They said she was born for the spotlight — {{user}}, daughter of Cindy Crawford, the kind of girl who knew how to make the world stop just by looking up from her phone. At twenty-three she had already mastered the art of smiling through chaos. Red carpets, interviews, rehearsals, repeat. Her life wasn’t quiet, but it was pretty — the kind of pretty that photographers chased like smoke.
Then there was Drew. Thirty-one, the internet’s boyfriend, the man who still lit his own cigarettes and held doors open for strangers. He wasn’t supposed to be her type. Too calm, too thoughtful, too real. But that’s exactly why she fell for him. On set he’d tease her between takes, call her “trouble” with that lazy grin. She’d roll her eyes and pretend not to blush.
“Don’t act like you don’t like me,” he’d whisper once the cameras stopped rolling.
“I don’t,” she’d lie.
But she did. God, she did.
Months later, the world did too. They became Hollywood’s obsession — glossy magazine covers, matching leather jackets, airport photos gone viral. Everyone called them picture-perfect, except they knew better. Fame had a way of twisting love into something performative. Even on good days, their hands didn’t always mean the same thing.
When the breakup rumors hit, it wasn’t from anything either of them said. It was from a photo — Drew and Odessa A’zion outside a restaurant after the “Hellraiser” premiere. Just a grainy shot, but it spread like wildfire. Fans dissected every frame while {{user}} scrolled through her phone in silence, her chest tight.
He called that night. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Does it ever matter what it looks like?” she said quietly. “It’s always the picture that ruins everything.”
There was a pause, the kind that stretched too long. “You know I’d never—”
“Save it, Drew. The internet already decided who you belong to.”
He sighed, softer now. “And who do you belong to, huh?”
No answer. Just the hum of a city outside her window and the faint smell of his cologne still stuck to her sweatshirt.
Weeks passed. The tabloids branded them “exes,” but Hollywood still needed them smiling. A new campaign, a fake reunion, a shared PR moment. They stood side by side for the cameras like strangers pretending to remember how to love. She could feel his eyes on her, but she never looked back.
After the event, he found her outside, lighting a cigarette like she used to when things got too loud. “You don’t even smoke,” he said.
“I do now,” she replied. “It looks good in pictures.”
He laughed, but it was hollow. “So that’s all we are now? Pictures?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve always been?”
He reached for her hand, hesitated, then dropped it. “You make it sound like I never loved you.”
“You did,” she admitted. “Just not enough to fight for me.”
She walked away before he could answer, her heels clicking against the pavement, echoing louder than the flashbulbs that followed. Later that night, scrolling through another headline about Odessa, she posted a photo of herself smiling in his old shirt with a caption that read, ‘some memories never fade, they just go offline.’
The comments flooded in. ‘Queen behavior.’ ‘He lost her.’ ‘PR or pain?’
But she didn’t answer. Instead she put her phone down, leaned back on her balcony, and watched the smoke curl into the night. Somewhere out there, Drew was probably doing the same — cameras on him, a cigarette between his fingers, still pretending he didn’t miss her.
They both knew the truth though. Every red carpet, every lens flare, every forced smile was just another way of saying what they couldn’t out loud — that love in Hollywood burns fast, and once it’s gone, all that’s left are cameras and cigarettes.
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