𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ─────⋆⋅★𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝟒𝟑. 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

The world had changed for Suki Monroe, or maybe she'd changed for the world. It was hard to tell when she looked back on the year that'd passed since Drew walked out the door and left her crumpled on the cold marble floor. 

But here she was, everyone's favorite starlet, a name the world knew like a pop anthem, a headline, a number-one hit. She'd given them all what they wanted. Grammys—five nominations for her latest album, The Private Show. Sold-out stadiums on her postponed world tour, a record-breaking collaboration list with everyone from Taylor Swift to The Weeknd to Harry Styles.

She was the darling of the industry now, her name etched in shimmering letters on GQ's "Woman of the Year" cover. Sean Baker had chosen her as the lead in Anora, a role so visceral it had brought her back to the edge every night on set, bleeding memories that felt like thin paper cuts against her already scarred heart. She'd even conquered the runway, gracing the catwalks of Paris and Milan, her body a testament to beauty that could slice through the smoky allure of Miu Miu and Jean Paul Gaultier's avant-garde fantasies.

But the truth was, Suki had burned so brightly for everyone else that she'd started to flicker out for herself. Because despite it all, every award, every red carpet, every critic's quote calling her the "next pop icon," she was still haunted. Still hearing his voice when she closed her eyes, Drew's words echoing back to her, steady, calm, pained: I don't know if I even know you, Tallulah.

Now, a year later, Drew was still that ghost in the shadows, every memory she forced herself to drown finding its way back to her, pooling in her bloodstream like some dark, invisible drug. She'd wake up hungover in her bed, makeup smeared across silk pillowcases, and in the groggy, blurred hours of the morning, the ache of him was back, raw as ever. She was America's sweetheart, but she still broke down at the thought of what could've been. Would she be wearing his ring now? Would they be making plans to move out of the city, into a house big enough for the family he'd talked about so many times when they'd lain together, heads side by side, wrapped up in the quiet kind of dreams?

But those were dreams for someone who didn't exist anymore. Tallulah Rose would never be the one with a closet full of Chanel and Prada, who flew to Italy and Japan and France in the space of a single week, performing for screaming fans who wore her face on their T-shirts and held signs that said they'd die for her. She had been replaced by the Suki everyone else needed her to be—perfectly polished, a little broken, just edgy enough to be intriguing but not so raw as to scare anyone away.

Yet somehow, she had managed to find her way back to life through the music that Suki Monroe couldn't release. For nearly a year now, she'd been writing and releasing songs under her legal name. It was her secret—a small piece of herself she held tight, a piece of her old self she refused to sell. The songs she'd released as Tallulah Rose were stripped down, grungy, far from the polished pop bangers she released as Suki. And what struck her most, perhaps, was that the critics loved Tallulah. They called her an artist, a raw, haunting voice, the antidote to her own pop persona, unaware that both voices belonged to the same bruised heart. They didn't know the irony that it was Suki breaking records and making headlines while Tallulah, the one who hid in shadows, was the one they said held "real talent."