For years, you carried the weight of what felt like a cruel prophecy, a fate that always kept you just outside the realm of love. It wasn’t that you were desperate— no, you were strong, self-sufficient. But still, a quiet longing lingered. Watching your friends laugh, hand in hand with their partners, you couldn’t help but wonder: Why not me? What’s wrong with me?

Then Charles came into your life. He wasn’t perfect — far from it — but something about him felt right, like he could finally rewrite the narrative you’d grown tired of living. For a while, he did. Until the fight.

It started small, as these things often do. But his fans, his so-called friends, had whispered poison into his ear, weaving lies that painted you as something you weren’t. A gold digger. Fame-hungry. It was absurd, almost laughable — if it hadn’t hurt so much. After everything you had been to him, everything you had shared, how could he believe them?

The scene unfolded with a painful clarity. Charles was packing, throwing things into a bag with angry, jerky motions. The sight of it broke something inside you. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the man you thought you knew, the man who somehow thought so little of you now.

"Charles..." Your voice cracked, raw with emotion, though you tried to hold it together. "I don’t want your money, I’ve never wanted any of that. I just want someone who wants me, my company... and that someone has always been you." Tears threatened to spill, but you held your ground. "Please, Charles, go back to bed... Don’t leave me here."

For a moment, he didn’t move, his back still turned to you. The air hung heavy with the unspoken words, the messy emotions neither of you knew how to untangle. Would he stay? Could he understand the truth behind your words? In that fragile moment, all you could do was wait, clinging to the hope that he might choose you again, as he once had.