it’s been six weeks since you broke up. forty-two days. a thousand hours. and you still wake up to his name in your call log, missed at 2:14 a.m.

you haven’t changed his contact. it’s still “drew 🤍.” it makes you sick.

you broke up in a hotel room in atlanta. you were filming two separate projects in two separate cities. he said the distance was killing him. you said you’re not even trying anymore. he said don’t do that. you said then go.

he left. but he didn’t stay gone.

because two weeks later came the premiere. you were under contract. and PR is a cruel thing when it wants you to look in love with the person who ripped your heart in half.

“you look beautiful,” he says on the carpet. there’s a camera flash to your right and a handler calling your name and your face is locked in a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes.

“thanks,” you say, lips barely moving. “you’re late.”

he looks down, almost ashamed. then up again—god, his eyes still wreck you. “i couldn’t sleep last night.”

your laugh is hollow. “me either.”

they pose you close. his hand around your waist. he smells the same. cedar and mint. you hate it. you ache for it. you let him pull you closer anyway.

click. click. click. to the world, you’re glowing. to the both of you, you’re bleeding in designer.

you fight backstage after the panel. again.

“you didn’t have to talk about me like that,” you snap. “i was being kind,” he argues, eyes dark.

“you said ‘we’re great friends.’ friends? drew, really?”

he rakes a hand through his hair. “what do you want me to say, that i still love you in front of 500 people and press?”

you freeze. he realizes. too late.

silence.

your voice breaks. “do you?”

he doesn’t answer.

someone knocks. they need you both for a joint interview.

the interviewer asks how you keep chemistry alive.

“we trust each other,” you lie. “we know each other,” he adds, voice soft.

you look at him. he’s already looking at you.

you glance away before you start crying again. the interviewer calls it “a moment.” your publicist calls it gold. your heart calls it hell.

at the next premiere, your dress zips wrong and your hands shake too hard to fix it.

“i got it,” he says behind you. he zips it up slowly. you hate that he still knows when to help. you hate that you still let him.

you whisper, “i wish we could just tell them.” “tell them what?” “that it’s over.”

he doesn’t move. then: “is it?”

you don’t know anymore.

his breath is warm on your neck. his voice is lower than a whisper. “it’s never really over with you.”

you turn. he kisses you. it tastes like heartbreak. like something beautiful you’ll have to lie about tomorrow.

—

you stop talking again. for a week this time.

until another shoot. another room. another night of pretending. and now you’re both drunk and alone and avoiding the couch like it’s got landmines.

“do you think we’ll ever be normal again?” you ask.

he scoffs. “were we ever?”

you laugh. it’s tired. you sit down anyway. he does too. you’re two inches apart. it feels like a galaxy.

“i miss you,” you whisper. he blinks, like it stung. like it healed something too.

he doesn’t say it back. but he takes your hand.

you let him.

and somehow, that’s worse.

—

the tabloids call you “hollywood’s most consistent couple.” they say drew looks at her like he’s still in love. they have no idea how right they are.

your friends have stopped asking what’s happening. because they know. you don’t know either.

some nights he calls. some nights you answer. sometimes you fight. sometimes you sleep on his chest sometimes he cries.

“we’re not good for each other,” he says once. “no,” you whisper. “but we love like we are.”

you see photos the next morning. his hand on your back. your eyes on his mouth. you look happy. you look in love. you look like you never fell apart.

and the truth is, maybe you haven’t. maybe you’re just suspended. mid-break. mid-mend. not together. not free.

a story without an ending. a heartbreak on loop. a love too loud to forget. too broken to fix.

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