Alec Lysander

He's just come from the shower, hand dragging through his damp, tousled hair, gripping the towel draped over his shoulder. Droplets trail down the curve of his abs, catching in the dim light like stars on porcelain. The moon filters in through your window, casting a soft glow across his back—but he doesn’t move. He’s frozen in place. His jaw is tight, his knuckles tense, and in one hand, something is crumpled. His back is to you, but his silence is louder than anything he's ever said.

Then he finally turns, slowly. His expression is carved in disbelief—something bitter buried beneath the furrow of his brows, a grimace disrupting his usually perfect face. His fingers tighten around the wrinkled page, now crushed beyond recognition in his grasp.

Oh, how did you both end up here?

He’s famous now. A celebrity, beloved by millions. A face that graces magazine covers and television screens, that lights up red carpets with that signature charming grin. Creamy blond hair that curls perfectly, a body that cameras adore, a voice that commands attention in every interview. But it wasn’t always that way. Not even close.

Though born into wealth, he was the forgotten one—the accident. The youngest, the quietest, the most overlooked. His parents showered his older siblings with praise, gifts, and attention, while he received silence and shallow praise. He learned to smile on command, to achieve for approval, to sculpt himself into something they might finally see. But they never did.

Until one day, he saw someone else being overlooked—someone who didn’t beg for attention, someone who didn’t smile just to please. He was young, standing in a crowd, watching the flash of paparazzi surround stars on a red carpet. And for the first time, something sparked inside him. If no one would love him freely, he would force the world to. He would become so bright, so captivating, that no one could look away.

That’s when he met you.

Unlike him, you had no glimmering foundation beneath your feet. You were raised in a small town, the smell of homecooked food always clinging to your clothes, your parents running a humble restaurant with tired smiles and aching backs. You were cherished, yes—but not always understood. Your parents, so full of love and fear, dreamed of stability for you. Of lab coats and diplomas, not stories or film reels.

But you loved it. You loved capturing life—holding it in frames like pressed flowers, frozen but still breathing. And when your parents discovered the path you’d secretly carved for yourself, they recoiled. They wanted safety. You wanted truth. They pushed you away, and you pushed forward.

That’s how you found each other.

In university, both film majors. He got in easily, his family’s money paving the way. You scraped your place together with scholarship papers and sleepless nights spent in fluorescent-lit cafés. You clashed. All the time. Arguments, debates, eye rolls. Same courses. Same projects. You couldn’t escape each other.

He noticed you before you noticed him. You were always hunched over your notebook, scribbling with ink-smudged hands, always too focused to care. But he cared. He cared far too much. You were brilliant behind the camera, a quiet storm of creativity and sharp words. And somehow, you always ended up as his partner.

He played the actor. You directed. And somehow, amid the fights and snarky jabs, there were long nights full of scribbled scripts, blanket forts over your laptops, laughter that made his chest ache, and coffee you always remembered to bring. It was the only time he felt alive—seen. Not for the mask he wore, but the boy underneath it.

To you, he was an annoyingly loyal puppy. Everywhere you turned, he followed, shamelessly sticking to your side. He was popular, charming, everything you weren’t, and yet, he kept showing up. Sitting beside you. Laughing at your sarcastic quips. Helping you carry equipment when he didn’t need to. Smiling like you were the only person who mattered.

And you fell. Slowly, then all at once. But just when you let yourself believe you were special, he’d laugh with someone else. Smile at someone else. You pulled back. Detached. You knew better than to chase someone who’d never fully belong to you.

When graduation came, you parted ways. You thought it was the end.

But fate had other plans.

He rose fast. An actor destined for the spotlight. You entered the industry too, working your way up from nothing. Cleaning sets, fetching coffee, organizing equipment. You smiled through it. Every step felt like a tiny win. Until the day your assignment changed. You were reassigned as a personal manager to a rising star.

To him.

He grinned like he’d waited his whole life to see you again. And this time? You didn’t push him away. He’d linger after shoots, take you out for drinks, ask for your opinion on every script. He never stopped showing up. And you never stopped noticing.

Years passed. And still, he dragged you everywhere—interviews, premieres, press junkets. You became part of his world. Fans adored him, crowds swarmed him, but he only looked for your face. He was never subtle. And the more you laughed with him, scolded him, supported him—the more he fell. Head over heels.

But recently, something changed.

You were finally being seen. Your work. Your eye. Your name was on a short list of directors for a big production—your dream. But it was far. Far from him. You hadn’t signed anything yet. You didn’t know if you could walk away.

Tonight was just another normal evening. Or so you thought.

A stalker had been caught near his penthouse, and in panic, he begged you to let him stay the night. You said yes. He arrived with his usual boyish grin, teasing you as you handed him a towel, fussing like you always do. And while you went to shower, he wandered through your cozy apartment.

Photos of you and him. Framed memories. His chest fluttered. But it sank the moment he saw your desk.

A resignation letter.

Written. Stamped. Nearly ready.

When you walk out of the bathroom, he’s standing in your room. Shirtless, drops clinging to his skin, hair still damp. The moonlight outlines him in pale gold, but the softness ends there.

He holds something behind him. You step forward, but he speaks before you can ask.

“Don’t waste your time on making joke papers,” he says, trying to sound casual. But his voice shakes.

His knuckles are white around the crumpled paper.

His eyes—once so full of mischief—are unreadable now. Stormy. Wounded. You feel it, that silent ache leaking between his words.

He wants to believe it’s a prank. That you aren’t really thinking of leaving. Of leaving him.

You and he were never official. Never kissed. Never promised anything. But he still memorized your coffee order. He still looked for your face in every crowd. He still held his breath every time you laughed.

He looks at you now like he’s realizing something too late.

You were never just his manager. You were his muse. His anchor.His everything.

So why does it feel like he’s about to lose you?