Page 109 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

She’s gone—she left. A cold rush of disbelief sweeps through me, freezing me in place. My mind fights against the reality of it, searching for any sign that I’m wrong. That she’ll walk through the door any second, rolling her eyes at me for being so dramatic. But the house is empty. My chest tightens with a sharp pang of regret, the kind that settles deep in the bones. I told her I needed space—but I never meant for her to disappear from my life completely.

I move through the house in a daze, taking in every missing piece of her. The bathroom counter looks sterile without her skincare bottles taking up room on the counter.

The silence is deafening.

When I told her I needed space, I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean for her to leave. I call her name, my voice hoarse from lack ofsleep. No answer. I check the living room and the kitchen. No sign of her.

As I turn to leave, I notice her pink princess coffee mug is gone; she took it with her, and my blood runs cold.

I trudge wearily back upstairs and sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the space where she slept, where she curled up beside me. The sheets are still faintly rumpled, the only proof that she was ever here at all.

I lie down and hug her pillow, pressing my face into it, my heart pounding in my chest. Her scent lingers—light, familiar, devastating. My throat tightens, and for the first time in years, I feel something dangerously close to breaking.

A memory flashes—her laughter ringing through the house as she raced barefoot up the stairs, teasing me about my terrible taste in clothing. Yet she’d steal my shirts and wear them like they were her favorites. This house, once a quiet refuge, had become something warmer, something alive with her in it. And now, without her, it feels empty, like a shell of what it once was.

Sleep drags me under before I can stop it, but even in my dreams, she’s gone, and I’m all alone with nothing but my anger and arrogant pride.

Tonight’s venue is packed—some arena in Chicago, or maybe it’s Detroit. They all blur together now. The crowd roars as I take my place behind my drums, but my eyes still scan the wings of the stage, searching for a flash of dark-colored hair, a glimpse of that smile that lights up everything.

But she’s not here. Of course, she’s not. She’s back in L.A., hard at work, living her dream.

The stage lights blind me. The crowd’s roar drowns out every thought in my head. My sticks crash against the drums, each beat a sharp, precise explosion. The music pulses through my veins, through every muscle, every nerve—But it doesn’t reach me. Not like it usually does.

Not like it does when I know she’s there, watching.

I grit my teeth and force it out of my mind, throwing myself into the music. If nothing else, I can control this. The band is tight tonight—Cass’s voice is raw, emotional, and perfect. Luke and Vince are locked in, Sam’s bass vibrating through the stadium like a heartbeat.

And me?

I beat the hell out of my kit like it owes me something.

Channeling everything into my playing, I let the rhythm consume me. Each hit of the drums is her name. Each crash of the cymbals is the echo of her laugh.

Luke shoots me a look—half concern, half admiration. He knows. They all do.

I twirl my sticks, muscle memory taking over as we launch into the next song. My body knows the rhythm, even if my mind is a month in the past, remembering the last night I had her in my bed.

The way she’d traced the tattoos on my chest, her fingers following the patterns until I couldn’t take it anymore. How she’d gasped when I rolled her beneath me, her skin flushed and perfect in the moonlight. The way she’d whispered my name like a prayer when I...*

“Yo, Nate!”

Luke’s voice snaps me back to reality. I’ve missed my cue. Fuck.

I jump back in, but the damage is done. Sam shoots me a look over his shoulder, his fingers never missing a note on his bass. Vince covers smoothly with a guitar riff, but I can feel their concern radiating across the stage.

The rest of the set passes in a blur. I focus on the drums, on the physical act of playing, trying to drown out the memories with pure percussion. But she’s there in every beat, in every rest, in every moment of silence between songs.

I push harder, hitting the drums with a force that vibrates through my bones, but it still doesn’t drown out the ache in my chest. I keep my head down, avoiding my bandmates’ glances,knowing they can sense it—the missing piece. The weight dragging me down.

By the time the set ends, sweat is dripping down my back, my breath coming fast as I grip my sticks like they’re the only things tethering me to reality.

The final song crescendos into chaos as Luke finishes—lights flashing, the crowd screaming, hands raised in the air. And still, my chest is too tight, my pulse too erratic, my head somewhere else… somewhere with her.

I slam my sticks down on the snare one last time, panting as the sound reverberates through the arena. Cass steps up to the mic, tossing a sweaty grin at the audience.

“Thank you, Detroit!” Cass’s voice booms through the arena as the song ends. The crowd screams back, a wall of sound that used to fill me up. Instead, it just feels hollow. Empty.

Like everything else since she left.

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