And maybe I’d still be a whole person instead of this paper-doll cutout everyone thinks they know.
Or maybe this was always where I was going to end up—alone.
Dragging myself to the mirror, I study the girl staring back. I keep waiting for her to crack. For the glossy hair and the perfect skin and the come-hither stare to finally give way to what’s underneath—a girl who doesn’t know who she is when she’s not performing. A girl who thought love could save her. A girl who’s terrified she’s unlovable.
Still, I know what’s expected. So I rinse off last night's makeup, apply some concealer and gloss before slipping my mask into place. I still look rough, but less hungover and more like I’ve been up to no good. Rolling my shoulders back, I allow myself one shaky exhale before I paste on the smile they pay for and hit record.
“Morning, my loves,” I purr into the lens. “I’m so sorry I didn’t show last night. It was a rough night… but I’ll make it up to you. Let’s get ready for the day while I fill you in.”
I let the words fill the space where my real ones used to live. Because this? This I can control.
And that’s all I’ve got left, isn’t it? Control. When everything else feels ripped from my hands, at least I can choose how I’m seen, how I’m desired. I might be wrecked inside, but on camera, I’m untouchable. Unbreakable. And right now, that has to be enough.
By the time I’ve filmed, edited, and uploaded my latest video—complete with promises to stream for longer tonight—the crash hits me like a slap. I’m honestly surprised I lasted this long without caffeine. Even on a good day, my morning coffee comes second only to checking my phone. Never mind when my head’s still pounding like it’s got its own pulse.
I shuffle into the kitchen, dragging my silk robe tighter around my waist. Some days, this flat feels enormous. Like every wall is echoing secrets I’m trying too hard not to think about. Other days, it’s a coffin. A cage where the only light comes from a ring lamp and a thousand strangers who swear they know me.
I’m not sure which one I prefer anymore.
“I swear, if you give me watery rubbish today, I will unplug you,” I mutter under my breath, eyeing the espresso machine like it’s betrayed me one too many times.
It’s an empty threat at best. The problem doesn't lie with the machine, but with me. No matter what I try, I can never quite nail the art of brewing coffee. A quiet sigh slips out before I can stop it. God, I wish my favourite café delivered. There’s just something about the coffee there, like their baristas know how to brew magic right into those cups that mere mortals like me can’t replicate.
While the machine sputters to life, I slide open the balcony doors and step outside. Cool air rushes over my skin, cutting through the clammy heat lingering from my filming lights. Below me, the city stirs in that slow, dreamy Sunday fashion—the delicate clink of cutlery at theboulangerie, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the low murmur of lovers who walk too close, too slowly.
I try to remind myself I wanted this. Freedom, a new start, studying abroad. But sometimes, even the cobblestones and warm croissants feel like a lie.
Because the truth is, wanting to come here was always a kind of desperation.
As Gianna’s twentieth birthday crept closer, the thought of staying home—of standing there and watching it all unfold—made my chest ache so sharply I could barely breathe. The idea of seeing him beside her, wearing that hollow, public smile, was enough to tear something raw and private inside me apart.
In the end, running felt easier than breaking in front of everyone.
And now that they’ve moved the wedding up by a year, I’m even more grateful I left when I did because if I’d had to stand there and watch Matt marry a barely legal nineteen-year-old, I think it would’ve destroyed me.
A sharp knock snaps me out of the thought, making me freeze halfway between my balcony and the espresso machine with a confused tilt of my head. I’m not expecting anyone, hell, only two people even know where I live, and after last night, I’m sure Jamie and Isabella have their own hangovers to nurse.
I tighten the silk belt around my waist and move through the living room, my bare feet whispering over the floorboards. My heart thuds a notch faster as I peer through the peephole.
What the hell?
A man clad in the uniform of my favourite coffee shop stands on the other side of the door, a takeaway tray balanced in his hands, expression unreadable beneath his cap.
I blink. Once. Twice. My eyebrows practically vanishing into my hairline.
What the hell is going on?
Still frowning, I slip the chain and ease the door open just enough to peer around it.
“Bonjour?”
The barista lifts the tray slightly. “Order for Lily Davis?”
My lips part. I shake my head, slow and confused, my brain tripping over itself to keep up.
“I didn’t order anything. You don'tdodelivery, I’ve tried.”
“It’s been paid for. Enjoy.” He shrugs, pressing the tray into my hands and turning away, boots echoing against the stairwell walls. I stare after him, then down at the cup still steaming in its cardboard cradle, the café’s logo embossed on the side.
