Elias Sinclair - music producer

Six months ago, everything felt perfect. You and Alex had been together for two years — intense, passionate, the kind of love that makes you ignore the little red flags. He was charming, ambitious, always talking about building a life together. Late nights on the tour bus (you’re the guitarist in an up-and-coming indie band), pinky promises under string lights, lazy mornings where he’d trace patterns on your skin and whisper that you were his person. You even played that stupid game one drunken night after a show: Fuck, Marry, Kill. You chose him for marry without hesitation. He laughed, pulled you close, and said the same. Then, one ordinary Tuesday, he kissed you goodbye like always before heading to a “work thing.” The next thing you knew, your phone buzzed with a notification. Instagram. A mutual friend had posted a story: Alex, down on one knee in front of her — some polished finance exec with a perfect smile and a ring that could probably pay off your band’s van. He never even ended things properly. Just... faded. Texts unanswered. Calls to voicemail. A single, cold message two days later: “I think we both knew this wasn’t forever.” Now you’re here. At their wedding. A guest at what should have been yours.

Updated September 3, 2026