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You’re my tear, you’re my, you’re my tear
there was a time where oliver aiku used to love discussing his love life in interviews. for some people all press is good press, and the reputation of being a ladies' man, called anything from a casanova to playboy to straight up rake, rarely upset him. in fact he reveled in it, delight in his mismatched eyes whenever reporters would tease out the details of his most recent rendezvous. models, actresses, the occasional influencer who gave him what she marketed on only fans for free...
he loved to discuss all of it. after all, what egotistical man shies away from discussing his conquests?
but this time, once the subject comes up of who he's been last seen in the media with, all he can think of is you, and your smile, and the loving way you've wrapped your arms around the second-highest grossing actor this year. once lauding his success and status over you, you're far out of his reach, cavorting with stars that out-league him.
he should have seen this coming. he always knew that you were beautiful, after all. even when you cried as he dumped you for easily accessible pussy, expecting that your crush on him since childhood would last for the rest of your life.
oliver breaks hearts, he doesn't get his heart broken.
"so, it seems like you continue to live up to your reputation, with no less than six prominent characters you've been entangled with recently. can you tell us what the rumors are?"
oliver smiles, palm scratching at the scruff on his chin. he remembers that you'd once told him he needed a cleaner image and that possibly started with considering at least shaving for interviews. he hasn't done that today - in fact, he hasn't done anything for you, has he?
"no comment," he jokes. "i don't kiss and tell."
the reporter, a man this time, grins in the way that men who size each other up by how wide they manspread or how big their dick is or how much money is in their pocket does. but oliver's grip on the armrests of his chair tightens. he's begging internally for the topic to change, any way to avoid digging himself into a bigger pit than he already is.
the last time he saw you in person, you were breathtaking. was it revenge that made you truly blossom or is the regret of the fact that he can no longer have you transformative?
"fuck off," you'd said, promptly, the moment you saw him standing at your door in the middle of the night. there was a time, when you were high-schoolers that you only spoke to him softly; there was a time, in your early 20s, where he could simply smile sheepishly at you, pushing shaggy hair back and you'd believe anything he said.
"aren't you happy i came to you first this time?" he'd been quick to answer. the joke doesn't land, and for the first time in forever, you don't even crack a smile.
he remembers telling you he had options, and realizing that in truth, you were always the one who could aim higher.
"you can do better," you remind him of his own words. your face is still made up, you're back from a photoshoot. your career soars and his stays stagnant. he's trying his best, he's not lacking in skill, but for now your star shines far brighter.
he didn't tell you then, couldn't bring his mouth to utter the words, but it's not true.
he cannot do better than you.
oliver grins, and pushes the thought of you out of his mind.
oliver, the man who cannot fall in love, gives the public what they want.
