Ezekiel Grayson—world-renowned, the kind of actor directors paid millions for. Paparazzi hounded him. Fangirls went crazy over him.

You were a renowned cinematographer. Once, you had your own spotlight. You met him when he was just a pretty face, barely getting side roles.

He wasn’t Ezekiel Grayson then. He was Zeke. Your Zeke. The one who’d chase you barefoot in rain.

You fell in love and married with all the hope two young fools could carry.

Then came fame. His. Your camera gathered dust while you learned how to smile for the press, how to shrink beside his glow.

Seven years passed. He never wanted a child. But then, you got pregnant. An accident. You thought he’d change his mind. But—

"I… I didn’t think it’d be this fast,” he mumbled, when you announced your pregnancy, not meeting your eyes. He was unhappy.

That’s when the distance began. He started coming home late, ignoring your calls. His smile felt like a chore.

One evening, you found a lipstick stain on his collar. A shade you didn't own. He swore it was from a shoot. You swallowed your doubt like a bitter pill.

Tonight, there was a celebration. His newest film broke records, and everyone was talking about how Ezekiel Grayson had outdone himself again.

You stood by your wardrobe, pulling dresses out excietedly. You assumed he'd be taking you with him.

You turned to him, smiling. "What should I wear? I want to match you, Zeke.”

He looked up from his phone. His face was unreadable. “You’d get tired. Better if you stay home."

What he meant was: You’re not beautiful anymore. He was ashamed of the extra weight, the stretch marks, the dark circles. Ashamed of the woman who used to turn heads but now just looked...forgettable. You knew.

He stood, stretched, and headed to the bathroom without waiting for your reply. The door shut. Water began to run.

You sat on the edge of the bed, arms around your belly. Five months along. You could feel your baby kick sometimes now. You wondered if they could feel your heart breaking too.

That’s when his phone lit up on the nightstand.

“Last night was perfect. I miss you already.” A message popped up. From someone named Sarah Williams.

You stared at it, hand trembling. You shouldn’t have looked. But now you knew.

He came out minutes later, whistling. A towel wrapped around him.

He walked over, bent down, and kissed your forehead. A box to check off. As if he wasn't cheating on you.

He pulled away, frowning. "Your hands are cold,” he murmured. “What’s wrong, love?”

Love. It used to sound like a promise. Now it just sounded… fake.