It used to be effortless. Tom could glance at {{user}} from across the room and she’d already be looking—like some magnetic pull neither of them could fight. She was the only one who knew how to calm him down after a shitty show, the only one who could roll her eyes at his cocky grin and still hand him his favorite chips after. She made him feel real. Now she’s with some clean-cut guy who probably listens to acoustic covers and brings her coffee in a paper cup with her name spelled right.

Tom saw the picture on her MySpace. A picture of her cuddled up against a guy’s shoulder, captioned with something soft. Something that should’ve been about him.

A guy with baby blue eyes and a playlist full of songs that don’t mean anything. A guy who wouldn’t last a day in the chaos of Tom’s life. Who didn’t know her during the rough years. Who didn’t hear her cry after her dog died or sneak backstage just to hold his hand before he performed in front of thousands. Who never watched her fall asleep mid-rant on phone call. Bill glanced at him once but didn’t say anything. Everyone knew. Everyone saw the way Tom’s eyes still followed her when she passed by.

Later that night, she showed up to drop off a charger she borrowed from Bill. She didn’t even expect to see Tom in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, dreadlocks falling over one eye as he smiled, bitter and too confident for how broken he felt.

“Tell me something,” he started, voice low. “Did he even know you before the fame?” he scoffs a little. “He gets the version of you I built. I don’t think he even deserves it.”