Nothing Lasts Forever

The honeymoon phase didn't end with a bang, or a fight, or a scandal. It ended with a call sheet.

"Four A.M. call time?" I stared at the PDF Parker had forwarded me, the blue light of my phone blinding in the dim bedroom. "That’s illegal. That has to be illegal."

"It’s a lead role in a primetime drama, Cee. It’s basically boot camp with better lighting," Parker’s voice came through the speakerphone, sounding tinny and distracted. I could hear the rustle of clothes in the background—he was packing. Again.

"But we just got back," I said, my voice smaller than I intended.

"I know. But this is the big one. The director said if this season goes well, it could be a multi-year contract."

He sounded excited. There was that electric hum in his voice, the same one I got when I cracked a difficult melody. I knew that feeling. I lived for that feeling. So, I did what any supportive, fake-but-maybe-real girlfriend would do. I swallowed the lump of disappointment in my throat and forced a smile he couldn't even see.

"That's amazing, Parker. Really. You're going to kill it."

"Thanks. I... I gotta go. The car is downstairs. I’ll text you when I land on location."

"Okay. Break a leg."

"Bye, Cee."

The line clicked dead. The silence that rushed back into my apartment was deafening. It was just me, the ticking clock, and the souvenir snow globe from our trip sitting on the nightstand, mocking me with its frozen, perfect little world.

***

The problem with Parker being busy was that I didn't realize how much of my life had revolved around him until he wasn't there anymore.

Not in a codependent way—at least, that's what I told myself. It was just that for the past few months, our schedules had aligned perfectly. Morning coffee dates that looked romantic for Instagram but felt comfortable for us. Lunch breaks between his auditions and my studio sessions. Late-night video calls where we'd fall asleep still on the line, phones propped on pillows.

Now his TV show had started shooting, and Parker's calendar looked like a war zone. Sixteen-hour days on set. Early call times. Weekend shoots. He'd send me texts at odd hours—2 AM selfies from the makeup trailer, exhausted mirror pics with the caption "day 12 of existing on 4 hours of sleep," voice messages that were half words and half yawning.

I was happy for him. Genuinely, deeply happy. This was what we'd wanted—what I'd wanted for him. A lead role in a streaming series that was already generating buzz. Critics were excited. Industry people were paying attention. Parker Imada was officially back on the map.

So why did I feel so empty?

"You're doing it again," Violet said, and I looked up from my phone to find my friend watching me with knowing eyes.

We were at a café, supposedly having a "creative brainstorming session" for my upcoming concert. Instead, I'd been checking my messages every thirty seconds like some kind of addict.

"Doing what?" I locked my phone screen and set it face-down on the table.

"Waiting for him to text back."

"I'm not—" I stopped, because lying to Violet was pointless. She'd known me since middle school and could read me like a picture book. "Okay, maybe a little. But we're in the middle of a conversation."

"A conversation you started four hours ago that he's clearly too busy to continue right now." Violet's tone was gentle, but firm. "Celeste, he's working. You know what that's like."

I did know. I'd been exactly that busy a month ago, rushing to finish my album. Parker had been patient then, sending encouraging texts and not complaining when I took hours to respond. This should be the same thing.

Except it didn't feel the same.

"I know," I said, picking up my iced coffee. "I'm being ridiculous."

"You're being human." Violet flipped through her notebook, covered in concert planning sketches. "But you also need a distraction. Which, conveniently, you have. This concert isn't going to plan itself."

She was right. My first solo concert was in six weeks—a milestone I should be thrilled about. The venue was booked. Tickets were selling. This was everything I'd worked toward.

And yet, all I could think about was Parker's filming schedule and when I'd actually get to see him next.

"Okay," I said, forcing myself to focus. "Concert. Let's talk staging."

We spent the next hour going through logistics. Setlist order. Lighting cues. Costume changes. Violet had ideas for interactive elements that would make the show feel intimate even in a larger venue. I took notes, added suggestions, tried to be present.

"Celeste." Violet was watching me again. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The look you get when you're trying to solve a problem but don't want to admit there's a problem to solve."

I set my phone down again, this time with more conviction. "There's no problem. Everything's fine."

"Uh-huh." She didn't believe me for a second. "How many hours have you been working this week?"

"I don't know, the normal amount—"

"Try again."

I thought about it. Studio sessions every morning. Vocal coaching three afternoons a week. Choreography practice for the concert. Social media content creation. Sponsor meetings. "Maybe... sixty hours?"

"And how much have you been sleeping?"

"Enough."

"Celeste."

"Five hours? Six?" The truth was, I'd stopped paying attention. I'd fall into bed exhausted and wake up to my alarm feeling like I'd barely closed my eyes. "I'm fine, Vi. I'm just busy."

"You're overworking yourself."

"I'm preparing for my first concert. I have to be thorough—"

"You have to be healthy," Violet interrupted. "And you've been running yourself into the ground ever since Parker's shooting schedule ramped up."

"That's not—" I stopped. Was she right? I tried to remember what I'd done in my free time last week and came up blank. Had I even had free time? "I'm just being productive."

"You're using work to avoid feeling lonely."

The words hit harder than they should have. "I'm not lonely. I have you, and Rachel, and my team—"

"But you don't have Parker." Violet's voice was soft. "And it's okay to miss him, Cee. You're allowed to miss your boyfriend."

Fake boyfriend, I wanted to correct. But the words stuck in my throat because that distinction felt less and less meaningful lately.

"I'm being stupid," I said instead. "He's working on his dream role. I should be nothing but supportive."

"You can be supportive and still miss him. Those things aren't mutually exclusive." Violet reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "But maybe channel some of that feeling into your music instead of just... working until you collapse?"

I laughed weakly. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just usually ignore me."

We finished our planning session, and I promised Violet I'd try to get more sleep. I meant it when I said it. But when I got home, I found myself opening my laptop and diving into concert logistics anyway.

If I was busy enough, I wouldn't think about how much I missed Parker.

If I was productive enough, I wouldn't have to examine why I missed him quite so much.

***

Three days later, I added an extra dance rehearsal to my schedule.

"You sure about this?" Maya, my choreographer, looked skeptical. "You're already rehearsing five days a week. Your body needs rest."

"I want to make sure the routines are perfect," I said, dropping my bag by the mirror.

"And you'll be great. You're already great." Maya crossed her arms. "Celeste, I've worked with a lot of performers. I can tell when someone's training and when someone's... running."

"I'm not running from anything."

"Okay." She didn't argue, which somehow felt worse than if she had. "Then let's work on the bridge choreography. But we're taking water breaks every twenty minutes, and if you look faint, we're stopping."

I agreed, and we launched into the routine. Music pounded through the speakers. My reflection moved in the mirror—spin, step, arm extension, drop. Again. Again. Until muscle memory took over and I didn't have to think.

That was the point. Not thinking.

My phone sat in my bag, probably accumulating messages I wasn't checking. Parker usually texted during his lunch break. But if I was dancing, I wouldn't be staring at my phone waiting for those texts. I wouldn't be calculating time zones and shooting schedules and trying to figure out when we could actually have a real conversation.

"Break!" Maya called after forty minutes, and I grabbed my water bottle, panting.

My phone showed three new messages.

Parker: lunch break finally

Parker: [selfie of him in period costume, making a goofy face]

Parker: they have me in the most ridiculous outfit today lmao

I smiled despite myself. He looked good, even in the silly costume. Actually, especially in the silly costume—there was something endearing about how he could make anything look natural.

Me: You look great! Very dashing 19th century gentleman

Me: How's the scene going?

The response came quickly.

Parker: good! it's a romance scene actually

Parker: with Sienna (she plays the female lead)

Parker: lots of intense gazing and dramatic dialogue lol

I stared at the messages. Romance scene. With Sienna Park, the actress I'd seen in the promotional materials. Beautiful, talented Sienna Park who got to spend sixteen hours a day with Parker while I was here, alone, dancing until my feet ached.

Me: That sounds fun! I'm sure you'll be great at intense gazing 😊

Parker: lol thanks. miss you though. feels weird doing romance scenes with someone who isn't you

My heart did something complicated in my chest.

Me: Miss you too

"Ready to go again?" Maya called.

I put my phone away and threw myself back into the choreography. Harder this time. Faster. Pushing until my muscles burned and sweat dripped into my eyes and I couldn't think about anything except the next move, the next beat, the next breath.

"Cee!" Maya stopped the music. "That's enough. You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm fine—"

"You're pushing too hard. This isn't healthy training, this is punishment." She handed me a towel. "Go home. Get some rest. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

I wanted to argue, but my legs were shaking and my lungs burned. "Okay."

I rode home in silence, too tired to even ask the driver for music. When I got to my apartment, I collapsed on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Violet was right. I was using work to avoid feeling lonely. And Maya was right—I was pushing too hard, running from something I didn't want to name.

The truth was, I missed Parker. Every morning I woke up and reached for my phone hoping for a good morning text. Every night I fell asleep disappointed that we hadn't had time to talk. Every moment in between, I was thinking about him.

And that would all be fine, normal even, except for one small problem.

We weren't actually together.

This was fake. Parker was getting roles. I was building my music career.

So why did it feel like I was losing something I'd never actually had?

I closed my eyes, too exhausted to examine that question properly.

Tomorrow, I'd work more. Push harder. Fill every spare moment with concert preparation until I was too busy to feel anything at all.

It was the only solution I could think of.