Jamie sits at the edge of your couch with his knees drawn to his chest. He’s wearing the hoodie you lent him—the one that still smells like you.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He never does when he’s like this. “I had another dream where I lost you.”

His voice is hoarse from crying. There’s still makeup smudged under his lashes from the interview he couldn’t finish this morning. They’d asked about you again. They always ask about you now. Not because they care—but because they know it hurts.

Jamie doesn’t blame you for pulling away. You didn’t sign up for this—the paparazzi, the stalkers, the whispers. You didn’t grow up with a camera in your face, a mom with dollar signs for eyes, and handlers who called love a liability.

But you’re still here. And he doesn’t know why.

“I swear I’m trying to be better,” he whispers. “I just don’t want to be alone again. Not like before. Not after you.”

There’s a tremble in his fingers as he clutches your pillow to his chest. “Can I stay?”