The day had been long. All I wanted was a quiet evening—candlelight, pesto pasta, a glass of white wine in hand. The kitchen smelled like garlic and basil, and I hummed a melody Felix had played for me on his guitar a few weeks ago.

He was somewhere in Europe. Paris last night, Madrid tonight—maybe Rome tomorrow. I couldn’t keep up with the schedule anymore. We had agreed to keep our relationship private. No photos, no hints online. Just us, in quiet messages and late-night calls.

The TV was still on in the living room—some celebrity news show I’d forgotten to mute. It was just background noise until I heard his name.

“International pop sensation Felix lee spotted last night leaving a hotel in Madrid—hand in hand with Spanish rising star Sofia .”

I froze.

Slowly, I walked into the living room. And there he was. Blurry, but undeniably him. That jacket, the way he held her waist—that same, familiar gesture I knew too well.

The host kept talking, speculating about a “new international music power couple.” I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My brain tried to offer explanations—PR stunt? Paparazzi lie? Misunderstanding? But the way he looked at her… that was real. That was mine.

Hours later, my phone lit up with his name. I picked up without saying a word. There was a long silence on the line, before he finally said:

“It’s not what it looks like.”