The Star I Left Behind

"Are you here for an autograph, sir?" The woman flashing a rehearsed, plastic smile at me from across the table wasn't just the newly crowned Grammy pop queen.

She was my girlfriend of five years. And with one effortless slash, she had just severed our entire history. She used to swear she’d go public with us the second she made it big.

Now? She looked at me like a stranger she needed security to handle. I took the signed photo bearing her fake smile. I gripped the edges.

Right in front of thousands of screaming fans and a blinding storm of camera flashes, I ripped it straight down the middle without a single ounce of hesitation.

Then, staring right into her eyes, I shredded it into a pile of worthless trash. The pieces fluttered to the floor. Her perfect mask shattered. I walked out of the venue.

I never looked back. Chapter 1 My girlfriend was a pop icon who just swept her second Grammy.

But right now, staring at the glowing screen of my phone, a violent rushing sound roared in my ears. The photo had already been retweeted tens of thousands of times.

The headline glared back at me, dripping with clickbait venom: [ EXCLUSIVE! Newly Crowned Pop Queen Stella Caught Sneaking into Luxury Hotel with AList Heartthrob Cole!

New Romance Confirmed?! ] The shot was grainy, but it was unmistakably Stella. She was wearing the exact same trench coat she had on when I drove her to the airport.

The guy standing shouldertoshoulder with her was Cole—that pretty boy who blew up from that teen vampire show. They were slipping through a set of gilded doors.

The paparazzi caption helpfully pointed out it was one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. Fuck. My thumb shook.

I opened my contacts and tapped the speed dial I’d had for years: My Stella. She’d typed that into my phone herself ages ago. It rang until it hit voicemail. No answer.

I dialed again. Nothing. On the third try, it went straight to a dead, automated recording. [ The person you are calling cannot be reached at the moment. ] Powered off?

Stella never turned off her phone. She was terrified of missing an agent's call, of her parents needing her, of… of me not being able to reach her. Those were her own words.

Now, it was off. A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. Was the photo doctored? If it wasn't, what the hell was she doing there? Business?

What kind of business gets handled at 2 AM in a penthouse suite? Just yesterday, she swore she was pulling an allnighter at the recording studio. She said she was exhausted.

She said she missed me. Recording at a fivestar hotel? I paced the cramped living room. We rented this apartment together.

It was small, but she used to say anywhere with me felt warm. Right now, the walls felt like a meat locker. Her scent, her life, was scattered everywhere.

The plush throw pillows she hoarded on the couch. The halfeaten bag of chips on the coffee table. The row of designer heels lined up by the door. No. I needed the truth.

I needed to hear it from her mouth. I pulled up her shared iCloud calendar. She had an event downtown this afternoon. Fine. I’d go there. I’d look her in the eye and ask her myself.

I grabbed my jacket and slammed the apartment door shut. I took the corners tight all the way downtown, tires squealing, narrowly blowing past two red lights.

When I pulled up to the downtown venue for her exclusive VIP signing, the line already wrapped around three city blocks.

The pavement was packed with rabid fans gripping posters and merch, while musclebound security guards screamed themselves hoarse trying to hold the steel barricades.

A heavy knot formed in my throat, threatening to choke me. To them, Stella was a shimmering, untouchable goddess.

The Stella I knew was the girl who curled up on my wornout sofa in an oversized Tshirt, hair a tangled mess, begging me to whip up some dinner.

I shoved my way into the crush of bodies. The air was thick with a nauseating mix of cheap perfume and nervous sweat. An elbow dug into my ribs. I shoved back hard.

The guards at the front barked orders, trying to wrangle the chaos. I was tall enough to see over the crowd, but all I caught was a glimpse of the edge of the VIP stage.

Two girls next to me were gossiping, their shrill voices drilling straight into my skull. "Did you see Twitter? The trending tags about Stella and Cole…" "It’s total bullshit.

Just a PR stunt! Doesn't his new season drop soon?" "But the photos are pretty clear…" "Her management hasn't said a word. It’s fake!

Our Stella would never go for a pretty boy like him anyway!" Chapter 2 PR stunt? Yeah. For five years, that was the most used phrase in her vocabulary.

At the beginning, she did a collab with some pop singer and rumors started flying.

She came home, hooked her arms around my neck, and swayed against me. "Silas, don't buy into the tabloids.

My label set it up for the hype." Later, she got papped grabbing dinner with a costar. Her excuse? "The paparazzi are just spinning stories.

We're just friends running lines." I swallowed it. Every single time. I'd tell her, "It's fine. I get it. Just until you make it." Make it? How much bigger did she need to get?

She had a shelf full of Grammys. How much more "made it" could she be? I looked down at my chest. Hanging around my neck was a worn, custom metal guitar pick.

We had it engraved together at a weekend flea market back when she was still hustling gigs at rundown dive bars.

She had an exact match. "Silas, look," she had said, "matching picks!

Once I make it big, we'll wear them on the red carpet and show the whole world." Her eyes had been shining back then, like they held the stars.

Now those fucking stars were probably scattered across some hotel suite's sheets. The line inched forward. Time blurred. Finally, I was at the front.

I could see the girl on the stage clearly. She sat there in a glittering sequin dress, her face contoured flawlessly by a makeup team. She was stunning.

She also felt a million miles away. She smiled at the fan in front of me—a rehearsed, mediatrained smile flashing perfectly white teeth. It looked synthetic.

That wasn't how she smiled at me. The real Stella scrunched up her nose, laughed until she snorted, and never cared about looking perfect. Three people left. Two. One. My turn.

I stepped up to the table. I planted my boots right across from her. There was zero chance she couldn't see me clearly.

The second her eyes lifted and locked onto mine, the plastic smile froze. Something flashed in her pupils. Panic. Absolute, unmistakable panic.

The panic vanished before I could blink, buried under her PR mask, but I caught the slip. The realization hit my stomach like a block of concrete. She looked at me.

Her voice was saccharine sweet, but coated in a thick, artificial distance. "Are you here for an autograph, sir?" The words drove into my eardrums like a drill. A fan? An autograph?

I was her fucking boyfriend. Five years together, and she was asking if I wanted an autograph. I didn't say a word. I just stared a hole right through her.

I searched her eyes for a shred of guilt, for a silent plea for me to wait so she could explain. Nothing. She broke eye contact. She looked down and grabbed a Sharpie.

Snagging a glossy promo headshot from the stack, she started scrawling her signature. Her fingers trembled slightly against the paper.

She kept talking as she signed, rushing the words out like she was terrified I'd open my mouth and detonate a bomb. "It’s so hot out today, thanks for waiting in line." "Thanks for the support." "Did you stream the new single?

You better come to the next tour…" Her words spilled out fast. Frantic. Whenever she was lying or anxious, she never shut up. I knew her tells too damn well.

And the more she babbled, the colder my blood ran. Chapter 3 What was she so afraid of? That I'd blow her cover right here in front of thousands of screaming fans?

That I'd ruin her pristine popstar image? In her eyes, I was just an outsider she needed security to handle. A threat. A highpitched ringing pierced my ears.

Memories from years ago flashed through my mind.

Back before the fame, when we were crammed into a hundredsquarefoot basement apartment that leaked freezing air in the winter and trapped the suffocating heat in the summer.

She’d lean her head on my shoulder, strumming her acoustic guitar, and swear to me, "Silas, the second I make it big, I’m telling the whole world about us.

I’m not playing those stupid PR dating games. It’s pathetic.

I want everyone to know that my man is Silas, the best guy in the entire world." She had looked so dead serious back then. So real. Then her star actually started to rise.

Her schedule filled up. I saw less and less of her. Whenever I brought up going public, she’d hook her arms around my neck and pout. "Just wait a little longer, Silas.

This is a critical time for my career. The label won't let me. Let me just get established, okay? Just wait." I waited. For three fucking years.

I waited, only to get a trending hashtag of her sneaking into a penthouse with another guy at 2 AM. I waited for a dead cell phone.

I waited for her to look at me and ask if I wanted a damn autograph. Three years playing the fool. A bonedeep, icy numbness swallowed whatever warmth was left in my chest.

She finally finished scribbling her signature. She slid the glossy headshot across the table, that plastic smile glued firmly in place. "Here you go.

Thanks for the support." I looked down at the heavy cardstock printed with her flawless face. I looked back up at her. I reached out and took it.

I gripped the edges with both hands. Without breaking eye contact, I ripped it straight down the middle. The thick paper tore with a loud, satisfying rip. I didn't stop.

I stacked the halves and ripped them again. And again. I shredded it until it was nothing but confetti. I opened my hands and let the worthless scraps flutter to the floor.

The entire section of the crowd went dead silent. A collective gasp rippled through the line, followed by frantic, confused whispers. All the color drained from Stella’s face.

Her eyes blew wide, staring at me in shock. I didn't say a word. My gaze swept across her collarbone, where that matching guitar pick necklace should have been.

It was empty now, save for a blinding, custom Cartier diamond necklace. I turned my back on her.

I shoved past the craning necks of the onlookers and forced my way out of the crush of bodies, heading straight for the exit.

Behind me, a chair scraped violently against the floor, accompanied by the panicked, hissing voice of her manager. "Stella! What the hell are you doing? Sit down!

The cameras are right there!" I heard every word. I didn't break my stride. I left the blinding lights, the screaming fans, and her in my rearview mirror.

The afternoon sun hit my face as I pushed through the glass doors. I squinted against the glare, a wave of vertigo hitting me. Five years.

Tossed into the trash as easily as ripping up a piece of paper. I drove back to our cramped apartment. I pushed the door open. It was pitch black inside. Dead silent.

I didn't bother hitting the light switch. I crossed the room and collapsed onto the worn leather sofa. The material was icecold against my skin.

My mind was hollowed out, leaving nothing but the image of Stella's plastic face and the echo of her voice. Are you here for an autograph, sir?

Chapter 4 I didn't know how much time had passed. Could have been minutes. Could have been an hour. I shot up from the sofa and slammed the wall switch.

The harsh fluorescent light stabbed at my eyes. I had to do something. I couldn't just sit here rotting. I barged into the bedroom and yanked the closet doors open.

My side was a sparse collection of plain tees and denim. The other half was packed tight with Stella's designer dresses, silk blouses, and tailored coats.

I used to think the cramped space felt like home. Now, looking at it just made my chest tight enough to suffocate.

I marched into the kitchen, ripped several heavyduty black trash bags from the roll, and snapped them open. Then I walked back to the closet.

I didn't even bother taking the clothes off the hangers. I grabbed armfuls of her custom couture gowns and expensive designer bags, shoving them into the trash bags like wastepaper.

Clothes piled up on the floor. Hangers clattered against each other, the metallic noise piercing the dead silence of the room.

A wire hanger snagged on a delicate silk blouse, tearing a massive gash through the fabric with a loud rip. I didn't even pause. I kept ripping things down. Who gave a shit anymore?

Within minutes, her side of the closet was bare. I stared down at the neon mountain of luxury fabric.

I shoved the rest of it into the thick black plastic, stomping it down with my boots just to fit more in. I hauled the drawstrings tight and knotted them off. I scanned the room.

On the nightstand sat a framed photo from her birthday trip to the coast last year. In the shot, she was piggybacking on me, and I was looking back over my shoulder at her.

We were both soaked in seawater, grinning like a couple of idiots. I walked over and picked up the frame. My thumb brushed over the glass covering her smiling face.

Then, I flipped it over, snapped the metal tabs back, and ripped the photo out. On the back, she had scribbled a line in tiny, looping letters: "Silas and Stella, forever." Forever?

Fuck forever. I crossed over to the desk and yanked the drawer open, digging through the junk. I pulled out a heavy pair of office shears.

Gripping the photo and the scissors, I walked back out to the living room and dropped onto the cold hardwood floor. I laid the photo flat in front of me.

Staring at the two bodies pressed so closely together made my stomach churn. I picked up the scissors. The cold metal pressed into my fingers.

I wedged the blades right down the seam between our bodies, squeezed the handles tight, and clamped down. Snip. The sharp, metallic sound cut through the air.

The photo split perfectly in two. I held her half of the picture—the one with her beaming, radiant smile. I stared at it for three heavy seconds.

Then, I flicked my wrist and pitched it straight into the garbage can next to the desk. It landed right on top of last night's halfeaten takeout container.

Stale grease seeped into the glossy paper, staining her perfect face. I was left holding my half. The Silas in the picture was grinning like a complete moron.

I dropped it onto the floor. Then, I got up to hunt down the rest. The desk drawers. The shoeboxes. The cracks between the books on the shelves.

I tore the place apart, unearthing every single photo we'd ever taken together.

Road trips, cheap dinners, messing around in the apartment, even the warped selfies from when she first downloaded Snapchat. One. Two. Ten. Twenty. I had no idea there were so many.

I laid them all out across the floor. It looked like a silent, mocking reel of film, broadcasting five years of me playing the ultimate fool. Chapter 5 I didn't say a word.

I picked up the shears and went to work. Snip. Snip. Snip. The metallic sound fell into a steady, rhythmic cadence inside the deadsilent apartment.

Every single photo was severed with absolute precision, right down the invisible line separating our bodies. Her halves went straight into the trash can.

My halves formed a small, growing stack beside my knee. The last one in the pile was the most recent. Last month, on one of her rare days off, we ordered blazing hot Thai takeout.

We were sweating through our shirts, and she snapped a quick selfie on her phone.

In the shot, she was trying to shove a piece of spicy beef into my mouth while I scrunched up my nose, dodging her. Looked pretty domestic, right? I stared at the glossy paper.

My hand trembled. It wasn't hesitation. It was a raw, surging spike of adrenaline.

I dragged a sharp breath into my lungs, lined up the steel blades right between our pressedtogether heads, and clamped down hard. Done. Severed.

I looked at the pile of her smiles mingling with the garbage, then at the stack of my own idiotic grins. I stood up and walked out onto the balcony.

Shoved in the corner was a rusted metal planter box. The flowers in it had died years ago.

I dragged it to the center of the concrete floor, grabbed my stack of photos, and dumped them inside. A pile of glossy paper, just halves of me.

I dug through my pockets and pulled out a Zippo lighter. I squatted down, held up the corner of one picture, and struck the flint.

The flame sparked, licking the edge of the photo paper. It curled, blackened, and caught fire. I dropped the burning square into the rusted planter.

The flames hit the rest of the pile and ignited with a heavy whoosh. My smiles. My fleeting highs.

Every single moment I was stupid enough to think would last forever, cracked and blistered in the heat before turning into nothing.

The acrid smoke burned the back of my throat, but I didn't flinch. I just stayed squatted there, watching it burn.

I waited until the very last ember suffocated and died out, leaving nothing but a charred pile of gray ash at the bottom of the metal pan.

I stood up, ignoring the pins and needles shooting up my numb legs, and walked back inside. I picked up my phone. The screen was pitch black. Zero notifications. No missed calls.

No frantic texts. She was probably still smiling for her fans, or holed up with her PR team figuring out how to neutralize her deranged stalker.

I unlocked my phone and opened iMessage. The pinned thread at the very top was still her. The contact name was still Stella.

My last text to her was from yesterday afternoon, asking what she wanted for dinner. Left on read. She was probably too busy recording in a penthouse by then.

I tapped her icon and scrolled down the contact details. My thumb hovered over the red text. The system prompt popped up on the screen: [ Delete Stella?

This will also delete the conversation history. ] I stared at the glaring red text for exactly three seconds. I hit confirm. The thread vanished. The contact was gone.

But I wasn't finished