I used to think love was enough.
If I just held on tighter, worked harder, smiled wider — maybe they'd finally choose me.
But no matter how many gifts I bought her, how many dreams I crushed to keep her happy, it was never enough. She left when the money ran out.
And my childhood best friend? She always said I was her "comfort," her "safe space"... until someone shinier walked in.
I was always second. Always forgotten.
Even when I died, no one cried for me. No news. No flowers. Just silence.
> It would've been funny if it didn't hurt so much.
> But when I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in a hospital.
I was in a penthouse in Paris — with a name I didn't recognize, a face I didn't recognize…
And posters of me plastered across the walls.