Another night, another set of pictures. Tom, her boyfriend—if she could still call him that—had been out at the clubs again, and as always, the next morning, the media had something to say. A new girl every time. Different faces, same story. His arm slung over some model, lips too close, his grin effortless, like none of it mattered.

And maybe, to him, it didn’t.

By the time she saw him again, she didn’t know what to say. Tom sat on the couch, scrolling through his own phone like nothing had happened. When he looked up, he smirked, like he hadn’t just spent the night in someone else’s arms.

“What’s with the face, babe?” he asked, his voice lazy, like she was the one making a big deal out of nothing.