Chapter 9: F*ck Your Honesty
The fight ignited like dry tinder the very next evening, fueled by the raw wound from the café sighting and months of suppressed pain. Y/N's apartment, usually a modest sanctuary, now felt like a battlefield—dimly lit by a single standing lamp, the air heavy with the scent of stale rain and unspoken accusations. She had barely slept, her eyes puffy and red, her body trembling with a mix of rage and exhaustion. When Jay arrived, still wearing the same jacket from the night before, she didn't even let him sit down."You always lie when it's convenient!" she yelled, voice breaking midway through as fresh tears stung her eyes. The words poured out like a dam finally bursting. "Every single time something real happens, you twist it into 'management' or 'industry friends' or 'you're just insecure.' I saw you with her, Jay. I saw everything. I'm done being your dirty little secret while you play the perfect, charming idol for everyone else!"
Jay stood near the door, his posture stiffening into cold detachment. The charm that had once drawn her in was nowhere to be seen. He stared at her for a long moment, jaw clenched, before responding in a flat, exhausted tone. "Maybe I do lie sometimes. The industry forces you to. But you keep coming back, don't you? Every single time. That says more about you than it does about me."
The words hit like a slap. Y/N's chest heaved as she paced the small space, her hands gesturing wildly. "Because I loved you! I believed every promise, every late-night text where you called me your escape. I planned futures while you were out living your double life. How many others are there? How long have I been the fool waiting in this apartment while you laugh with them?"
The argument spiraled for hours. She screamed about the tabloid, the canceled dates, the way he made her feel invisible and disposable. Jay deflected at first, then grew sharper, his voice rising to match hers. "You knew from the start this wouldn't be normal. My career comes first— it has to. If you can't handle the reality, maybe we really are done."
Yet even in the heat of it, there were moments where his mask slipped—brief flashes of guilt in his eyes, a tired slump of his shoulders. But the apologies never came fully. Instead, he turned the knife: "You're the one who keeps forgiving me. What does that make you?"
Y/N: We're done. For real this time. Don't contact me. Don't show up at my door. Just leave me alone.
She typed the message with shaking fingers while he was still in the room, then showed him the screen. Jay read it, his expression unreadable.
Jay: Sure. See you in a week when the missing hits you again. You always come back.
He left without slamming the door—just a quiet click that somehow hurt worse. Y/N collapsed onto the couch, sobs wracking her body as she blocked his number with trembling hands. The silence that followed was deafening. She stared at her phone, the empty chat a glaring void. An hour passed. Two. At midnight, in the depths of loneliness and self-hatred, she unblocked him, staring at the blank screen, hating her own weakness and the invisible chain he still held around her heart.
The song's lyrics looped endlessly in her headphones as she curled into a ball: F*ck your honesty... I'm the casualty of your dreams. She had never felt more broken, more aware of the insanity of her love, yet the pull lingered like a shadow she couldn't escape. The fight had shattered the last illusions, but the cycle refused to release her completely.
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