#mazelia

Milo mentioned her on a Tuesday night. It was pathetic, really. It wasn’t a romantic moment, it wasn’t even a big story. You were sprawled on the couch in Milo’s ridiculously comfortable, oversized grey hoodie, sharing a lukewarm bowl of pho you’d ordered in. He was trying to explain the history of a specific prop used in a show he was in, going off on a characteristic, energetic tangent.

“Yeah, I mean– the original director wanted to use that specific kind of, like, textured metallic paint, and I remember talking about it at the time,” Milo said, gesticulating wildly with his chopsticks. “It was before the second episode. My ex was trying to pull the same thing on the set of one of her movies— she was super meticulous about props, too.”

‘She’. Who is she?

He said it the way someone mentions a former neighbor or an old high school teacher. Completely devoid of feeling, devoid of weight. Just a casual, necessary detail in the anecdote. He didn't even look up from the bowl.

But you looked up. You felt the warmth drain out of your chest, replaced by a cold, sharp certainty that the easy contentment you’d been feeling for the last six months, the kind of genuine, messy, comfortable love Milo offered; was a fragile, temporary thing built on quicksand.

You swallowed the rubbery piece of beef in your mouth. "Oh," you managed, your voice flat. "Yeah? Who was that again?"

Milo finally caught your gaze, his brown eyes warm and guileless. "Oh, uh– Charlotte. Charlotte Hayes. She was on that big Netflix show, you know? Blonde, crazy talented." He nudged your knee playfully. "Don't worry, she's like– a walking billboard for All-American perfection. The total opposite of myself."

He laughed, moving on instantly to the metallic paint texture.

But the name, Charlotte Hayes, had already taken root, a parasitic bloom in the soft soil of your insecurity. Blonde. Crazy talented. All-American perfection.

You had known Milo had serious relationships before you. Duh. He was full of pure, golden-retriever charm, funny as hell, and successful. But in the mental ledger of your relationship, the exes were supposed to be shadowy, vague figures— not goddesses with recognizable IMDB pages.

"She sounds..." you trailed off, trying for casualness. "Successful."

"Yeah, she's doing great. We haven't talked in forever. It was a long time ago, Y/N." He brushed the topic aside with an easy wave of his hand, oblivious that he hadn't just mentioned an ex; he’d opened a portal to your personal hell.

That night, after Milo fell asleep face down, snoring softly, radiating the careless trust that made you adore and fear him; you didn't sleep.

You reached for your phone.

Anthropological research, you told yourself. Just a quick peek.

Charlotte Hayes. Jesus, even her name was perfect.

The search results didn't just confirm Milo’s description; they magnified it into dazzling, painful focus. She wasn't just blonde; she was sun drenched. She wasn't just beautiful; she was the kind of woman who looked air brushed even in candid-paparazzi taken airport photos. Her Instagram page was a curated masterpiece of sophistication; stunning premiere gowns, humanitarian work in Africa, candid laughter with other young Hollywood deities.

You scrolled for two hours.

The first pang of jealousy was a dull ache. The second was an insistent, pounding headache.

Oh God, she's beautiful.

Milo had said she was "a walking billboard for All-American perfection." He hadn't been exaggerating. Her smile was blinding. She had those full, perfect lips and a figure; those legendary hips, that looked like they belonged on a Botticelli cover.

You found an article from 2019 about the "It Couple's Summer Romance," featuring a photo of Milo looking younger and utterly besotted, his arm wrapped around Charlotte’s impossibly slender waist. In the picture, they were laughing, sharing an ice cream cone on a beach. They looked like two golden retrievers in love. Pure, uncomplicated joy.

You compared yourself. Your hair suddenly seemed duller, your hips were the wrong shape, your career was far less glittering. You felt cheapened. Like a dimmer second act.

This was fucking ridiculous. You knew it was ridiculous. You were in bed with Milo Manheim, the man who adored every fucking thing about you. He loved you. But your obsession became narcotic.

The next day, the stalking deepened. Instagram wasn't enough. You moved to YouTube. You needed context.

You found old interviews. Charlotte was articulate, witty, and managed to talk about serious issues while still sounding charmingly self-deprecating. You learned she was talented, she’d just won an award for an indie drama. She was good with kids, there was a segment of her volunteering at a children’s hospital, utterly genuine, giggling whilst playing with small children, all clinging to her.

There was a snippet from one of her interviews you’d seen where Charlotte was asked about Milo post breakup. She had simply smiled and said, "Milo is a deeply good person. I wish him all the best." No drama. No shade. Pure, dignified grace. She even speaks kindly about you. 

That politeness infuriated you more than any catty comment ever could. It meant she had truly moved on and was truly happy, cementing her as the superior, evolutionarily advanced model.

You found a fan thread that someone had kept alive for years. Here, in the cesspool of fan speculation, you struck gold, or rather, toxic sludge.

Charlotte Hayes is a Leo, Sun in Virgo. Her foundation palette is custom mixed. She donated a massive sum to a local animal shelter. She prefers Argentinian Malbec.

You internalized it all. You knew her star sign. You knew her blood type (A positive, thanks to a deeply weird forum post referencing a charity blood drive photo). You had seen every movie she had been in, often pausing the screen to try and find signs of the flaws Milo must have eventually seen.

You found none. That son of a goddess bitch was fucking flawless.

The slow unraveling started to impact your actual time with Milo.

He tried to plan a romantic weekend getaway up the coast. "We could get a little cabin, just relax, watch movies," he suggested, his arm lazily draped around your shoulders as you were supposedly watching a basketball game.

"Wait, the coast?" you asked, your voice tightening despite yourself.

"Yeah. Big Sur, maybe. Why?"

You remembered a paparazzi image of Charlotte and Milo from four years ago, laughing on a cliff edge in Big Sur. A photo you had saved to a burner folder on your desktop labeled C.H.

"No. Absolutely not," you snapped, pulling away.

"Whoa, okay. What the hell? What’s wrong with Big Sur?" Milo turned, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"It’s just– cliche, Milo. Fuckin’ everyone goes there. Can’t we be original for once?"

"We are original! We're us! What, do you want to rent a yurt in the desert? What’s the big deal, Y/N?" He sounded genuinely hurt.

You couldn't tell him, I can’t go to Big Sur because I know, based on extensive geological research of grainy Instagram photos, that Charlotte’s perfect feet have trod on those exact rocks, and I can almost feel her presence mocking my mediocrity.

"It doesn’t matter! Just pick somewhere else!" you yelled, standing up and slamming your beer bottle down a little too hard on the coffee table.

Milo stared at you, his mouth slightly open. "Jesus Christ. Fine. We’ll go to, I don’t fuckin’ know– Utah. I don't know what the fuck that was, but fine."

The tension started to permeate the air in the apartment. You were perpetually cranky, perpetually withdrawn, and always on your phone when he wasn’t looking, comparing your current life to her ghost life.

You started analyzing the furniture.

Milo had this massive, ridiculously plush velvet throw blanket that he swore was necessary for his nap efficiency. You often shared it.

One evening, while folding laundry, you picked it up and felt a sudden wave of icy revulsion.

She had slept here. She's been asleep on your side of your bed, and you can feel it.

You threw the blanket onto the floor as if it were contaminated.

Milo walked in, wearing only boxers, rubbing sleep from his eye. "Hey, what’s up? Why’s the throw on the ground? Did Louie puke?"

"No," you said through gritted teeth. "I just– I hate this fucking thing, it’s ugly."

"Ugly? You literally stole this from me last week because you were cold! What the hell is going on with you, Y/N? You’re so stressed out lately."

"Nothing’s going on!" you lied, hugging your arms tight. "I just have a bad taste in blankets, I guess. Go back to sleep, Milo."

"No, I’m not going back to sleep. Tell me what I did! Is it the work schedule? Are you mad I missed dinner Monday?" He was leaning in, trying to connect, his hands reaching for yours.

You flinched away. "I’m fine. Just leave it! You’re so fucking dense sometimes!"

You saw the hurt flicker across his face, but he retreated. He didn't understand the internal calculus: that if you accepted comfort from him, you were accepting the comfort he had once offered her.

The worst part was the fear that he occasionally confused you. You two were physically different, sure, but you knew the mechanism of attachment was slippery.

One morning, you were rushing out the door. Milo reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back for a sloppy goodbye kiss.

"Love you, Char," he mumbled sleepily into your ear, his eyes still closed.

Your entire body went rigid. The blood froze in your veins.

He pulled back, smiling, finally opening his eyes. "Hey, babe. Have a good day."

"What did you just call me?" you demanded, unable to modulate the terror and rage in your voice.

Milo looked genuinely confused. "Uh… babe? Did I say something weird?"

"No. Before that. You called me… Char. Short for Charlotte."

His smile evaporated. He looked stunned, his brain rapidly trying to process the gap between his reality and yours. "No, I didn’t. Are you serious? I said babe. I call you babe."

"Don’t you fucking lie to me, Milo! You just called me Char! You miss her so much you can’t even keep our names straight, can you?" You were shaking now, tears of pure, molten jealousy blurring your vision.

"Y/N! Stop! That is insane! I swear on my life, I did not call you that! Why would you even think that? We broke up four fuckin’ years ago! We don't even talk!" He was defensive now, leaning back against the doorframe.

"Because she’s perfect, Milo! She’s got those fuckin’ lips, she’s the life of every fucking party, she’s talented, and she’s good with kids! And I bet she was easy going, huh? Not controlling? Well-traveled? Well-read? God, she makes me so fuckin’ upset!" The words were torrent, hysterical and uncontrolled.

Milo just watched you, his previous confusion deepening into a look of genuine alarm. "I don't know what you're talking about, Y/N. You are those things. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met! Why are you pulling up the past?"

"Because the past is better than the present, isn’t it?" you spat, wiping furiously at your eyes. "Tell me the truth, Milo. Is she friends with your friends? Does she text them?"

"She’s friendly with a few people, yeah. Why does that matter?"

"And was she good in bed?" The question was out before you could stop it, sharp, ugly, and humiliating.

Milo’s jaw hardened. He took a heavy breath, running a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair. "That is not fair. That is my personal life from before you, and it is absolutely none of your business. But more importantly, I don’t think about her, Y/N. I think about you. I think about our future. Why are you so obsessed with her?"

"I'm not fucking obsessed!" you screamed, although the absolute mountain of evidence on your laptop screens said otherwise.

"Then why do you know so much about her? Why are you this panicked? This is insane, Y/N!"

You stormed out of the apartment, the argument unresolved, the past of Charlotte Hayes standing triumphantly between you both.

Two weeks later, Milo was preparing for a press junket, rushing around the apartment gathering notes and scripts. He was muttering about a difficult scene he had to discuss later that day, a scene involving a character who finds out a deep, personal secret about a loved one.

"I just can't get the motivation for the reveal right," he sighed, dropping his script onto the kitchen counter. "It needs to feel earned, not just dramatic."

You were making coffee, your hands trembling slightly, an occupational hazard of running on 20% sleep and 80% jealousy.

"Well, you know," you started, trying to sound helpful and casual, "she always said that when you work a reveal, the emotional stakes are always higher when the secret involves a fundamental incompatibility, like a food allergy."

Milo looked up, frowning. "A food allergy? What the hell are you talking about?"

"No, I mean, remember how she couldn’t have gluten?" The words were out. They slipped out like small, deadly vipers.

Milo froze. He put down the pen he was holding. The silence in the kitchen was instantly dense and stifling.

"Wait," Milo said, very slowly, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously quiet. "Who are you talking about?"

You nervously stirred your coffee, watching the cream swirl. "I– I don't know. Just actors in general."

"Bullshit, Y/N. Charlotte is severely gluten intolerant. She got sick once on a press trip to Italy because of it. And you wouldn't know that. That’s a detail from years ago. A detail I maybe mentioned once- actually maybe not at all. How the fuck do you know about her gluten allergy?"

Your throat closed up. There was no casual lie, no easy retreat. This was the precipice.

"I’m fine, it doesn’t matter," you whispered, trying to push past him.

Milo blocked your way, his tall frame suddenly formidable and angry. His face was a mask of disbelief and hurt.

"No. It fucking matters. You have been acting like a psycho for a month. You know her star sign? You’ve been asking my friends weird questions about her? You knew about the Big Sur trip! Did you look through my old texts? Are you going through my social media, Y/N?"

"No!" The denial was weak and reedy.

"Then how, Y/N? How do you know such specific, deep cut trivia about a woman I dated half a decade ago if you aren’t completely, pathologically obsessed?"

"Because she’s better than me, Milo! Because she’s everything you deserve! And every time you look at me, I know you’re thinking about the blonde, perfect version of the girl you should be with!" you screamed, the pent up anguish of weeks finally detonating.

"I’ve seen her movies, I’ve read her interviews, I know she’s sweet and kind and funny and she doesn’t throw massive, irrational temper tantrums over blankets and fucking Big Sur!" You were sobbing now, ugly, wracking sounds. "I know her resume, I know her habits, and I know that you loved her! And I’m staring at her like I wanna get hurt, and I can’t stop! I can’t stop reminding myself that she was asleep on my side of this bed before I was!"

Milo didn't shout back. He just stared at you with a mixture of pity and terror. The terror of realizing the person he loved was drowning in a self inflicted, toxic fantasy.

"Y/N," he said, the name sounding heavy and burdened. "You are researching her blood type. You are researching her blood type. This is not normal jealousy. This is sick."

"I know it is! I know it's crazy! But I can’t help it, I have issues, I can’t help it!"

"Do you really think I mistake you for her? I love you! I chose you! Do you think I’m walking around here wishing I was still with her? She doesn’t even exist to me anymore!" He rubbed his temples, overwhelmed. "We were over four years ago! We broke up because we were incompatible, not because she was perfect! She was controlling, she was high maintenance, and she treated my friends like paid staff, Y/N! You are so easy going, you are so loving, you are everything that was missing in that relationship! Why are you trying to turn yourself into her?"

"I just– I just need to know! I need to know the official story!"

"The official story is that the relationship was over, and you are here now!" Milo stepped back, putting distance between you. He looked devastated, not just angry, but deeply wounded by the lack of trust. "I am telling you, Y/N. I love you. And the fact that you think I'm constantly comparing you to her, or that I called you her name, or that I regret this– it’s an insult. It’s a massive slap in the face to everything we have built."

He grabbed his script, his eyes wet but clear. "I have to go to work. I have to go pretend to be a functional human being. But when I come back, we need to talk about this, because I can’t be with someone who is constantly digging up shit from the past and weaponizing it against herself."

He stopped at the door, turning back for a moment. His voice was low and raw.

"I don't think you're in love with Charlotte, Y/N, but I think you're destroying us both by making her your fucking project. Get off the internet. Please. Just– just fuckin’ stop."

And then he left, the door clicking shut quietly, leaving you alone in the suddenly vast silence of the apartment, standing over the spilled fantasy of that perfect, Hollywood-smiling, blonde actress. You still, and probably always will, have her star sign memorized.