Alayna POV:

The distant murmur of the television caught my attention as I walked through the quiet living room. It was Jarrett' s voice, unmistakable, amplified by the speakers. My heart, against my will, gave a familiar lurch. I knew that voice. I knew every nuance, every inflection. I tried to ignore it, to keep walking, but a strange compulsion pulled me towards the screen.

It was a live stream. Kisha Prince was at the podium, her face a carefully constructed tableau of vulnerability. She was obviously responding to a recent wave of negative press, likely fueled by some of her own manipulative social media antics. Her lower lip trembled, her eyes welling up with tears. I rolled my eyes. Another performance.

Then the camera panned. Jarrett stood beside her, his arm a protective barrier around her shoulders. His gaze, usually so sharp and analytical, was soft, filled with concern. He looked at Kisha the way he used to look at me, in the rare moments when he thought no one else was watching. A deep, agonizing ache spread through my chest.

"Kisha is a talented and compassionate artist," Jarrett's voice boomed, cutting through the silence. "These attacks, these baseless accusations, are vile. They are a symptom of a larger problem of online bullying and misogyny." He went on, a passionate, articulate defense of Kisha, his voice filled with a righteous anger that I had never, not once, heard him use in defense of me.

I stood there, staring at the screen, a mirthless laugh bubbling up in my throat. It was so ironic, so utterly, devastatingly cruel. He was speaking out against online harassment, against the very thing I had been subjected to for months, fueled by his own ambiguous behavior and Kisha's calculated moves. But he was doing it for her. Not for me. Never for me.

A tear escaped my eye, tracing a hot path down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away, embarrassed even in my own empty living room. I hated crying. I hated feeling weak. But the sheer injustice of it, the stark contrast between his public outrage for her and his private indifference to my pain, was suffocating.

I sank onto the sofa, the remote dropping from my numb fingers. My phone buzzed with a message. It was a friend, forwarding a screenshot of Jarrett's speech, with a caption: "Your man is such a hero for standing up for Kisha! So inspiring!" I stared at the words, the irony of it almost physically painful.

I remembered the barrage of hateful comments after he "officially" announced our relationship. "She's probably forcing him to stay," one said. "Look at her, trying to cling to his fame." "She's ugly, Kisha is prettier." The words had assaulted me, day and night, seeping into my dreams, stealing my sleep. I developed dark circles, a constant tremor in my hands. My world, once vibrant, had narrowed to the four walls of our house, the internet a constant, malicious presence.

I' d called him, desperate, crying, begging him to just say something, anything, to shut it down. He was on set, of course. "Just ignore it, Alayna," he' d said, his voice flat. "It's just the internet. They'll move on. Don't give them the satisfaction." He told me it was "part of the job," a "necessary evil." He told me I was "too sensitive," that I needed to "develop a thicker skin."

Then, he'd hung up, probably to go back to comforting Kisha, to defending her from her trolls, to being her hero.

And now, here he was, on national television, being the champion Kisha deserved. He was her knight in shining armor, while I, his actual girlfriend for seven years, was left to bleed in the dark, my wounds meticulously ignored.

The camera zoomed in on Jarrett again. He had wrapped both arms around Kisha, pulling her close, burying her face in his chest. His eyes, fixed on the audience, were filled with a profound sadness, a sympathy that looked disturbingly intimate. He was playing the role of the devoted protector to perfection. And I? I was the forgotten extra, the inconvenient truth he wished would just disappear.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I felt like a fool. A pathetic, ridiculous fool. The pain was so sharp, so clear now. It wasn't just neglect. It was a complete, utter disregard for my existence, for my feelings, for our shared history. He could be there for her, but never for me. He could defend her, but leave me to rot.

I reached for my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I didn't care about his schedule, his press tour, his "method acting." I didn't care about anything anymore. I just needed out.

My thumb hovered over his contact. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I tapped it. The message was short. Sweet, almost.

"It's over, Jarrett. Don't come home."

Jarrett POV:

The hospital corridor was a sterile white, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something indefinable, like fear. I hated hospitals. I hated the quiet reverence, the hushed voices, the way everyone looked so fragile. I was just here for a follow-up, a quick check-up my agent insisted on after the grueling press tour. My head still felt foggy from the last three months of non-stop work, interviews, and public appearances.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted down the hall. Nurses and doctors were ushering people away, clearing a path. "Filming underway! Please keep clear!" someone barked. I rolled my eyes. Of course. Even hospitals weren't safe from the relentless march of production crews. I just wanted to get this over with and go home.

As the crowd parted, my gaze snagged on a familiar figure. Her back was to me, but I knew that silhouette. The way her hair, now a lighter auburn, fell just past her shoulders. The elegant curve of her neck. It couldn't be. Not here. Not now.

Then she turned. Alayna.

My breath hitched. She looked… different. Sharper. More composed. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were distant, almost cold. She held a small, neatly wrapped bouquet of flowers. I remembered her telling me, months ago, after our last fight, that she'd sold her shop in LA. She was moving to Portland. To start fresh. I hadn't thought she actually would. I thought it was just another one of her threats, another desperate plea for attention.

Beside me, Kisha, who was accompanying me for a "casual PR photoshoot" after my check-up, nudged me. "Who's that, Jarrett? She looks familiar."

I didn't answer, my eyes locked on Alayna. She met my gaze, briefly, then her eyes flickered to Kisha. A shadow, fleeting but definite, crossed her face. I remembered mentioning a new project, a medical drama, but I hadn't told her Kisha was my co-star. Why would I? It wasn't important anymore. It still wasn' t.

A strange pang of something twisted in my gut. Regret? No. Not regret. Just… surprise. She was actually here. And she looked so… unbothered.

She turned to leave, her movements fluid and decisive. Just like the way she'd walked out of our apartment after our final fight. My heart hammered. I had to talk to her. This couldn't be the end. This couldn't be how our seven years ended.

"Alayna!" I called out, my voice louder than I intended. She paused, her shoulders stiffening, but she didn' t turn around. She just kept walking, her back ramrod straight, heading for the exit. My heart seized in a sudden, irrational panic.

Kisha, ever the opportunist, grabbed my arm, her voice a low, theatrical whisper. "Is that… Alayna? Your ex? Oh, Jarrett, I had no idea she was here! Is she… here to check up on you? To make sure I' m not getting too close to her man?" She gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look, but her eyes held a spark of something else. Triumph, perhaps.

I just gave a tight, awkward smile. "No, Kisha. She's… not here for that." I knew Alayna. She wouldn't play those games. Not anymore. Not like this.

Kisha wasn't buying it. "Oh, I get it," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "She's still jealous, isn't she? It must be hard, seeing you move on, working with someone new. I mean, you know how these civilian girlfriends get. So clingy, so insecure." She tugged on my arm, trying to pull me in a different direction. "Don't worry about it, Jarrett. She'll get over it. You just need to focus on your work. On us."

I nodded, vaguely. Kisha was right. Alayna was always so sensitive, so prone to overthinking. This was just another one of her "episodes," as I used to call them. She'd calm down eventually. She always did.

But then, my phone buzzed. A single, stark message. From Alayna.

"It's over, Jarrett. Don't come home."

I stared at the screen, then at the empty corridor where Alayna had disappeared. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Over? That was ridiculous. She was just being dramatic. She was just trying to get my attention. She always did this. She always threatened to leave, then came back, needing me to soothe her, to reassure her.

I scoffed, shaking my head. She was playing games. I knew her. This was just a phase. She' d be back. She always came back.

But as the words echoed in my head, a tiny, unsettling tremor ran through me. Her face, so calm, so distant. Her eyes, so empty. Perhaps this time… perhaps this time she wasn't playing.

A sudden, sharp fear pierced through my carefully constructed walls of denial. What if she was serious? What if I had truly lost her? The thought was like a punch to the gut. The silence between us, the lack of her usual incessant texts, her frantic calls during my last project-it wasn't just her being "mad." It was a complete absence. A void.

I hadn't noticed it until now, until this moment when I saw her, so defiantly free. Her silence wasn't a punishment. It was simply… silence. The silence of someone who had nothing left to say.

I crumpled the phone in my hand, the screen still displaying her final, cutting message. My heart, usually so guarded, felt a sudden, inexplicable stab of dread. This wasn't a game. This was real. And I, Jarrett Sheppard, the man who had everything, suddenly felt like I had lost everything.

Jarrett POV:

The phone rang and rang, her voicemail finally kicking in. "You've reached Alayna. Leave a message." Her voice, recorded months ago, sounded cheerful, almost teasing. It was a stark contrast to the icy demeanor she' d given me in the hospital corridor. I slammed the phone down on the passenger seat, my jaw clenched. She wasn't answering. She was never answering.

This was ridiculous. I wasn' t going to beg. I was Jarrett Sheppard, a rising star. People begged me. But the thought of her, so cold, so distant, walking away from me, from us, was a bitter pill I couldn't swallow. No. I wouldn't let her just walk away. Not like this.

I knew she was still in LA. She couldn' t have left yet. I remembered the hospital she' d been at. My mind raced, trying to figure out her appointment time. She'd always been so particular about her schedule. I slammed the car into reverse and sped out of the hospital parking lot, my destination clear. I was going to find her. I was going to make her listen.

The waiting room was surprisingly quiet for a hospital. A few patients sat scattered, lost in their own worlds, staring at their phones or flipping through magazines. It was almost… private. No paparazzi. No curious fans. Good. This was a conversation that needed to happen between just us.

Then I saw her. Sitting in a corner chair, her back to the wall, holding that same bouquet of flowers. She looked smaller, more fragile than I remembered from the corridor. My chest tightened. What if she's really sick? The thought, unwelcome and terrifying, surfaced.

I approached her cautiously, my footsteps muffled by the soft carpet. "Alayna," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

She looked up, her eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before they shuttered, becoming blank again. "What are you doing here, Jarrett?" she asked, her voice flat.

I reached out, my hand instinctively going for her hair, a gesture I' d made a thousand times before. "I knew you were still here," I said, trying for a casual, reassuring tone. "Came to make sure you were okay. And to finally talk some sense into you."

She flinched, pulling back from my touch. "I'm not here for you to 'talk sense into me,' Jarrett. And I'm certainly not here because I'm waiting for you." Her voice was steady, unwavering. It was unsettling.

I let out a frustrated sigh. "Come on, Alayna. Don't be like this. I know you're still mad about Kisha, about the press conference. I told you, it's just work. Method acting." I saw her eyes narrow, a flicker of the old fire. "You're just jealous, babe. It happens. But you don't have to break up with me over it." I tried a playful smile, my usual charm. "Are you really here to 'check up on me' still? You always were the jealous type."

Her gaze was cold, unwavering. "I am here for a very important personal matter, Jarrett. Nothing to do with you or your… co-star." She gestured vaguely towards the corridor, a hint of disdain in her voice.

My patience wore thin. "Oh, 'important personal matter,' huh?" I scoffed. "And what could be more important than us? What could be so urgent that you decide to break up with me over text, then refuse to answer my calls?" I leaned closer, my voice dropping. "You're just playing games, Alayna. Trying to make me chase you."

Just then, a voice echoed from a nearby speaker. "Alayna Dickerson, room 3B."

Her name. My gaze darted to the screen above the reception desk. Her name was there, glowing in bright white letters. And the department listed beneath it… Psychiatry.

My heart pounded. Psychiatry? What the hell?

She stood up, her bouquet of flowers still clutched in her hand. She started walking towards room 3B.

"Alayna! Wait!" I lunged forward, grabbing her wrist. Her skin felt cool, almost detached. "What is this? What's going on?" My voice was rough with a sudden, genuine fear. The anger, the frustration, all of it melted away, replaced by a cold dread. "Why are you at a psychiatrist? Are you… are you really sick?"

She didn't answer, just tried to pull her wrist away. Her eyes, though, held a flicker of something. Resignation? Pain? I couldn't tell. I just knew, instinctively, that this was far more serious than one of her "episodes." This was real. And I, in my self-absorbed pursuit of fame, had completely missed it.

"Tell me, Alayna," I demanded, my voice desperate now. "What's wrong? Why didn't you tell me?"

But she just looked at my hand, then at me, her face unreadable. The door to room 3B slid open. She yanked her wrist free, slipped inside, and closed the door firmly behind her. The click of the lock echoed in the silent waiting room, a final, definitive sound.

And I was left standing there, alone, with a sinking feeling that I had just lost the one thing I couldn't afford to lose.