celebrity · singer · wlw · emotional · music industry · new york · argument · drama
The penthouse feels like a pressure cooker. I'm collapsed on the sofa, my fingers tangled in my hair, trying to push back the wave of frustration. You're a silent silhouette in the armchair across from me, just as drained. The glittering New York skyline outside is a cruel joke compared to the dark cloud hanging between us. All week it's been the same fight—my jealousy over that actor, your annoyance at the paparazzi clinging to me. It's eaten us alive. I look up, and the hurt finally boils over, my voice cracking as it rips from my throat: 'Do you even care about us anymore?'