"Unrequited love does not die; it's only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded."
— Elle Newmark

⸻

The rumours started with a photo.
Gawin stepping out of a hotel at midnight, shirt wrinkled, someone's hand hastily grabbing his wrist from behind.
Flashlights everywhere. Side profile. Head bowed, hair half-covering his face.
To anyone else, it looked like love just beginning to bloom.

Only I knew —
it was love burning hot,
but not for me.

⸻

6:14 a.m., I received an email from the PR team.
By 7:00, I had finished drafting the crisis response.
At 8:20, I knocked on his door three times, voice steady and low:

"The rumours are spreading.
You need to post something.
Here's what I prepared.
Don't worry — I'll handle the rest."

⸻

He opened the door, eyes still swollen, sleep creases across his face.
His voice was groggy, so harmless you could almost forget how deeply he could hurt someone:

"You're amazing. I'd be screwed without you."

He yawned, then smiled —
the kind of smile born from dreaming about someone else.

"Really. You're too good to me."

⸻

I smiled faintly.
Didn't say a word.
Just walked in, adjusted the air conditioning, charged his phone, checked the magazine shoot schedule for the afternoon while he brushed his teeth.

No one knew that in moments like these —
when he couldn't even remember the name of the person from last night —
I was still there.
With the printed tour schedule.
The contracts signed.
And the iced Americano — no sweetener — from his favourite coffee shop.

Still trying to keep my chest from shattering.

No one knew I had asked the barista to change the beans
because the old ones gave him headaches.
No one knew I kept a spare cardigan in the car
just to drape over his shoulders when he forgot his jacket.

No one knew I loved him.
Not even him —
or maybe he did,
and chose never to say it aloud.

⸻

When he came out of the bathroom, hair still damp,
he passed me, paused for a second, and suddenly wrapped his arms around me.

Not a long hug.
Not a lingering one.
Just a light touch —
like the kind you give a good friend after being helped through a tough morning.

"Thanks, dear friend."

⸻

I didn't respond.
Just stood there.
My heart, which should've broken —
simply... stayed quiet.

It wasn't until he turned his back that I walked into the bathroom, locked the door, and collapsed by the sink.

⸻

I vomited.
This time, it wasn't just petals.
It was blood. And petals.

Two purple carnations —
one wet, one dry.
The scent of iron and flowers,
so sharp it hurt all the way to the root of my throat.

I coughed so hard that blood stained my shirt.
But I didn't feel pain —
only... emptiness.
I wasn't even afraid anymore.

Just sad.
Because the flowers still bloomed so beautifully...
even though the person I loved never once looked back.

⸻

My chest felt like a recording studio after he left.
No music.
No melody.
Just the echo of a voice —
a voice I knew would never be meant for me.

⸻

I remember the moment I knew I loved him.
It wasn't when he sang.
It wasn't when he cried over an ex.
It wasn't when he held someone else's hand and still smiled at me.

It was one late night,
in some old hotel room during one of our early tours.
I had brought him a late dinner. He didn't eat.
Just sat staring at a cold, blank screen,
typing and retyping the same line he couldn't finish.

I placed the food down quietly, packed my bag, and was just about to leave when he spoke:

"Do you think... love is ever enough to make someone stay?"

⸻

I turned around.
His eyes were red.
His voice light, like asking about the weather —
but I knew.
It was one of those rare times he was being honest.

I didn't answer.
I just shook my head.

And in that moment, I knew:
If I could...
I would stay with him,
even if love never made anyone stay.

⸻

That night, he wrote the song that made all of Asia lose its mind.
And me...
I started coughing flowers.

⸻

[Untitled — the song without a name]

Your name was never written in the stars,
But I called you my constellation anyway.
You left before I could finish the line,
But I sang it like you stayed.

⸻