His profile loads instantly, like my phone has been waiting for me to cave.
Still no post.
Still nothing.
And somehow, the absence says more than anything he could have written.
But one of the rumor accounts has uploaded something new.
Lucky Pink spotted in Michigan? Fans say she’s been hiding after a meltdown with her band. Sources claim Jett Langford cut ties.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my vision flickers at the edges.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Not true. Not true. They don’t know anything. They don’t know you.
Except… they do, don’t they? Or they think they do. And thinking is enough to destroy everything.
The flash of memory hits hard: reporters outside the studio, cameras shoved in my face, people yelling like feeding birds.
Lucky, look here—!
Lucky! Rehab rumors—!
Did Jett Langford fire you—!?
My chest tightens.
My hands shake.
The mug on the table rattles.
Before I can fall any deeper, the screen buzzes in my hand.
A notification.
Not a rumor account.
Banks posted a story.
My heart jumps, and I instinctively tap it.
It’s a short video — a gas station parking lot, blurry sky, the edge of his lacrosse stick sticking out of his convertible. Over it, he’s written:
“Moving forward.”
That’s it.
No mention of me.
No anger.
No apology.
Just… forward.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
