Bailey Glass POV:

"No, August. Just stop. I'm done. I'm really, truly done." Saying the words out loud, finally, felt like exhaling after holding my breath for seven years.

August stared at me, his jaw clenched, but he didn't argue further. That was his way. Avoidance. Conflict was for me to initiate, him to deflect. He' d learned that trick early in our relationship. A quick apology, a vague promise to do better, and then back to ignoring the problem until it festered again. But not this time. My resolve was a cold, hard stone in my chest.

I knew this dance. I' d danced it a hundred times before. Every hurt, every slight, every broken promise was cataloged in my mind, a silent ledger of pain. I didn' t want to add another entry.

The next morning, I signed the papers. Not divorce papers, but the transfer of my graphic design business. For seven years, it had been a side hustle, a way to keep my skills sharp while August chased his dream. Now, it was a painful reminder of what I'd put on hold. Selling it meant letting go of a piece of myself. The thought burned.

"I'm leaving, August," I told him later, packing a small suitcase. He was scrolling through his phone, barely looking up.

"Leaving? To where? Your mom's?" he mumbled, still absorbed in his screen.

My mom. The irony wasn' t lost on me. I remembered moving to LA with him, so excited, so full of hope. He' d promised me the world, promised we' d build our dreams together.

"You don' t have to work, Bailey," he' d said, pulling me into a tight hug after I quit my stable design job in Portland. "I' ll take care of everything. Just support me, be my muse."

We lived on ramen and dreams for two years. There was a time when he truly appreciated my sacrifices. The time he almost died.

He' d been filming a low-budget indie movie, a gritty drama in the desert. One night, a prop malfunctioned, and he suffered a severe head injury. I rushed to the hospital, terrified. He looked so pale, so fragile, hooked up to machines. When he finally woke up, he grabbed my hand, his eyes filled with tears.

"Bailey," he rasped, "I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my anchor. My everything." He swore then, if he ever made it big, I' d be right there beside him, sharing in his success. We nearly lost everything that night. He promised to cherish me.

But success changed him. The small gestures, the whispered reassurances, faded. Slowly, subtly, they were replaced by a growing chasm between us. My anxiety, a shadow that had always lurked in my periphery, began to consume me. It stemmed from an unstable childhood, where my father died young, and my mother abandoned me repeatedly for new relationships. I craved stability, crave security. August' s unpredictable world, and his even more unpredictable affections, chipped away at my fragile peace.

I hated myself for it, but I became clingy, suspicious. Especially when his roles became more intimate.

"It's just acting, Bailey," he'd say, after a particularly steamy scene with a beautiful co-star. "It's not real."

But what about the way he'd laugh, a little too easily, with her during rehearsals? What about the late-night calls, the "creative discussions" that seemed to extend well past what was professional? I tried to push it down, to believe him. But the fear gnawed at me.

One day, I went to visit him on set. He was doing a "chemistry read" with a new actress. They were simulating a passionate kiss. It was supposed to be a short, innocent peck. But it lingered. His hand cradled her face. Her fingers tangled in his hair. They melted into each other, the line between acting and reality blurring before my eyes.

My stomach churned. I felt a cold wave of nausea. I wanted to scream, to run. But I stood frozen, watching, a silent observer in my own nightmare. Later, I scolded myself. It's just work. Don't be crazy. Don't be that girlfriend. But the image was seared into my mind.

My insecurity grew, festering. I started checking his phone, something I swore I'd never do. One night, I was caught.

He exploded. "What the hell, Bailey? Don't you trust me? This is a complete violation of my privacy!"

I stood there, tears streaming down my face, unable to defend myself. All I could think was, If you had nothing to hide, why are you so angry?

"Do you have nothing better to do than snoop through my phone?" he yelled, his voice laced with contempt. "Get a life, Bailey! Get your own ambitions back!"

The words hit me like a barrage of stones. He was right. I had nothing. I had given it all to him. But it was his suggestion. He had encouraged me to quit, to focus on him. "I'll support you!" he'd declared, years ago, his words a hollow echo now.

Two years ago, I decided to take back some control. I opened a small floral design studio near our apartment. It was modest, but it was mine. It gave me a purpose beyond August, beyond the endless cycle of waiting and worrying. I buried myself in flowers, in orders, in the delicate artistry of petals and stems. It was a distraction, a way to keep my mind from spiraling into the dark corners of suspicion.

But even then, the thoughts lingered. Is he with someone else right now? Is he laughing with another woman? Is he telling her all the things he used to tell me? The anxiety was a persistent hum beneath the surface of my new, seemingly independent life.

Bailey Glass POV:

"Is he with someone else right now? Is he laughing with another woman? Is he telling her all the things he used to tell me?" The questions still echoed in my mind, even as I rode the bus, ostensibly leaving it all behind.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur by. The gentle rumble of the bus was strangely soothing. A couple of women, sitting a few rows ahead, were deep in conversation. Their voices, though low, carried through the quiet hum of the engine.

"Did you see August Carter's latest interview?" one whispered, her voice conspiratorial.

My stomach clenched. I knew. I knew I shouldn't listen, but I couldn't help it.

"Oh my god, yes!" the other replied, practically gushing. "He and Alana? They're totally dating, right? The way they look at each other..."

"Totally! I mean, who was his girlfriend before? Some graphic designer, right? Bailey something? She was so bland."

"Yeah, practically invisible. No wonder August moved on. Alana's a superstar! They're so much better suited."

My reflection in the bus window seemed duller, paler. Invisible. Bland. The words carved themselves into my skin. I instinctively reached up, touching my cheek. Was I really that forgettable?

A memory flashed, sharp and painful. The early days of August' s career, when he was just starting to get noticed. He refused to go public with our relationship.

"It's better for my career, Bailey," he'd pleaded, his eyes earnest. "Directors want to cast me as the hot, available bachelor. A girlfriend would ruin that image."

I' d reluctantly agreed, though it hurt. It meant attending events separately, hiding our affection, pretending we were just friends around his industry contacts. The unspoken rule was: my existence was a secret.

This led to awkward, painful encounters. At a wrap party for one of his first big projects, a rising starlet openly flirted with him, completely unaware he was taken. He let her. He even laughed at her jokes, his arm around her in a photo op. I stood across the room, watching, my heart a lead weight.

Later that night, I confronted him, tears streaming down my face. "How could you? She was practically hanging all over you! Everyone thinks you're single!"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't be so dramatic, Bailey. It's Hollywood. It's how things are done. I told you, it's for my career." He called me "unreasonable."

I stood my ground. "No, August. This isn't just 'how things are done.' This is disrespectful. It makes me feel like I don't matter."

He eventually relented. A week later, he posted a single blurry photo of us on his Instagram, a caption that simply read, "My girl." It was a victory, I thought then. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.

But the relief was short-lived. His fans, or rather, their fans-the ones who shipped him with his female co-stars-exploded. My comment section became a war zone.

"Who is this random girl?" "August deserves better!" "She's trying to ride his coattails!"

Then came the fan accounts, fueled by Alana Edwards, who was already a social media darling. They created elaborate fanfictions, painting August and Alana as star-crossed lovers, destined to be together. In their narratives, I was the villain, the clingy, undeserving girlfriend holding August back.

One post, in particular, stuck with me. A fan wrote a sprawling, dramatic essay about how August was "too loyal for his own good," trapped in a relationship he didn't truly want, simply out of a sense of obligation to me. He's only with her because he feels sorry for her, the post implied. He' s too much of a gentleman to break her heart.

The worst part? Alana, seemingly innocently, would often engage with these fan posts. A cryptic "like" here, a "thank you for your support!" there. She played the part of the sweet, vulnerable artist to perfection.

One night, after August had finally posted that photo, Alana messaged me directly. It was late, past midnight.

"Hey Bailey! So glad August finally made things official. The fans were getting a little wild, haha. Just wanted to say, I'm always here if you need a friend!" It was accompanied by a string of heart emojis.

I stared at the message, a cold dread creeping through me. A friend? It felt less like an olive branch and more like a warning shot. I didn't know her, not really. We' d hardly ever spoken. This sudden overture felt… calculated.

When I showed August, he brushed it off. "See? She's so sweet. Just trying to be supportive."

"Supportive?" I asked, my voice rising. "Or is she trying to stake her claim? She's not as 'innocent' as you think, August."

He sighed, exasperated. "You always think the worst of people. She's just being kind. You're just... sensitive." He squeezed my shoulder dismissively. "You' re not like those other girls, all competitive and fake. That' s why I love you."

"Am I 'simple', August?" I asked, my voice tight. "Is that what you mean?"

He gave a soft, patronizing laugh. "No, no, baby. Just… less complicated. And that's a good thing! Anyway, I' m exhausted. Let' s not talk about this anymore."

I watched him walk away, feeling a chill. He loved me because I was "less complicated"? Less of a threat? And Alana, who was exactly my age, was so "sweet" and "innocent." It was another brick in the wall of my growing disillusionment.

Bailey Glass POV:

"Am I 'simple', August? Is that what you mean?" The question had hung in the air, unanswered, a silent accusation. Now, as the bus rumbled towards my uncertain future, a familiar sound cut through my thoughts.

The blare of a news report from someone else's phone. It was the theme music for a popular entertainment show. Right. August's new series had a big public event today. A press conference, maybe? My finger, still raw from constantly scrolling through his social media, hovered over the thought of checking it. But I resisted. No more.

Then, the bus driver, bored during a red light, flicked on his small screen. An entertainment channel. My heart sank. There August was, front and center. And beside him, Alana Edwards.

The headline scrolled beneath them: "Alana Edwards Battles Online Trolls as Co-Star August Carter Steps Up."

Alana. She looked fragile, her eyes red-rimmed. She dabbed at them delicately with a tissue. She was addressing the rumors, the "vicious attacks" from anonymous online accounts.

"It's just so hard," she choked out, her voice trembling. "I just want to be judged for my art, not for... for these cruel lies."

The cameras zoomed in on her tear-filled eyes. The audience, a mix of reporters and fans, murmured sympathetically.

Then August, my August, stepped forward. He put a comforting hand on Alana's back, a gesture so tender it made my throat ache. He then turned to the cameras, his face etched with fierce protectiveness.

"This online harassment has to stop," he declared, his voice strong and clear. "Alana is a talented, kind, and vulnerable artist. To attack her like this, to spread such baseless rumors… it's despicable." He looked directly into the lens, his gaze intense. "We, as a society, need to be better. We need to stand up against online bullying."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a choked, rasping sound that startled the woman next to me. She looked at me with concern, then, seeing my face, offered me a tissue. I took it, my hand shaking.

I felt the tears welling up, hot and fast. Not for Alana, not for August, but for myself. For the naive, foolish woman I had been. I couldn't stop them. They streamed down my face, blurring the image of August, my knight in shining armor, defending his damsel.

The woman beside me, seeing my distress, patted my arm gently. "Are you okay, dear?"

I shook my head, unable to speak. The embarrassment was a fresh wave of heat. Crying on a public bus. How fitting. How utterly pathetic.

"Next stop, Santa Monica Pier," the driver announced.

I scrambled up, half-blinded by tears. "Thank you," I mumbled to the kind stranger, then stumbled off the bus, needing to escape, needing to breathe.

The salty air hit my face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat on the bus. I walked aimlessly, the sound of the ocean a distant roar. My mind replayed August's impassioned speech. This online harassment has to stop.

He preached about online bullying, about protecting vulnerable artists. Yet, when I was the target of vicious, sustained online attacks, when my social media was flooded with hateful comments, when my personal details were dug up and shared by his rabid fans, where was he?

He was absent. He was "too busy." He was "in character."

"It's part of the game, Bailey," he'd said once, when I showed him a particularly vile comment that wished me dead. "Just ignore it. Don't feed the trolls."

Ignore it? How could I ignore the death threats, the relentless body shaming, the accusations of being a gold digger? One fan had even found my old high school photos and posted them online, mocking my teenage acne. They called me "ugly," "fat," "talentless." They said I wasn't "worthy" of August.

I remembered the sleepless nights, the frantic searches for my own name, the panic attacks that left me gasping for air. I lost weight. My hair started falling out. The doctor had prescribed medication, telling me I was suffering from severe anxiety and depression.

When August finally came home after a long shoot, I was a wreck. I showed him the articles, the comments, the alarming messages.

He patted my head, a dismissive gesture. "There, there, baby. It's almost over. The show's wrapped. Just a little longer." He hugged me briefly, a perfunctory embrace, then turned his attention to his packed suitcase. "I've got an early flight tomorrow. Another press tour."

I used to think he was just emotionally unavailable, a product of his intense, self-absorbed craft. That his "method acting" made him distant, but that his love for me was always there, simmering beneath the surface. I made excuses for him, rationalized his neglect. He just didn't understand, I told myself. He loved me in his own way.

But watching him now, on that screen, fiercely defending Alana, his eyes blazing with a protectiveness he' d never shown me… it was a brutal awakening. The man who had dismissed my suffering as "overreacting" was now a champion against injustice for another woman.

He wasn't incapable of empathy. He just chose where to direct it. And it wasn't towards me.

I felt a cold, hard certainty settle in my bones. I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool. And I was done being one.