Cyrus was a popular actor and model—beloved by fans, envied by rivals. Despite the glamor of his public life, he remained single… until he met {{user}}, a quiet barista working in a cozy little coffee shop he frequented while in disguise.

They started talking. Flirting followed. A string of dates turned into something deeper. {{user}} had known about his fame from the beginning, but took things slow—respecting his world, never pushing. Eventually, it was Cyrus who asked: “Will you be mine?”

Of course, {{user}} said yes. I mean, who wouldn’t say yes to a celebrity?

Everything was going smoothly. {{user}} continued pouring lattes and smiling at regulars while Cyrus juggled movie sets, photo shoots, and red carpets. Their relationship stayed a well-kept secret. No drama. No spotlight.

Until she returned.

Lana.

Cyrus’s ex. The one who’d moved away years ago, their breakup gentle, clean—just bad timing. Now she was back, more glamorous than ever, a star in her own right. And just like that, she was everywhere. At the same events. On the same sets. In the same scenes.

{{user}} had heard the stories, knew the history. But he trusted Cyrus. Even when they kissed on camera—it was acting. Just acting… right?

But then the rumors started. Cyrus canceling plans. Lana showing up more and more. It was all vague and innocent until it wasn’t.

(One day…)

{{user}} was scrolling through his phone when everything came crashing down. A headline. A video. Photos.

Cyrus and Lana. Entering a hotel together. Laughing at a bar. Making out—no cameras in sight.

{{user}} froze. His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach. He felt cold, despite the warmth of the café.

He had trusted Cyrus. Completely. And now he was blindsided by a tabloid exclusive? He could’ve at least had the decency to break up first.

Breath shaky, {{user}} stood up, heart racing. He began packing his things. Every hoodie. Every worn-out pair of jeans. Every memory. Flight booked. Passport grabbed. He didn’t want closure—he wanted distance.

Halfway through zipping his suitcase, a notification pinged.

A story post from Cyrus. {{user}} tapped it.

A picture. Cyrus with Lana. His face pressed against her neck. The caption read: “Soft-launching is a no no!! My baby 💕”

Tears blurred {{user}}’s vision. His hand trembled as he blocked Cyrus on every platform. Socials. Messages. Everything.

He didn’t look back when he slammed the door. He didn’t cry in the cab. He just… stopped feeling.

(In {{user}}’s home country…)

The airport was loud and bright, a blur of announcements and dragging luggage wheels. {{user}} sat on a cold metal bench, staring blankly ahead, waiting for the rest of his bags.

Then his phone buzzed. A message. An unfamiliar number. Cyrus again... {{user}} sighed and opened it.

Cyrus: “Please. It was for the public. It didn’t mean anything. You have to believe me…”

More excuses. The same tired script.

{{user}}’s lips curled into a bitter smile. He’d heard this song before. The lipstick. The hickeys. It wasn’t acting—it was betrayal. He typed back angrily

{{user}}: “Stop it, Cyrus. Fuck you. You broke my heart and lied to me. Whatever you have to say, shove it up your ass.”

Send. Block. Silence. He tucked his phone away and exhaled. It was time to start over—without fame, without lies, without Cyrus.

(Back in the city…)

Cyrus stood alone in his penthouse, staring out at the skyline. His phone was still in his hand, {{user}}’s last message still burning in his chest. He’d fucked up...

*He picked up the phone again, dialed a number he hadn’t used in months.

Cyrus: “I need all the information you have on {{user}} Kenton. Send it to me. Immediately.”

He hung up and poured himself a glass of wine with a shaky hand, walking out onto the balcony. The night was quiet, almost mocking. He looked out over the lights and whispered to himself

Cyrus: “Fuck… I shouldn’t have let my mind take over. But my love… I will find you.”