Bailey Glass POV:

"I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool." The realization was a heavy stone in my stomach, weighing me down, yet pushing me forward.

Two days later, I booked a flight. One-way. To Portland, Oregon. My hometown. My escape. The final act of defiance.

Before leaving, I had one last appointment. A follow-up at the hospital, for my anxiety and depression. It felt like a symbolic closure, a medical stamp on the end of an era.

The hospital was bustling, but a section of the main lobby was cordoned off. A small crowd had gathered, craning their necks, whispering excitedly. Bright lights glared, and a cluster of technicians moved around, shouting instructions. Filming. Of course. This was LA.

I sighed, already tired of the spectacle. I just wanted to get my check-up and leave. I skirted the edges of the crowd, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.

Then, I heard a familiar voice. That deep, resonant laugh. My blood ran cold. I risked a glance.

There he was. August. He was in costume, looking impossibly handsome, surrounded by his entourage. And right beside him, a vision in a white dress, was Alana Edwards. They were filming a scene. My scene. A scene I' d written in my head countless times, a scene where he would finally see me, protect me, choose me. But I wasn't the star.

He turned, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. For a split second, our gazes locked. His brow furrowed. A flicker of surprise, then something unreadable, crossed his face. He started to move towards me, a slight hesitation in his step.

But I wasn't waiting. I turned on my heel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I didn't care what he saw, what he thought. I was done. I kept walking, faster and faster, until his face, his image, was just another fading memory in the rearview mirror of my life.

I didn't hear him call my name. Or maybe I did, and I chose to ignore it. Either way, I didn't stop.

Behind me, I vaguely heard Alana's voice, high-pitched and inquisitive. "August, who was that?"

I could almost picture his strained smile, his vague answer. Just an old acquaintance. Or perhaps, My girlfriend. The irony was thick enough to choke on. The girlfriend he was abandoning, just as he was becoming the man he always said he would.

Meanwhile, August stood there, watching my retreating back. He clenched his jaw. Alana, ever the observant co-star, tugged gently on his sleeve. "August? Everything okay?"

He managed a tight smile. "Fine, Alana. Just… a little distracted." He glanced back at the spot where I'd been. Gone.

"Who was that, really?" Alana pressed, her voice laced with a playful curiosity that held a hint of steel.

He hesitated. "Just Bailey. My… girlfriend." The word felt foreign on his tongue now.

Alana scoffed, a delicate, almost imperceptible sound. "Oh, that Bailey. She's always popping up, isn't she? Like she's checking up on you. So clingy."

He winced slightly. "No, she's… she's not like that. She just… gets a little insecure sometimes." He was trying to defend me, but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Insecure. His fault. All his fault.

Later, during a break, he scrolled through his phone. He opened our chat. The last message was mine, weeks ago, a mundane update about my flower shop. His last response was a curt "K." A sudden, cold dread settled in his chest. He scrolled further back, then further. Our conversations, once filled with laughter and daily anecdotes, had dwindled to terse replies, mostly from him.

He remembered my constant texts, my calls, my desperate attempts to connect. And how he' d dismissed them, thinking, She's always there. She'll understand.

A growing unease prickled at him. Why had she been at the hospital? Was she sick? He' d been so caught up in the drama with Alana, with his career, that he hadn't noticed the silence growing between us. He' d just assumed I was still "mad" about the livestream, that I'd cool off eventually, like I always did.

He needed to talk to her. To explain. To smooth things over. He dialed my number. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. Then, a message flashed on his screen: "The number you are trying to reach has been blocked."

Blocked? His face paled. He tried again. Same result. He opened Instagram, then Facebook. His profile. Our shared photos. Gone. My profile. Private.

A cold, heavy fear settled in his gut. This wasn't just a fight. This wasn't just me being "needy." This was… final. He suddenly realized what I'd forgotten to tell him. What I'd forgotten to do. He'd never signed the papers for the graphic design business. The one she said she was selling. It was gone. All of it.

Bailey Glass POV:

"The number you are trying to reach has been blocked." The notification on August' s phone, unheard by me, was my final declaration. My last act of self-preservation.

I sat in the waiting room at the hospital, my phone buzzing relentlessly in my purse. I knew it was August. I could feel his frantic energy through the vibrations. But I didn't answer. I didn't even look. I just let it ring, then blocked his number. Then, I deleted him from my social media, severing the last digital ties. A strange, liberating calm washed over me. It was done. Truly, finally done.

Just as my name flashed on the screen, indicating it was my turn, a figure burst through the swinging doors of the private clinic. August. He scanned the room, his eyes frantic, then landed on me.

He walked over, his expression a mix of relief and anger. He reached for my arm, a familiar gesture of ownership, but I flinched away before he could touch me.

"Bailey," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Why did you block me?"

"I don't owe you an explanation, August," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.

He scoffed, a nervous habit. "Don't be dramatic. What's wrong? Are you sick?" A flicker of genuine concern crossed his face. "Is it serious?"

"No," I said, rising to my feet. "I'm fine. I'm just here for a check-up."

He grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. "A check-up? What kind of check-up? Bailey, tell me what's going on." There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"It's nothing," I said, trying to pull my hand away. "Just a routine thing."

"Routine?" His eyes, usually so expressive, were clouded with confusion. "You never come here for 'routine' check-ups. Are you hiding something from me?" His voice hardened, a hint of accusation creeping in.

"It's none of your business anymore, August," I said, my voice rising slightly.

"None of my business?" He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Everything about you is my business, Bailey. We're together."

"We're not," I corrected him, my voice firm. "We broke up. You remember? Two days ago. In our apartment. Or rather, my apartment now."

His face darkened. "Don't be ridiculous. You say that every time we fight. It's just a phase. Let's talk about it, properly, when you're not... whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at the clinic, implying I was being irrational.

My name flashed again, brighter this time. "Bailey Glass, Dr. Evans will see you now."

"I have to go," I said, pulling my arm free. I didn't look at him, just marched towards the door.

He followed, his footsteps heavy behind me. "Bailey, wait! I'm coming in with you."

I reached the door, pushing it open. Just as I stepped inside, I turned, meeting his gaze. "No, you're not," I said, my voice cold and clear. Then, I slammed the door shut, leaving him on the outside, exactly where he belonged.

Bailey Glass POV:

"No, you're not," I said, my voice cold and clear. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the finality of my decision.

Inside, Dr. Evans, a kind-faced woman with a gentle smile, looked up from her notes. "Bailey! Good to see you. Who was that rather agitated gentleman outside?"

I managed a weak smile. "Just… my ex-boyfriend."

Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eyes. She and I had built a rapport over the past few years, a relationship that extended beyond typical doctor-patient boundaries. She knew my history, my anxieties, my struggles. She'd been my silent confidante, my medical anchor.

"Ex-boyfriend?" she repeated, her smile widening genuinely. "Well, that's excellent news! Congratulations, dear."

"Thank you," I said, a small, genuine warmth spreading through me. Her approval, her understanding, meant the world.

"So," she said, tapping her pen on her notepad. "How are we feeling today? Any more of those… intrusive thoughts? The racing heart? The constant worry?"

I shook my head. "No. Not really. I mean, yes, there's still some residual sadness, of course. But the panic attacks… they've stopped. The constant knot in my stomach… it's gone."

She nodded, a soft smile on her face. "That's wonderful, Bailey. Truly wonderful."

I remembered the early days of my therapy, the raw honesty I' d poured out to her. How August' s casual dismissals of my feelings had festered into deep-seated self-doubt. The countless times he'd called me "dramatic" or "overly sensitive" when I tried to express my fears about his flirtations and his growing distance. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Bailey," he'd say, his tone condescending. "Why are you always so… neurotic?" Those words, repeated over and over, had carved grooves of insecurity into my soul. They had eroded my sense of self-worth.

"You have generalized anxiety disorder, Bailey, with significant depressive episodes," she'd told me gently, after months of tests and conversations. "And your anxiety is particularly triggered in intimate relationships."

She'd delved into my past, uncovering the roots of my insecurity. My father, gone too soon. My mother, beautiful and flighty, chasing after one man after another, leaving me with relatives for months, sometimes years, at a time. The desperate need to be "good" and "useful" to earn her love. The ultimate betrayal when she finally remarried and started a new family, leaving me behind for good.

Then, my first serious boyfriend in college. He cheated on me, then blamed me for it. "You were too needy, Bailey," he'd said, a twisted echo of August's words. "You drove me away." That had cemented my fear: that I was inherently unlovable, that my need for connection was a flaw, something to be ashamed of.

Dr. Evans had helped me see the pattern. "Bailey, your partners have been… less than ideal. They've exploited your tendency to seek validation. What August is doing, his emotional neglect, his gaslighting… it's not normal. It' s emotionally abusive. And it's exacerbating your existing trauma."

She' d given me two choices: remove myself from the source of anxiety, or learn to cope with it. I chose the former. I opened my flower shop, pouring my energy into something beautiful and tangible, something that was mine. And then, I chose to leave August.

"I feel… good, Dr. Evans," I said, a genuine smile now gracing my lips. "Better than I have in years. The shop is thriving. I'm connecting with people. And I'm not constantly waiting for a shoe to drop."

She flipped through her notes, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Given your progress, Bailey, and your current emotional state, I think it's safe to say… we can start weaning you off the medication. You've done the work, my dear."

Relief washed over me, warm and sweet. It wasn't just the end of a relationship. It was the end of an illness. The end of a chapter.

"That's wonderful news, Dr. Evans," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

She stood, extending her hand. "Go live your life, Bailey. You deserve all the happiness in the world."