The sound of rain woke me up before the morning did.
It wasn't heavy, just the kind that lingered, soft and unsure, like it couldn't decide whether to stay or fade.
For a moment, I forgot where I was.
The ceiling above me was pale and cracked, nothing like the one in my old apartment in the city.
No chandelier, no silk curtains, no noise from passing cars or the dull echo of fame waiting outside my door.
Here, there was only silence.
And the ghost of that face I couldn't forget.
I saw him again last night.
In my dream, he stood at the edge of a stage bathed in light, his eyes steady, dark, familiar even though I knew I had never met him. His lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear.
Then the world caved in, like the moment before I collapsed months ago, when everything I believed about myself shattered in front of cameras and people who thought heartbreak was just another form of entertainment.
I sat up, breath uneven, sweat cold against my skin.
The walls around me were bare, the air smelled faintly of wood and rain.
For the first time in years, no one was waiting for me to perform, to smile, to act like everything was fine.
That should've been a relief.
But it wasn't.
I dragged myself out of bed and walked toward the small window beside the kitchen. The glass fogged under the cool breeze.
Outside, the streets were still damp, the cobblestones glistening under the thin light of morning.
This town didn't know me.
I didn't know her.
Ysabelle Cortez, the nation's favorite face.
The woman whose heartbreak went viral before she could even feel it.
They didn't care.
And maybe that was exactly what I needed.
I leaned against the counter, hands trembling slightly as I made my coffee.
The cheap kind that smelled like burnt sugar, nothing close to what I used to drink in the city.
But it tasted real.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Human.
When I moved here two weeks ago, I didn't tell anyone.
Not even my manager. I just disappeared. Left the set, the cameras, the noise. My contract was on hold anyway, thanks to "health issues." Funny how they said it like it was a temporary fever, like heartbreak could ever be cured by rest.
Drake's name still haunted every headline.
Drake Rivera breaks silence.
Drake moves on.
Drake spotted with co-star.
I stopped reading after that.
Because what was the point of reopening a wound that refused to close?
I thought about him then, the man from my dream.
The one who stared at me before the world faded to black.
He wasn't real.
Probably just a trick of my brain, a face it invented to distract me from the pain I refused to feel.
Still, his eyes… they didn't leave.
I shook my head, forcing the thought away.
It was just exhaustion.
My body still hadn't recovered fully.
The doctors said it was stress.
I called it survival.
I grabbed a jacket from the chair and stepped outside my apartment.
The hallway smelled faintly of old paint and dust.
The building was small, two floors, worn-out walls, a staircase that creaked whenever someone breathed too loudly.
Outside, the air was colder.
Fresher.
The rain had stopped, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and pine.
I lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the air like ghosts of all the things I wished I'd said to Drake before walking away.
He used to hate it when I smoked.
"You're ruining your voice," he'd say, stealing the cigarette from my hand, pretending to care.
I let him, back then. I thought that was love, someone trying to change you, thinking it meant they wanted to keep you.
Now, I didn't care.
I took another drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill the silence.
For once, no one was watching me.
No cameras.
No fans.
No lies.
Just me.
And the faint echo of a dream I couldn't shake.
I took another drag. The smoke stung my throat, but I didn't flinch.
Pain had become familiar, an old friend I could tolerate better than silence.
"Bad habit," a voice said from behind me.
I froze.
The tone was casual, almost amused.
I turned slightly, my eyes narrowing.
A man stood a few steps away, tall, wearing a white shirt slightly wrinkled, hands in his pockets like he'd been standing there for a while. His hair was dark, his smile soft, and his eyes, those eyes.
The same ones from my dream.
For a moment, my chest tightened.
My cigarette trembled between my fingers.
He tilted his head. "You know, that's bad for you. Smoking. It kills you slowly."
I didn't answer.
I just stared, letting my silence speak louder than anything else.
He didn't flinch under my gaze.
Most people did.
Most people couldn't handle the way I looked at them, like I could see through their soul and still not care.
But he didn't look away.
"Do I know you?" I asked finally, my voice low, controlled.
He smiled faintly. "Not yet."
Something about his answer made my skin crawl, not from fear, but from the strange familiarity in it. I'd never met him before, I was sure of it. And yet, his presence didn't feel new.
"I'm Ken," he said, stepping closer. "I just moved in next door. Apartment 3B."
I looked at him blankly. "Good for you."
He chuckled under his breath, as if my indifference amused him. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"I talk when it's worth it."
He smiled again, not the kind that reached the eyes, but one that looked like it was testing me, trying to see how far he could push.
For a moment, I caught a hint of something in his expression.
Recognition? Sadness? I couldn't tell.
"Anyway," he said, taking a step back. "Nice to meet you, neighbor."
I didn't reply.
I dropped the cigarette, crushed it under my heel, and turned away.
He called after me, voice light. "You should quit, you know. I'd hate to see you—"
I didn't wait for him to finish.
I opened my door, stepped inside, and shut it behind me without looking back.
The lock clicked into place, but my pulse didn't slow down.
I leaned against the door, trying to catch my breath.
Ken.
That name echoed in my head like it belonged to another life.
I shouldn't have cared.
I didn't even like him.
He was just another man, another reminder of everything I wanted to forget.
And yet, I could still feel his gaze on me.
The way he looked, calm, knowing, like he'd seen me before.
I rubbed my temple and laughed bitterly. "Get it together, Ysabelle," I muttered under my breath. "You're just tired."
Still, when I looked out the window again, I caught sight of him through the glass, standing there, hands in his pockets, looking up at the same sky.
Like he was waiting for something.
Or someone.