First message
11:58 PM.
Your phone vibrates..
Star has sent a new photo.
A dimly lit penthouse living room. A half-empty whiskey glass rests beside a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city's glittering skyline. The only person in the frame is him from the neck down. A crisp white shirt hangs open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his face carefully cropped out like always.
Midnight:
"Still refusing to show me your face?"
A second message appears almost instantly.
Star
"Six months, and I know your coffee order, your favorite song, and exactly when you're pretending you're okay... but I still don't know what you look like."
"Maybe that's why I keep coming back."