The city felt colder that week.
Not because of the weather, but because everything around Clara seemed to have dimmed. The buzz that had followed the interview had turned into a roar headlines, tweets, photos, endless commentary. At first, it had been praise. Adrian's honesty had touched people. His vulnerability had trended for two days.
But then the story shifted.
The gossip sites began posting grainy photos: Adrian stepping out of a hotel, late at night, beside a tall woman with glossy hair and a camera-ready smile. Her name was everywhere Lila Dane, model, actress, social-media favorite. The captions wrote the story for the world to believe:
> "Adrian Cole Reunites with Secret Flame!"
"Mystery Woman Comforts Singer After Emotional Interview."
Clara didn't believe it. Not at first.
She told herself it was old, or staged, or meaningless. She told herself Adrian would explain, that the world was cruel enough to invent anything for clicks.
But by the third day, even his silence began to sound like confirmation.
At the office, whispers followed her. Someone's phone screen glowed with a photo of Adrian and Lila at a restaurant a single image that looked too natural to be coincidence. The laughter from the corner cubicle died when Clara walked past.
She lasted an hour before slipping outside. The air bit at her cheeks. She scrolled through the notifications she'd been trying to ignore: messages from friends, sympathy texts from coworkers, and one headline that made her stomach drop
> "Cole's Team Confirms PR Collaboration with Lila Dane for New Album Rollout."
Her breath caught. PR collaboration. That meant someone had arranged this. It meant the photos were no accident.
That night, the city glowed beneath her window glittering, indifferent. She sat on her bed staring at her phone, at Adrian's name on the screen.
Finally, she typed:
> "I saw the photos. Should I believe them?"
She waited. The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then vanished.
Minutes passed. Then her phone buzzed.
> Adrian: It's not what it looks like. Please don't shut me out.
She stared at the words until they blurred. Her heart wanted to believe him. Her head whispered that the truth shouldn't need convincing.
She didn't reply.
The next evening, his car was outside her building. He was leaning against it, hood pulled up, hands buried in his pockets. The sight of him twisted something inside her. He looked tired not the crafted exhaustion of celebrity, but something hollow.
"Clara," he said when she stepped closer. His voice cracked on her name.
She didn't speak.
"They made me do it," he said quickly. "My manager thought the interview made me look soft. He said the story needed balance something to 'redirect the narrative.' They hired Lila. It was a photo shoot, staged to look real. I didn't touch her, Clara, I swear"
"Then why didn't you tell me?" she asked quietly.
His mouth opened, then closed. The answer didn't come.
"I wanted to protect you," he said finally. "The less you knew, the less the press could twist."
She shook her head slowly. "You don't protect someone by keeping them in the dark, Adrian."
The silence between them felt heavier than shouting.
He stepped closer, but she took a small step back. "I just need to think," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Think about what?" he asked, desperate.
"About whether I can keep doing this," she said. "Because every time I start to trust what we have, the world turns it into a story I don't recognize."
He looked as if he wanted to argue, to beg, but he didn't. His shoulders sagged. "Clara, I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know," she said softly. "That's what makes it hurt more."
The hallway light flickered as Clara stood by the door, coat folded over one arm. The apartment felt too still, like it was holding its breath. Adrian was across the room, motionless. Between them, the distance seemed wider than it had ever been.
"I don't want to walk away angry," she said quietly. "I just can't stay when I don't know what's real anymore."
Adrian ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. "You are what's real, Clara. You're the only part of all this that makes sense."
She wished that were enough.
Outside, the sound of rain began soft at first, then steady. She looked at the window, watched the droplets race each other down the glass, and felt something inside her match their slow descent.
"I used to think fame was noise," she murmured. "But it's silence that's louder. The silence after the world decides what to believe."
He crossed the room halfway, stopped. His voice was rough. "If I could tear it all down the lights, the cameras I would. Just to keep you."
Clara's throat tightened. "But you can't. And maybe that's the point."
For a long moment, neither moved. The city glowed behind them, a collage of distant colors. She reached for the doorknob. His breath hitched.
"Clara," he said softly, "please don't let them win."
She turned to him, eyes glassy. "This isn't about them, Adrian. It's about me needing to breathe."
The latch clicked. She stepped into the hallway, her reflection briefly caught in the mirrored panel then gone. The door closed with a sound that felt final.
Adrian stood in the empty space she'd left behind. The rain outside deepened, wrapping the city in a low hum. He walked to the window, pressing his palm against the cold glass, tracing the trails of water as if he could reach her through them.
His phone lit up with notifications messages from his manager, from PR, from Lila's team confirming that "the narrative was under control." He silenced them all.
The apartment smelled faintly of her coffee and the lavender soap she used. He sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing.
For the first time in years, there was no music in him. No words. No melody that could turn this into something beautiful.
He whispered her name once, as if saying it aloud might keep her near. The sound dissolved into the quiet.
Later, when dawn began to edge over the skyline, Adrian was still awake. The city outside had resumed its noise, oblivious. He opened his notebook the one he'd kept hidden under the couch. On the first blank page he wrote:
> Unwritten Apology for her
Then, below it, a single line:
> Some storms don't break things; they just show you what was never anchored enough to stay.
He stared at the words until the ink blurred, until exhaustion finally pulled him under.