The alarm rang before dawn, sharp and unforgiving, and Eleanor's eyes opened instantly. Sleep clung stubbornly to her lashes, her body heavy from only a few hours of rest, but she forced herself up. The tiny room around her was still dark, the peeling paint on the walls barely visible, her lone curtain fluttering with the draft that crept through a broken window frame.
This was her sanctuary. Her prison. Her choice.
She pushed herself out of the blanket, careful not to think of the warmth she had left behind hours ago—the scent of Gabriel's cologne lingering on her hair, the weight of his hand heavy on her waist before she slipped out of his bed. That memory had to be sealed away. It belonged to a world she couldn't afford.
After quickly splashing her face in the cracked sink, she changed into her supermarket uniform. The mirror reflected a tired woman with calloused hands and weary eyes, but Eleanor smiled at her own reflection anyway. For him, she could endure.
By the time she reached the street, the sky was only just beginning to pale. Her legs ached with every step. She had walked the same path from Gabriel's luxury apartment to her shabby flat. It was long, dangerous at night, but it cost nothing. Every coin mattered. Gabriel had offered—half-heartedly, distracted—to send a car, to "help her out," but Eleanor had refused. She wanted no debts. The only thing she wanted was to stand in the crowd at his concerts, even if only in the cheapest seat, to scream his name along with thousands of others. Her money jar sat under her mattress, filled with small bills and coins, each one scraped from skipped meals, each one a promise.
When her shift began at the supermarket, she tied her apron tight and plastered a smile on her face. Customers came and went—some impatient, some kind—but her mind was elsewhere. As she stacked shelves, her heart replayed the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes softened only when he looked at her. She believed, fiercely, that those were the truest moments of Gabriel. The idol was for the world, but the man was hers.
Yet, as the day stretched on, her body screamed with fatigue. She could barely eat during her short lunch break, knowing she had another shift waiting at the restaurant. Still, whenever despair threatened, she remembered the boy with ragged shoes and bruised pride, the boy who sang under a cracked rooftop while she clapped for him with raw, stinging hands. She had stitched him together when he fell apart, carried his dreams on her back when he was too tired to believe. That was love. That was faith.
Evening brought her to the restaurant, the uniform change swift, her smile forced but practiced. The clatter of dishes, the smell of frying oil, the sting of sweat dripping into her eyes—it was endless, but Eleanor moved like clockwork. Between orders, she hummed melodies she had scribbled on scrap papers for Gabriel, lyrics inspired by her struggles, her hope, her secret aches. He had taken them, polished them, and the world adored his "genius." She didn't mind. She didn't want credit. Only him.
---
Gabriel's POV
Meanwhile, Gabriel sat in a velvet booth at a high-end lounge, the golden light reflecting off Olivia's hair like it was spun from sunlight itself. She was vibrant, her laughter unrestrained, her dress clinging to her flawless figure as though the world itself worshiped her body. She wasn't like Eleanor—Olivia sparkled in every room, demanded attention without asking, and received it effortlessly.
Gabriel found himself mesmerized. She was everything Eleanor wasn't: rich, carefree, glamorous. She could walk beside him in public without shame. His managers would approve. The fans would adore their pairing. He could imagine the headlines already: The Nation's Idol and the Heiress.
But the thought of Eleanor lingered, sour and sweet. She was his anchor, his shadow, the one who steadied him when he couldn't breathe under the weight of fame. Yet she had grown dull to him. Predictable. She gave herself to him without resistance, without demands. No fire. No spark. He loved her… in a way. Or maybe he just loved the ease of her. The way she never said no.
Eleanor was the bed he returned to when his body ached, the hand he squeezed when his mind was too heavy. Olivia, on the other hand, was a wildfire he wanted to chase, bright enough to burn his eyes.
He knew he would never let Eleanor go. She was too important—his secret muse, his silent provider of words and warmth. Even if he married someday, he could not imagine a life without her. But he wanted Olivia too. Wanted her beauty, her light, the prestige of having her by his side.
His thoughts twisted in selfishness, but Gabriel smiled easily, lifting his glass to Olivia as she spoke about her latest travels. In his mind, he saw two women standing in different worlds—one in the shadows, one in the spotlight—and he reached greedily for both.
---
Eleanor's POV
By the time Eleanor reached home that night, exhaustion pressed her into the mattress like a stone. She dropped her tips into the jar with shaking fingers. The jar was half full now. Soon, she would have enough to buy the cheapest ticket for Gabriel's next concert. She imagined herself in the crowd, screaming his name, tears streaming down her face. She would see him shining, her Gabriel, and even if he didn't glance her way, she would know she had been part of that journey.
She curled up under her thin blanket, clutching a pillow to her chest. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Hunger was temporary. Love was forever.
Before her eyes closed, she whispered his name into the darkness. "Gabriel."
She believed she was the only one who knew his soul, the only one he could ever truly love. She never imagined that even now, as she whispered into the shadows, Gabriel's hand was brushing against Olivia's under the table, his smile reserved for someone else.
---
Closing
The night stretched endlessly, carrying two truths. Eleanor, in her small flat, held faith like a flame in her chest, convinced she was his only. Gabriel, in his golden world, reached greedily for more, convinced he could keep them both.
And somewhere between those truths, the stage lights waited—the place where illusion and reality would finally collide.