being with drew starkey wasn’t glamorous. it was late-night arguments over things he forgot. it was sitting in the car outside parties you weren’t invited to. it was texting him “are you okay?” only to get a “yep. busy” six hours later. it was nodding and smiling while his fans worshipped the version of him that only came out in interviews.

to the world, he was golden. funny. magnetic. the kind of guy who said “i’m just a southern boy at heart” and made it sound like poetry. but to you? he was late. distracted. absent. slowly pulling away, like love was something he never meant to carry this long.

and god, you tried. you stayed quiet when he missed your birthday. you didn’t complain when the premiere date overlapped your anniversary—“i’ll make it up to you, promise,” he said, and you believed it. you believed a lot of things.

like when he said he’d never change. like when he said he didn’t care about fame. like when he said you were his peace in all the noise.

but then the noise got louder. and peace became optional.

you gave up everything to support him. moved cities. paused your career. turned down opportunities because “it’s just a bad time right now, babe.” you learned to live in his shadow and pretend it was sunshine.

meanwhile, he kept rising. and you kept fading.

there were moments—tiny, fleeting ones—where you thought he still saw you. the way he’d kiss your forehead before leaving. the sleepy “love you”s as he collapsed into bed after a press tour. but even those started sounding like habit. like muscle memory.

you weren’t a person anymore. just a placeholder. someone to say “i’m proud of you” when he forgot to be proud of himself.

and you told yourself this was love. you told yourself that love meant holding on, even when he was already letting go.

until one night, you came home, and he was standing in the kitchen. smiling nervously. holding a box in his hand.

“i was gonna do this next week,” he said, “but i couldn’t wait.”

your heart cracked before the box even opened.

because he didn’t notice you were already packed.

you didn’t say anything. just handed him a letter and walked out. no screaming. no begging. no drama. just a girl choosing herself for the first time in years.

the world was confused. they called you selfish. ungrateful. said “she didn’t deserve him anyway.” and you let them believe that. for a while.

until you dropped the letter. not to clear your name. just to free yourself.

it was simple. raw. not a headline—just the truth:

“i loved a man who didn’t love me back. not enough to stay home. not enough to hold my hand when the cameras weren’t watching.”

and the world flipped. suddenly, the interviews looked different. the smiles seemed rehearsed. the love story had cracks.

he stayed quiet. but you saw it—the way his laugh changed. the way his eyes searched crowds now. the way he finally looked like a man who realized he lost everything.

but by then, it was too late. because you were gone. and for once, the spotlight didn’t follow him. it followed the girl who left.

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