He Called Me Needy, Then Lost

For seven years, I sacrificed my career to be the invisible woman behind my rising star boyfriend, August.

But on our anniversary, I watched him on a livestream, openly flirting with his co-star, Alana, while the internet hailed them as the perfect couple.

His fans sent me death threats, calling me "forgettable" and "unworthy." When I begged him for help, he called me "needy" and told me I was "overreacting."

Yet, when Alana faced the same online hate, he held a press conference, fiercely defending her as a "vulnerable artist."

The man who dismissed my suffering was now a champion against injustice for another woman. I realized he wasn't incapable of empathy; he just chose not to direct it at me.

I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool. So I packed my bags, blocked his number, and booked a one-way ticket out of his life, ready to finally stop being invisible.

Chapter 1

Bailey Glass POV:

"After seven years of sacrificing everything for August, watching him flirt with Alana on a livestream that was supposed to be our anniversary celebration punched a hole straight through my chest."

My reflection stared back at me from the dark TV screen. Seven years. That' s how long I' d been the invisible woman behind the rising star. Tonight, the TV was supposed to be showing our favorite rom-com, maybe with a glass of cheap celebratory wine. Instead, it was a portal to a world where I didn't exist.

August was late. Again. It was our anniversary. Not that he' d remember. Or care.

My phone buzzed. Not him. It was a notification from a entertainment blog. "Alana Edwards and August Carter: The Chemistry You Can't Ignore!" The headline screamed, mocking me. I tried to ignore it. I really did. But my thumb, almost against my will, tapped the link.

It opened to a live stream. Alana, all sparkling eyes and a dazzling smile, was perched on a plush sofa. And there was August, sitting way too close, laughing at something she'd said. The comments section exploded with heart emojis and calls for them to get together. "Alaugust forever!" someone typed. 'Alaugust.' The portmanteau stung.

A knot tightened in my stomach. This wasn't just a work event. This was their night. Her face, framed by expertly styled hair, leaned in. His hand, the same hand that had held mine through countless red carpets, was casually resting on the cushion right behind her. Too close. Everything was too close.

My own face felt hot, then cold. I scrolled through the comments, a masochistic ritual I couldn't stop. "Who's August's girlfriend again? Some graphic designer? So forgettable." "She's Hollywood's most forgettable girlfriend. Alana is the real deal!" The words were like tiny, sharp needles pricking at my skin. Forgettable. That was me.

They were talking about their show, about their "undeniable connection." Alana batted her eyelashes. August chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that once belonged only to me. My anniversary. He was supposed to be here. With me.

Then Alana' s phone rang. It was probably her manager, or some other industry bigwig. But August, who usually ignored his own phone during "important" moments, leaned over and answered it for her, putting it on speaker.

"August, sweetie, you're the best!" she cooed into the phone. Not even "Alana, this is your phone." No, it was "August, sweetie." My blood ran cold.

Their conversation was sickeningly sweet, full of inside jokes and veiled compliments. He was so attentive. So present. Everything he wasn't with me anymore.

I remembered the early days. Seven years ago. We were starving artists in a tiny apartment. He was just another aspiring actor, and I was a graphic designer with big dreams. I' d given up my own career, poured every spare cent into his acting classes, his headshots, his rent. Every rejection he faced, I faced with him. Every small victory, we celebrated together. I was the silent partner, the steady hand, the one who believed in him when no one else did.

And now? I was "forgettable." He was famous. And he was flirting with Alana, while I sat alone, watching my life unravel on a screen. The realization hit me like a physical blow. He didn't just take me for granted. He didn't even see me anymore.

The screen glitched, then froze on Alana flashing a playful smile at August, who was beaming back. That was it. The last thread snapped. I wasn't just disposable. I was invisible.

A fierce resolve hardened inside me. Enough. I was done.

Two days later, August finally stumbled through the door. He smelled faintly of airport and something sweet – Alana' s perfume, maybe? He tossed his keys onto the counter with a sigh.

"Rough flight?" I asked, my voice flat, almost unrecognizable.

He barely glanced at me. "Yeah, long press junket. Why are you still up?" His tone was edged with irritation. "You know how exhausted I get after these things."

The anger, cold and sharp, ignited in my chest. "It's our anniversary, August."

He paused, a beat too long. "Oh. Right." He rubbed his forehead. "Look, Bailey, not tonight. I'm wiped. Can we just… not make a big deal out of it?"

"A big deal?" My voice rose, despite my efforts to keep it level. "You were just on a live stream, practically proposing to Alana Edwards, while I was sitting here, waiting for you."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't be ridiculous. That was work. It's called chemistry, Bailey. It's part of the job. You' re being needy."

Needy. That word, again. It always came back to that. "Needy? I've given you seven years of my life! I put my career on hold for your dreams. I've endured your 'method acting' excuses for emotional neglect. I've watched you prioritize everyone and everything over me, and when I finally ask for some basic respect, I'm 'needy'?" My voice was shaking now. "And what about the online harassment? Your fans call me names, day in and day out, and you do nothing. You actually scolded me for bringing it up once!"

He scoffed. "You exaggerate everything. It's the internet, Bailey. People say things. You shouldn't take it so seriously." He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "And you know what? You make everything so hard. Always complaining. Can't you just be supportive?"

Supportive. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. How many times had I heard that? I remembered flying out to one of his sets, a surprise visit, hoping to lift his spirits after a particularly grueling night shoot. I' d made him his favorite homemade cookies, carefully packed in a tin.

When I arrived, he was in a scene, yelling at a co-star. The director called "Cut!" and he stormed off, still in character. I shyly approached him, tin in hand. He looked at the cookies, then at me, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped. "You know I have a big emotional scene coming up. This is incredibly distracting."

The director, sensing the tension, had asked me to leave. August, still seething, followed me out. "Now everyone's looking at me," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "Are you trying to sabotage me?" Then, with a sudden, furious gesture, he snatched the tin of cookies from my hand and flung it against a nearby wall. It shattered, crumbs and broken pieces scattering everywhere. "My method acting, Bailey! You don' t understand! You never understand!"

The memory was still raw. And now, he was calling me needy.

"I'm done, August," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I'm done with this. With you. We're over."

He stopped, his face contorting in a mixture of disbelief and anger. "Over? Don't be dramatic, Bailey. You always do this." He stalked towards me, his hand reaching out. "You're just upset. Come here." He tried to pull me into a hug, a familiar move to smooth things over.

But not this time. I stiffened, pulling away. My mind raced. This wasn't love. It was habit. It was control. And it was definitely, irrevocably broken.

"I saw the livestream, August," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the tremor in my hands. "I saw how you looked at Alana. How you indulged her. You call that 'work'? You think I'm blind?"

He let out a frustrated sigh. "It's acting, Bailey! That's what I do! You're being paranoid. You always overthink things."

"Paranoid?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Or maybe I just don't want a partner who can't tell the difference between 'acting' and emotional infidelity. Do you love her, August?"

His eyes flashed. He looked away, then back at me, a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher in his gaze. "Of course not. Don't be absurd."

"Then why did you look at her like that?" I pressed, my heart aching. "Why couldn't you bother to be here for our anniversary? Because you were too busy playing the devoted co-star to a woman who is actively trying to take my place."

He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. "No, August. Just stop. I'm done. I'm really, truly done." The words felt heavy, but also liberating.