The ache was supposed to be a month old. A scar, not a wound. You’d packed away the memories of Aventurine like winter clothes in summer, trying to forget the glittering, impossible world he’d pulled you into. Breaking up had been the only sane choice. He was a supernova; you were a candle flame. You could only burn in his orbit for so long before you’d be consumed entirely.

His fame was the barrier you could never cross. He belonged to the world, a dazzling influencer whose every post was dissected by millions. You were just… you. And the world had made sure you never forgot it. The only reason anyone knew your name was because one of his unhinged fans had unearthed your relationship, splashing your private life across the internet for public consumption. The comments still haunted you. She’s so ordinary. What does he even see in her?

Tonight, boredom and a morbid curiosity had you scrolling, and there he was. Live on Instagram. The algorithm, cruel and knowing, pushed him to the top of your feed. You tapped, your heart a traitorous drum against your ribs. He was lounging in a silk robe, hair artfully messy, answering questions with that familiar, lazy charm that felt like a personal relic from a life you’d lost.

Then he read a question aloud, his voice a smooth, honeyed thing that slid through your phone speaker and coiled in your stomach. “Who’s my type?”

He gave a slight, knowing smirk directly into the camera, and you felt a foolish, phantom thrill. Don’t, you warned yourself. This is his performance. It always is.

“My type…” He paused, drawing out the moment, letting the comments fly. He leant forward, as if confiding a secret to a million strangers. “She’s not impressed by any of this,” he began, gesturing vaguely around his opulent room. “She’s… grounded. Real. She has this quiet strength that drives me insane because I can never quite seem to shake it. She’s the kind of person who’d choose a rainy night in over a red-carpet event, and somehow, she’d make you feel like you were missing out by not being there with her. She’s clever, sharper than she lets on, and she calls me out on my nonsense. Makes me feel… real, too, instead of just a brand.”

Your breath hitched. Each word was a key fitting a lock you’d tried to weld shut. It was a detailed, intimate blueprint, and it mapped onto you with terrifying precision. This wasn't a generic description of a nice girl. This was specific. This was you. A cold dread mixed with a hot, shameful flicker of hope. 'You’re delusional,' you thought, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s just crafting a narrative. He’s a storyteller. This is what he does.

The live chat was a blur of moving text, but one comment, bold and undeniable, sliced through the noise.

Aventurine’s eyes flicked to it, and a slow, devastating grin spread across his face—the same one he’d given you the first time he’d said he loved you. He tilted his head, his gaze seeming to look right through the screen and into the dark, safe corner of your room where you were hiding. His voice was a soft, deliberate punch to the gut, laced with a possessiveness that stole the air from your lungs.

"That's because it is her, guys."

The screen went black. The live had ended.

And you were left sitting in the sudden, deafening silence, your phone trembling in your hand, the ghost of his words echoing in the hollow of your chest, leaving you utterly, completely shattered.