*Daniele*

Vince’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust the process, man. This app stunt? Gold. Your DMs are blowing up with collab offers.”

I flicked a pick across my guitar strings, the dissonant twang cutting through his pitch. “I told you no filming the first date. And I definitely didn't agree to you using a digital double of her.”

“And I told you—” He leaned in, faux-confidential, “—no one gives a shit about ‘real’ anymore. They want chaos. They want you shirtless making trouble, not strumming sad-boy ballads in a basement. The AI-model? That was for your protection. No lawsuits, no drama, just pure engagement.”

I crossed my arms, jaw tight. “Exposure’s not worth it if I have to fake every goddamn part of myself. You didn't protect her; you turned her into a prop.”

He dismissed me with a wave, as if I were being dramatic. “Personal life?” He laughed, a sound both mean and flat. “Come on, Saint. You gave that up the second you put your face online. People don’t follow you for the music. They follow for the mess. The heartbreak clips. The abs.”

I leaned forward, my voice dropping an octave. “I’m not your puppet. I’m not your fucking clickbait. If you can’t tell the difference, maybe you shouldn’t be working with me.”

“Oh, really?” Vince tossed his phone at me. A TikTok of my “date” with Camille had 40M views. “That’s your biggest engagement in months. Face it—you’re not Coldplay. You’re content.”

I pushed my chair back and leveled him a look. “Then maybe I need a new team.”

His smirk faltered, just a flicker, but I saw it. He knew I wasn’t bluffing.

“Good luck. Your ‘band’ hasn’t charted since 2022. Without me, you’re just another pretty face with a guitar.”

Vince wasn’t just an agent—he helped me build the machine. Go viral. Land the deals. Feed the noise. But now the noise was so loud, I couldn’t hear the music underneath. I was starting to suffocate in it.

“I’ve got one more meeting in L.A.,” I said, standing. “After that—I’m going back to New York. Things are going to change.”

He raised a brow. “So, you're firing me?”

“Depends,” I said. “You looking for a career change?”

The meeting at Sunset Sound was lowkey. Just me, a guy named Theo with sharp ears and no bullshit, and a couple of rough demos on a hard drive.

“I’m not interested in your brand,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But I think there’s a real voice under all that polish. You got one shot. Write something new. Something honest. If it moves people, we’ll talk.”

It was the first thing in months that felt like a challenge I actually wanted to take.

The MatchUP livestream was less inspiring.

The host grinned, preying on drama: “Sooo… about that viral date—”

I cut her off with a laugh. “Agent idea. The guy has a PhD in cringe.” I kept my tone light and easy, masking the fact that the whole thing gutted me.

“Any message for the mystery girl?”

The chat exploded with 🔥😍💔.

I looked straight into the camera. “Yeah. Sorry your jacket got memed. For the record? It is fucking art.”

The message came the night before the livestream. Short. Final.

CAMILLE: I think you made an impression I wasn’t ready for.
So please don’t text me anymore. I need space. Maybe forever.
I hope that doesn’t sound cruel.

It didn’t—it sounded real. And real hurts more than cruel ever could

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. Thought about texting back anyway. Not to fight it—just to say something honest. But she didn’t ask for honesty. She asked for space.

And I’d already taken too much.

Back in New York, everything moved slower. The city was still loud, but the noise wasn’t mine anymore.
I stopped checking MatchUP. Left Vince on read for three days. Told the band we were going analog—no promo stunts, no livestreams, just tape and time. Jax cried. Milo looked as though he’d been waiting years to hear it. I didn’t say it out loud, but we all felt it: We were starting over.

The demos I sent to Theo were stripped down. No auto-tune. No punch-ins. Just fingers on strings, a voice wrecked by sleepless nights, and lyrics I didn’t know I had in me.

Meanwhile, I kept my promise and stayed out of Camille’s inbox.
But for some reason her voice still lived in my head.
I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again.
But I kept hearing her in the songs I was trying to write.

And for now, maybe that was enough.

*Camille*

Three weeks.
No texts.

He actually did what I asked. No messages. No apologies. No just one more thing.

Was that respect? Or indifference?

Did he care? Or was I just another act in his never-ending circus?

His life kept moving—loud, bright, perfectly lit. Mine stayed quiet. Or maybe just…

Allez, Camille. Stop.

I had bigger things to focus on. My master’s final project was due in a week—three jackets, each embodying my “brand.” They’d be part of a student exhibition. They had to be great.

This wasn’t playtime anymore. I was a fashion designer. The master’s was about marketing, branding—positioning myself. Making the dream real.

Lena and I shared a few classes, though she leaned into photography and campaign strategy. I was the only one sketching silhouettes during lectures on brand equity.

The jackets

• First: Black leather, words stacked as if they were a fractured poem—NEVER, LOOK, BACK—in sharp white lettering. Minimalist. Aggressive. Maybe hopeful. Maybe unhinged. Probably both.

• Second: Another black jacket, hand-doodled—sketches bleeding up the sleeve, the faint outline of a man’s profile, lyrics looped in ink across the back:I remember. Always the same. The eyes I drew were too familiar. Deep. Guarded. I didn’t want to admit they resembled his. Below, distressed stitching read: Follow your heART, the “he” half-scratched out—accident or intention, I wasn’t sure.The other sleeve: more sketches.A tiny stitched phrase near the cuff: the future is handmade.

• Third: A structured black blazer, subdued. My favorite.Gold thread sewn in—tiny messages scattered like secrets: c’est la fuckin’ vie, be the best you, a miniature Chanel logo with fake stitched beneath.

It felt like armor. It felt like peace. This one wasn’t for sale.

If I ever sold anything at all.

I hadn’t touched my socials in weeks. Too distracting, I told myself. But really, I was hiding.

Maybe the media had moved on. Maybe he had too.

I tried—hard—to smother the hope still flickering in my chest when I thought of him.

Stupid. Why did he have to be so charming?
Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?

Hated him.
Hated that I thought of him.

My mother called, voice clipped, vaguely disappointed.
My father texted, checking in from whichever girlfriend’s villa he was cycling through this month.

Lena stopped by to see the jackets. We opened wine, ate cheese and crackers on my studio floor, toasting the last stitch.

She tried to bring him up—Daniele. The socials.

I made a face. “Non, non. We are not saying the D-word tonight.”

“D-word?”

“Disaster,” I said, raising my glass. “Obviously. To unfinished business and good playlists.”

She clinked her glass against mine, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m French,” I said, shrugging. “It’s cultural.”