Fans were tripping over each other to comment.
"Vera is incredible. That piece she and Ferdinand did on refugee children had me in tears."
"I heard they broke up because of the distance. One came home, the other stayed overseas."
"Anyway, there's zero chance Ferdinand would ever go for that influencer. They're not even in the same league."
"Do you think Vera came back to the country for Ferdinand? Think they'll rekindle things?"
I didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was right in front of me.
A journalism awards ceremony. Ferdinand and Vera Summers standing shoulder to shoulder, a trophy in his hand, her gaze fixed on him like he was the only person in the room.
That same trophy still sat on Ferdinand's desk.
Once, while cleaning, I'd moved it a few inches to the left. He'd erupted like I'd committed a crime.
I'd assumed he was protective of the achievement.
Now I understood. It was the person he'd shared it with.
After scrolling through every photo of the two of them, my chest felt packed with something heavy and damp, like wet cotton lodged behind my ribs.
That was a life I'd never been part of.
Ferdinand, bright-eyed and burning with ambition, young and unguarded.