eyes?
They were distant.
And haunted.