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?"