PROLOGUE. SO MUCH FOR MY HAPPY ENDING

June 3rd 2012

"Mitchie you've got to see this." For half second I actually thought she was about to show me something important. The urgency in her voice made it sound like somebody had been shot. Then I saw the headline, 'Shane Gray quits music'. I was tempted to just roll my eyes and walk away but Emma looked close to tears.

So I stayed.

I sat down next to her, scanned the article to take in the basic facts. Connect Three had officially split two years ago. Nate Porter, the bastard, had gone off and had a solo career. The other one, Jacob or Jason or something, had gotten married and disappeared off the face of the Earth. Shane had gotten into drugs, gone to rehab, gotten married, released a terrible solo album, cheated on his wife, gotten divorced, and collapsed on stage.

Most people had given up on his releasing anything decent after the first album. Most fan girls had given up after he'd collapsed. There had still been a few, Emma included, who thought he'd release a second album. Emma was possibly the only person, in the world, who loved every track on the first album. For the first few weeks of us sharing a room she had insisted on playing the damn thing on loop every evening.

She still doesn't know who stole it.

Emma's sobs brought me out of my thoughts. I've never been able to watch anyone cry. Normally I'd just walk away, let her deal with it. With Emma I had to share a room with her, so I played the sympathetic friend, telling her how terrible it was and how he'd probably end up doing acting or something.

"You really believe that?" Emma asked, wiping her eyes, looking up at me with hope. It was pathetic really, a twenty year old woman acting like an eight year old girl over Shane Gray. Shane Gray, a manipulative liar who can't sing for the life of him. That's a lie. He can sing. He can sing extremely well. He's still a manipulative liar.

I felt Emma looking at me, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah," I told her, hoping to seem plausible. "I think he'll do something else." Which, to be honest I did think, I just hoped it wouldn't happen.

January 2nd 2016

Chelsea doesn't believe me. I don't blame her. I never wanted to tell her but it'd had just come out. So now I'm looking through a box I've never been able to throw out but have always wanted to, trying to find a good enough picture of us. Good enough proof.

Yesterday, New Year's Day, early morning. We'd just gotten back to the apartment we share after Emma's disaster of a New Year's party. She'd invited all her soppy girl friends from Texas or wherever the hell she's from. They'd all sat around being incredibly cliquey, talking about High School and Connect Three and the, oh so wonderful, Shane Gray.

We'd talked about him as we'd walked home, me and Chelsea. Laughing about the terrible job he'd done commenting on the London 2012 Olympics. That had been just before he'd disappeared. He hadn't been to a celebrity event in three years. I used to think he lived on those things.

As we'd talked I'd started to think about him, just the thought was bringing up memories I'd been squashing for eight years. I'd started to get this feeling that I wanted to say something, tell Chelsea about that summer. I'd almost managed to get rid of the feeling when she comes out with, "I wonder what happened that time he went back to Camp Rock?" and before I could stop myself I was speaking,

"He met me."

April 12th 2017

I've always hated waiting for interviews. Sitting there doubting yourself, with the horrible sinking feeling that comes the moment you think of the interview that's about to happen. This waiting is worse than for most interviews. I need this job. Desperately need it. I'm running out of money fast and I can't find anyone to share an apartment with.

That's mostly my fault. I can't stand most people. I wanted to kill Emma, my room mate in college, after two weeks. The only person I've ever been able to stand living with is Chelsea but as she's off at Med-School in Northern California and I'm stuck in Los Angeles, the last place I ever thought I'd end up, that option is out of the question.

"What ya listening to?" asks the overly perky girl sitting next to me. When I stare at her blankly she gestures towards the IPod, sitting in my lap, music had been abandoned to worrying a long time ago.

"Beyoncé." I muttered, picking a random singer, I couldn't be bothered to actually remember who I had been listening to. I throw a faked smile in her direction and return the question, "How about you?"

"Connect Three." Her enthusiasm is sickening. How old is she? Twelve? She looks about my age but she can't be. No twenty-five year old would still be listening to them. Her face falls as I scowl at the name.

"Not a fan then?" She asks, still irritatingly perky. If I punched her would I still be able to get this job? Probably not.

"You could say that."

She looks like she's going to say something else. For her sake I hope she doesn't. People like her remind me of the way I used to be, so happy and enthusiastic. She'll learn that there's nothing to be happy about. Especially here, in Los Angeles. Here you're either a fighter or victim. Ten years ago I vowed to never be the victim again. It was a good descision. I'm going to have to fight for this job.

"Michelle Torres?"

Show time.

June 4th 2017

She's got to pick up. I don't think I'll be here tomorrow if she doesn't. I can't do this without her. She's always been my rock, the person I'll turn to when everything's messed up.

"Mitchie?"

I can't do this. I can't tell her. Not without crying. I don't want to cry. That'll make me the victim.

"Mitchie what's wrong?"

I don't want to be the victim.

"I told him."

"and?" I can hear the concern in her voice. She knows something's wrong. She always knows.

"He's gone."

I can hear her on the other end. Telling me that it'll be ok. Telling me he's an idiot. Telling me he'll regret this. I can hear her but I'm not listening. This is reminding me of the last time I felt like this. Reminding me of him.

That's when the tears fall.