35. Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
Lacey
The pain doesn’t fade like people say it will. Instead, it morphs into something deeper—quieter—a constant ache that lives where Nate’s smile used to be. Every morning, I wake up, and for one blessed second, I forget.
Then reality crashes in, and I remember all over again: Nate asked for space. Nate doesn’t want us—doesn’t want me. It’s over. And the worst part is knowing that what we had was real, even if it didn’t start out that way. Somewhere between the fake kisses and real conversations, between the public performances and private moments, I fell in love with him. But I never got to tell him— And now he’s nothing but memories I can’t bring myself to forget.
That first night back in L.A., I curled into a ball on my too-empty bed, clutching a pillow to my chest as if it could fill the hollow space there. But it wasn’t until three nights later that I cried—cried until there were no tears left, until my throat was raw and my eyes burned. But even exhausted sleep brought no peace. I keep reaching for him in the darkness, only to find cold sheets where his warmth should be.
The days blur together in a haze of early call times and endless takes. I throw myself into work, channeling every ounce of hurt and confusion into my character. The director loves it and says I’ve never been more authentic. If he only knew—every line I deliver, every tear I shed—it’s not just acting. It’s the hollow ache of waking up alone, of reaching for my phone only to remember that it’s over.
Each day, I tell myself this will be the day he reaches out. This will be the day he realizes we’re worth fighting for.
But with each day that passes, I realize he hasn’t called, not in the first few days, not in the first few weeks. And now, over a month later, I’ve stopped expecting it.
That’s how heartbreak works, isn’t it? It doesn’t shatter all at once. It dies slowly, fading in pieces until one day, you wake up and realize you’ve given up hope. It’s not a dramatic ending. Just a silent sadness that just replaces the joy that used to be there.
Rachel hovers on set, trying to corner me between scenes, but I’ve gotten good at avoiding her. My new boundaries are clear: I’ll fulfill my contractual obligations, nothing more. No extra publicity. No manufactured moments. No games or PR stunts.
It feels liberating.
“You look different,” my sister says during one of our nightly FaceTime calls. “Lighter, maybe?”
I curl deeper into my couch, considering her words. “I feel different. Like I’m finally playing my own role instead of everyone else’s.”
Mom chimes in from somewhere off-screen. “Have you heard from Nate?”
“No.” The word doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. “And I haven’t tried reaching out either.”
“Maybe that’s for the best, stellina,” she says softly. “Sometimes, space gives people perspective.”
She’s right. With each passing day, the fog lifts a little more. I see now how lost I’d become in trying to be what everyone demanded—the perfect actress, the perfect company princess, the perfect image. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten how to stand up for myself.
The final day of filming arrives faster than expected. I walk off set feeling simultaneously drained and energized. My co-stars organize a small wrap party, but I beg off, preferring the quiet of my room.
Emily occasionally texts with updates about the Wild Band. I read them but rarely respond. The guys are doing well, she says. She never mentions Nate, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.
Scrolling through my calendar, I note the movie promotions and press junkets—the last of my obligations. They seem manageable now, almost simple. Show up, smile, and answer questions about the film. No hidden agendas, no complicated pretenses. I’m more than willing to play my part—as long as no one mentions him. That’s my rule.
My phone lights up with another call from Rachel, but this time, I don’t feel guilty hitting ‘ignore.’
Later that night, I stand on my balcony, watching the L.A. lights twinkle below. A familiar song drifts up from somewhere—one of the Wild Band’s hits. My heart twinges, but it’s dulled now, more of an echo than an ache.
Looking down at my hand, I grimace. I defiantly wear the engagement ring that started it all. I tell myself it’s just to avoid talk, but I know the truth. I wear it as a reminder—of what could have been.
I think about texting him, telling him about finishing the film, about how I finally understand what he meant about needing quiet to decompress. My fingers hover over his name in my contacts.
But I don’t.
Because sometimes, the hardest part of caring for someone is knowing when to let them go.
Instead, I go through the photos I’m not ready to delete, like those of me and the Wild Band. The pictures of us having dinner with his mother. I curiously pull up recent online photos of Nate, zooming in before I can stop myself, searching for signs that he misses me as much as I miss him. But all I see is the careful distance in his eyes, and my heart aches. Raising my head, I take a deep breath and put my phone away. Then, for the first time in weeks, I breathe—really breathe—without feeling like I’m performing for an invisible audience. Turning, I go to bed—alone.
The next morning, the L.A. sunrise looks different, gentler somehow. I’ve just finished my morning run. The quiet exercise gives me space to think, breathe, and just exist without expectations.
Rachel sends over the future schedule for the movie’s press tour. Numerous cities, countless interviews. Before, the thought would have overwhelmed me. Now, I scan the itinerary with clear eyes. I can do this. I’ll take it one day at a time.
“Ready for the movie to be finished?” My sister asks during a morning call.
I smile, genuine and unscripted. “Actually, I think I’m ready for whatever comes next.”
She pauses, and I can hear her concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I will be.”
And the thing is—I actually believe it.
Later, as I put away my laundry, I find Nate’s t-shirt. The one that I kept—the one I couldn’t bear to leave behind. I hold it against my chest for a moment, remembering how he looked in it stretched across his impossibly broad shoulders and his text when he said it looked better on me. The memories hit like waves, threatening to pull me under.
I could mail it back. Should, probably.
Instead, I tuck it into my drawer. Some memories deserve to be kept, even if the story didn’t end as planned. But then I give a hallow laugh. We planned for our fake engagement to end after six months. So why does my heart feel like it’s being ripped from my chest? Why does every song on the radio remind me of him? Why do I still catch myself planning to tell him things before remembering I can’t anymore?
My phone vibrates—a text from the movie’s director. The first cut is ready for screening.
I close my eyes, feeling something settle in my chest. One chapter ends, and another begins.
And this time, I’m writing my own story—even if it doesn’t include my very own prince charming.