Chapter 1: The Shadow Behind the Spotlight

Everyone in the business knows I’m the one who’s always chased after Carter Hayes—like my loyalty is an open secret on the red carpets of the Grammys or in the shadowy corners of the Chateau Marmont afterparties.

They joke about it all the time, my name forever glued to his. At every awards show, every rooftop party in LA, someone will nudge their friend and say, “There goes Maya Monroe, Carter’s shadow.” Sometimes the whispers feel sticky, like bubblegum mashed into the treads of your favorite Converse—impossible to scrape off. But I always try to shrug it off, acting like it’s just part of the game. Still, when I hear the word 'shadow,' it stings, a cold shiver running down my spine that I swallow before it shows on my face.

For six years, I poured everything I had into Carter, pushing him to the pinnacle of the American music scene, one sleepless night at a time.

Six years of late-night edits in neon-lit studios, burnt Starbucks so bitter it made my teeth ache, and more greasy takeout containers than I care to count. Six years of fighting tooth and nail for every session at Capitol Studios, every spot on a Spotify playlist, every half-decent sound engineer in LA. Six years of holding on, even when he couldn’t see the future I saw for him.

When news of his relationship broke, the insiders didn’t bother to hide their smirks. I caught a glimpse of a meme on Instagram—a photoshopped image of me trailing Carter and his new flame, with a caption: "Third wheel goals." The laughter wasn’t just behind my back anymore; it was viral, digital, sharp.

People in this town can be brutal. They whisper in the hallways at Interscope, trade DMs full of gossip, crack jokes at open mics on Melrose. Sometimes, I’d hear my name and Carter’s paired with a snicker, like I was the setup to a punchline I never asked for. On the worst days, I’d catch my own reflection in a bathroom mirror and wonder if I looked as pathetic as the industry painted me—shoulders hunched, eyes tired, mouth set in a line too hard for someone my age.

But so what? I’d tell myself, straightening up, forcing a smile I didn’t feel.

I love seeing Carter Hayes when he’s on top of the world—when the lights hit just right and he’s all swagger and talent.

Because in those moments, he looks so much like someone else.

That boy from long ago—the one I lost, the one whose memory I chase in every echo of applause, every quiet moment after the crowd goes home.