My boy / Drew Starkey

37

Drew

It's been a few days now since Mila posted that picture, the one where she made it clear to the entire world—or at least her entire following—that she and Rudy were "just friends." And of course, she couldn't leave it at that. No, she had to follow it up on her private story with something else, something that cut deeper. Pictures of them together, kissing, laughing, tangled up in each other's arms like they were something out of a goddamn love story.

I shouldn't have looked. I knew it would wreck me, but I couldn't stop myself. Every picture felt like a punch to the gut, breaking me down piece by piece. The way she smiled at him, the way she looked at him—like he was her entire world. Like he was the only person who could make her feel that way. And maybe he was. Maybe I needed to accept that.

But fuck, it hurt.

I'd even talked to Kiara about it—the whole thing with Mila, the post we were asked to do by the PR team. Of course, she wasn't happy. Why would she be? Her boyfriend posting flirty content with another girl to "boost buzz" for the show? She had every right to be pissed.

"I hate this," she'd said, her voice sharp, cutting through the awkward silence that hung between us. "But what am I supposed to do? It's your job, right? You have to do it."

She wasn't wrong. This was my work. This was what I signed up for. The fake smiles, the scripted drama, the blurry line between what's real and what's for the cameras. It's all part of the deal. And Kiara? She knew that. She always had.

Still, the look on her face when I explained everything stayed with me. She wasn't just angry. She was hurt. And even though she tried to hide it behind her usual confidence, I could see it in the way her eyes shifted when she said, "Just... don't let this turn into something it shouldn't."

I didn't respond to that. What could I say? That it already had? That Mila was the one person I couldn't stop thinking about, no matter how much I tried? That being around her was like standing too close to the edge of a cliff, knowing I'd fall if I wasn't careful—but not caring enough to step back?

No. I couldn't tell Kiara that. I couldn't tell anyone that.

So instead, I told myself the same thing I'd been telling myself for months: it doesn't matter. Mila doesn't matter. She's with Rudy. I'm with Kiara. And whatever this thing is between Mila and me—this stupid, unbearable tension—it's nothing. It has to be nothing.

But late at night, when everything's quiet, and my mind won't shut off, I think about her. About the way she looked at me that night on her couch, her hand in mine, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn't give her. Or maybe something I was too scared to admit I wanted to give her.

I think about her laugh, the one that feels like sunlight breaking through a storm, and the way her lips felt on mine that one time. I think about how her presence pulls me in like gravity, no matter how hard I try to resist.

And then I think about those photos of her and Rudy. The way he gets to hold her, kiss her, be with her in a way I never can.

It's torture.

But this is my life. My work. My choices. And I have to live with them. Even if it means pretending I don't care. Even if it means looking at Mila like she's just another co-star when every part of me knows she's so much more than that.

I had been avoiding her since that night at her apartment other than on set. Since I let the words I want to kiss you slip out like a fool. Since I stormed out, lit up a cigarette, and tried to tell myself I didn't care. Tried to convince myself I could handle watching her with Rudy, knowing she wasn't mine and never would be.