For six long years, I, singer-songwriter Ava Miller, built a life with motocross rider Ethan Cole in Austin, believing our passionate relationship was real. My brother Liam, back in Boston, always disapproved, hinting at a future for me with someone else, but I was blinded by what I thought was love.
Then, a drunken slip from Ethan's best friend demolished my world: I was a mere stand-in, a convenient echo of his true obsession, his ex, Chloe Vance. My entire six-year relationship was a meticulously constructed lie; I was just a placeholder.
The cruel charade intensified. He forgot my 26th birthday. Chloe's insidious taunts became unbearable. Then, she maliciously orchestrated an assault on me in a park. When a car hit me, leaving me injured, Ethan, contacted by the hospital, callously dismissed my agony as a pathetic cry for attention. He lavished attention on Chloe, in the very same hospital, utterly blind to her malice.
How could I have been so blind, so utterly disposable? The man I loved saw me as a means to an end, a disposable stand-in until his true obsession returned. My heart was not merely broken, but shredded, consumed by a searing rage and bitter despair.
But their cruelty hardened me. With a scarred arm and a shattered illusion, I packed my bags. Every song, every memory of him, obliterated. I bought a one-way ticket to Boston, ready to claim a new life, even if the path was chosen by others.