For five years, I was head-over-heels for Jonathan Croft, the lead singer of an indie band. When he finally agreed to marry me, I thought my life was complete.

But two weeks before our engagement party, I was in a horrific car accident.

Trapped in the mangled wreckage, I called Jonathan, my voice a frantic plea for help. He never picked up.

I later learned it was because his childhood friend, Violet Thorne, told him to ignore me—to teach me a lesson about being so clingy.

I managed to drag myself from the overturned taxi, but by the time a stranger found me and I reached the hospital, it was too late. The delay in treatment had caused irreversible nerve damage in my right hand.

In that moment, I understood. Some things can't be forced.

The irony? The moment I finally let him go, that same arrogant rock star started camping outside my apartment, red-eyed and begging for another chance—for just five more years to prove himself.

————————

1

I was wheeled into the ER, battered and bleeding, my designer dress in tatters.

The doctor's expression was grim as he examined my injuries. "If you'd gotten here just a few hours earlier," he said with a heavy sigh, "the damage to the nerves in your arm might not have been permanent."

His words barely registered. I just stared numbly at the ceiling tiles.

I would probably never create installation art again.

Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes. A wave of despair crashed over me. Why couldn't I just let go?

What was Jonathan Croft doing right now?

Probably celebrating in the studio after nailing a new track, thrilled that I was no longer bothering him. Maybe he and his producer's daughter, Violet Thorne, were huddled close in front of a mixing console, savoring their private world.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, the movement pulling at the fresh scrapes on my cheek. I was no longer in their way.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Jonathan.

I slowly closed my eyes. It was time to face reality.

Half an hour later, Jonathan stormed into my hospital room, every inch the untouchable rock star, not a single strand of his perfectly messy hair out of place. His gaze was frigid, like he was looking at a piece of furniture he’d grown tired of. "What's this new stunt?" he demanded. "Why didn't you answer? Do you have any idea how many times I've called?"

I stared at him, my throat too parched to make a sound.

"Did you do this just to get my attention? Pull some stunt and get yourself hurt because I didn't answer your calls yesterday? Willow, I told you I'm busy with the new album. For God's sake, can't you be more mature?"

His words stung like salt in my fresh wounds.

My numb heart screamed. He had already condemned me without asking a single question. Even the sight of me lying here, my arm swathed in thick bandages, didn't move him in the slightest.

But I shouldn't have been surprised. He could shatter me with a few careless words because I had laid five years of my youth at his feet.

I could only gaze at him, a raw sorrow choking back any words. Tears welled in my eyes, my expression pleading.

The stark white of the room seemed to amplify his indifference, and the sharp scent of disinfectant felt like a mockery of my own foolishness.

Jonathan had never seen me like this, and a flicker of discomfort crossed his face. "Alright, just get some rest. The art exhibition is next week. Don't be late with your submission. I'm going back to the studio."

"This new album launch is critical for me," he added, his tone final. "Don't bother me."

And with that, he was gone, never once looking back. From the moment he arrived to the moment he left, he never asked a single question about my injuries.

I watched his retreating back, an icy void opening up inside me.

The words died in my throat. This was the man I had loved for five years.

Tears began to fall, hot and uncontrollable. I had been so sure my devotion had finally broken through his defenses, that he had finally started to see me.

So his music was his life, Violet was his muse, and his friends were his family. And what was I?

I used to believe hard work paid off, just like the endless nights I spent in my studio, perfecting every detail of my art. But reality had other plans. So much for hard work. My love was worthless to him.

Then why did he agree to marry me? Why give me that glimmer of hope?

The sun dipped below the skyline, plunging the hospital room into darkness. I curled into a ball on the sterile bed, a deep chill seeping into my bones as my mind replayed the crash. Trapped in the overturned taxi under the Brooklyn Bridge, surrounded by shattered glass and the coppery smell of my own blood. A moment of blackness. The sheer, animal desperation, the certainty that I was going to die.

Before I passed out, I’d called Jonathan. My fiancé. My only lifeline in this city. But he hung up. Once. Twice. The third call went straight to voicemail.

All night, I lay unconscious in the freezing rain. Help never came.

A kind stranger found me at dawn and got me to the hospital. After five days, my body had mostly healed. Except for my arm.

The doctor suggested I go abroad for advanced nerve therapy. I could only manage a bitter smile. I didn't have that kind of money.

I checked myself out and went back to my rented apartment. The small living room was a shrine to him, cluttered with drafts of album covers I’d designed and models of lighting installations for his stage shows.

Five years ago, at a music festival, I fell in love with Jonathan Croft at first sight. From that day on, he became my entire world, the muse who ignited my creativity and shaped every piece of my art.

The entire apartment was saturated with the ghost of him. I had lived in his shadow for so long, I’d forgotten who I was on my own.

The dam of emotions I’d been holding back finally broke, and the flood threatened to drown me. My eyes scanned the design drafts and models scattered across my apartment, and a scream tore from my throat.

With my one good hand, I tore the sketches from the walls, hurled the models to the floor, and stomped on them until they were nothing but splinters. I laid waste to my own creations in a futile attempt to exorcise the pain that had carved a hole inside me.

Then I collapsed onto the floor amidst the wreckage and sobbed until I had no tears left.

Everything was ruined. Everything.

Only one sketch survived my rampage—my favorite. It was framed and hanging on the wall, forgotten in the haze of my fury.

The drawing was from the first time I saw Jonathan at that music festival. He was a supernova on stage, and I was just another face in the crowd, gazing up at him like he was a god descended to earth.

My left hand trembled as I reached out to touch the cool glass. A chill shot from my fingertips and spread through my body.

I froze, fresh tears tracing silent paths down my cheeks.

I wasn't nearly as strong as I thought.

…

Three days later, Jonathan cornered me at an art fair in SoHo. He was livid, his eyes blazing. Ignoring the curious stares of media and collectors, he stormed over to me. "Willow! Where the hell is your new piece for the exhibition? Do you have any idea how important this is for the album promotion? The organizers are making my life hell! If you're going to throw a tantrum, at least have the decency to pick a better time!"

His words, meant to be cannonballs, landed on a heart already numb.

There was so much I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to shove my ruined hand in his face and tell him about the hell I had been through. But in the end, all that came out was a quiet, "Your new single is incredible."

Jonathan blinked, his anger momentarily deflating. "You heard it? Why weren’t you at the listening party? I looked for you, but you were gone."

I hadn't gone at all. It was just a safe bet. With his talent, when he actually put in the work, his music was always a knockout.

I gestured with my chin toward the art filling the gallery. "Do you think they're any good?"

A shadow of melancholy crossed my face. This might be the last time I stood in a place like this as an "artist." I watched the crowd ebb and flow, people pausing before a piece, admiring the creator's vision.

One of the installations was an old work of mine—a kinetic sculpture titled "Caged Bird."

Jonathan rubbed his temples, reaching for my right hand out of habit. Agony, sharp and electric, shot up my arm. I flinched, but he was so lost in his own frustration that he didn't even notice, his grip tightening on my wrist. "Willow, I know I've been neglecting you because of the album. But you know how important this launch is for my career. There's a pre-launch party tonight. Dress up and come with me."

"I'm busy," I said, pulling my hand from his grasp. I met his eyes, my own gaze steady. "Jonathan, let's break up."

He laughed as if I'd just told the funniest joke in the world. "Break up?" He shook his head, his voice softening into that placating tone he always used. "Stop messing around, Willow. I'll come over after the party, okay?"

I tilted my head, considering him for a long moment. "No," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "We're breaking up."

He tried to pull me into an embrace, a move that had always melted my resolve before.

But this time, the second he touched me, I shrieked and shoved him away with all my strength.

"Don't touch me!"

The commotion drew the attention of everyone in the gallery. Every eye turned toward us.

The fragile composure I'd fought so hard to maintain shattered into a million pieces.

I crouched on the floor, clutching my head as a tidal wave of panic crashed over me. All the resentment, the pain, the despair I'd swallowed for him—it all solidified into a raw, physical terror. Everything I had worked for, everything I had been, had popped like a soap bubble overnight.

And the worst part was, I could have been saved. If I had gotten to the hospital sooner; if he had just answered his damn phone; if he had listened, just for a moment…

Jonathan was stunned. He stared at me, frozen in place, seemingly too scared to move closer.

"Willow? It's me. It's me," he said cautiously, his voice soft. "What happened?" He looked like a bewildered child who, for the first time, realized the toy in his hands was well and truly broken.

It took every ounce of my will to wrestle my emotions back into submission. I shakily got to my feet and stumbled out of the exhibition hall. Jonathan followed close behind. "Don't follow me," I said into the cold air, my back to him. "I need to be alone."

Back home, I sat in my small, ruined studio, my thoughts a tangled, chaotic mess. One moment I wanted to scream, the next I felt nothing at all.

I thought I had detached myself, but one look at Jonathan was enough to send me spiraling back into that dark pit of sorrow.

The apartment was brightly lit. I'd started sleeping with all the lights on. The darkness reminded me of that endless, rainy night, of the suffocating pain and the creeping cold. The one lifeline I’d reached for had belonged to the very person who’d cut me off from rescue.

I hated him. But my rational mind knew he wasn't legally obligated to save me. I had no right to blame him for my fate.

But I couldn't help it. He was my fiancé. We were supposed to get married in a matter of weeks. He could have spared me two seconds to explain why he was busy instead of cutting me off. He could have called back when he realized I never came home, something I hadn't failed to do in five years of being with him.

He even knew where I was. I’d told him that afternoon I was heading to a material supplier in Brooklyn. And I had.

The shredded designs on the floor were a testament to my foolishness. My five years of devotion had been nothing but a long-running joke.

When I was younger, I defied my family to pursue a career in art. No one believed in me, so I clawed my way up, all on my own. I had finally carved out a small name for myself in the competitive New York City art scene. I thought I was in control of my own destiny.

But the universe had a cruel sense of humor. It turned out everything I'd built was on loan, and it was time to pay it all back with interest.

I swept my carving knives and drawing tools into a trash can. The remaining drafts went into a black garbage bag, ready to be tossed out with the morning trash.

That night, a friend messaged me a photo. It was Jonathan at the pre-launch party for his new album, a champagne flute raised high in a toast. The message read: [Jonathan just announced his engagement, congrats, Willow!]

My friend was clueless, of course.

He was at a party, celebrating his new album and announcing his engagement. But I wasn't there. So naturally, the media assumed his fiancée was Violet, who stood beaming by his side. They looked perfect together.

The next day, their names were trending everywhere.

"Indie Rock Star Jonathan Croft Announces Engagement to Producer's Daughter Violet Thorne—Wedding Bells Imminent."

The comments were a flood of congratulations, with fans celebrating that their favorite "ship had finally sailed."

That afternoon, Jonathan showed up at my apartment. It was the first time he'd ever bothered to come here.

Perfect timing. We needed to clear the air once and for all.

I opened the door. He paused when he saw the empty, sterile space. "Where are all your drafts? The models?"

"I can't create anymore, Jonathan," I said, my voice hollow as I held up my bandaged right hand.

"What? Are you kidding me? What happened?" He scowled, his tone shifting to one of disappointment, like he was scolding a petulant child. "Don't tell me you're giving up on art just because you hurt your hand. That's not like you. Stop being so dramatic, Willow. The engagement party is next month."

"I know the media got it wrong last night. I'll handle it. But you need to pull yourself together. Look at the state of you. You're coming home with me."

To him, this was all just a performance. My pain was an inconvenience.

I laughed. A raw, broken sound. Tears streamed down my face. "Home? What home? Where is my home? The one you share with Violet Thorne? The whole world thinks you two are getting married. What does that make me? The other woman?"

A deep frown creased his brow, his eyes turning cold and distant. "I announced our engagement. It was supposed to be a surprise. You're the one who bailed, so of course the reporters got confused. Okay, maybe I could have handled the press better, but I'm fixing it. This has nothing to do with Violet. If anything, she's a victim here too."

He was still defending her. In his world, I was the only one being hysterical and unreasonable.

The tears kept falling, but this time, his expression wasn't one of impatience. It was one of genuine confusion.

My voice was frighteningly calm when I finally spoke again. "Why didn't you answer my calls that night?"

"I did. I was in the studio. You know how important this album is to me," he said, dropping onto the sofa and crossing his legs with an air of aggrieved entitlement.

"Stop throwing a fit. I told you I was busy, and you still called three times in a row," he continued, his voice rising in frustration. Then, as if realizing he was being too harsh, he softened his tone. "Look, Willow... I'm sorry. Alright? Is that what you want to hear?"

I just stared at him, my face wet with silent tears. "Was it Violet who told you not to answer?"