The Man Who Can't Be Moved The Script Lyrics

After my song was cut short at karaoke, I found myself back at the song selection machine. I just had to wait for 28 more songs until it would finally be my turn again. The next song was called "The Answer". My boyfriend, John Aldama, and my best friend, Selena Summers, gave each other a look of mild disdain but decided to sing the duet to prevent an awkward silence. Their voices, one cool and one sweet, complemented each other perfectly. Ever since high school, they'd been neck and neck on the honor roll, always vying for first and second place. Even after joining a top-tier company, they'd constantly bicker over projects. Even years after graduation, the people in our high school group chat were still "shipping" their "love-hate dynamic". No matter how hard I tried, I always remained the forgotten third person, an overlooked backdrop. Listening to them sing, I suddenly felt so tired. I no longer felt like singing the song that I had to wait endlessly for. I quietly deleted the song I'd selected and sent a confirmation to the email that asked me to be relocated abroad for work.

I disappeared in the year Sebastian Ferraro loved me most. For thirteen years, he never got an explanation. And for thirteen years, I punished myself by never watching his games, never saying his name, and never thinking about the promise we made in that old hockey rink. Until I returned to this city and saw a faded poster outside the abandoned arena. Sebastian was only seventeen in the photo. He stood at the center of the ice, bright-eyed and fearless, with one sentence printed beneath him: Wait for me past the blue line. That was his promise to me. And I had missed it for thirteen years. Later, I collapsed inside his arena. When I woke up, the boy I had once failed was standing beside my hospital bed. Only he was no longer a boy. He was a professional hockey star. The heir to the Ferraro crime family. And a man whose fiancée was about to marry him. I wanted to tell him why I had left all those years ago. But he looked at me and said coldly, “The past is over. Don’t cause any misunderstandings.” That was when I finally understood. I no longer had the right to disturb his life. So I smiled, swallowed every truth I had kept buried, and booked a flight to New Zealand. I thought leaving was the last thing I could do for him. Until that plane disappeared from radar. The news spread through the whole city. Everyone said Sebastian Ferraro lost control at the airport. He went through the passenger list again and again, screaming my name like a man who had already lost everything.

On my birthday, I found a hidden playlist on Adrian Beckett's phone. It was called "Lost." The cover image was a photo of his ex-girlfriend. He had lost the woman he loved most. In the three years we had been together, Adrian had never once let her go. I was simply the person he turned to when loneliness caught up with him. I was a compromise. I was a habit. Right in front of me, Adrian deleted the playlist, then looked at me and asked in a flat voice, "Satisfied now?" I said nothing. Adrian reached over and gave my hair a halfhearted ruffle. "That's enough. Hayley, be good. I'll take you home to meet my parents over New Year's, all right?" But Adrian, I was going home to have a blind date on New Year's.

For ten years, I have stayed by Maren Hale's side without her formally acknowledging me as her boyfriend. Thus, I become the oldest kept man in Harborfield. After I turn 30, I have asked her to marry me more than 30 times. Each time, she smiles and kisses me. "Reid, I'll marry you when I'm ready," she says. When I'm 31, a car accident nearly kills me. Still shaken, I propose to Maren. She tells me to wait a little longer. By the time I'm 33, a doctor warns me that my kidney function is declining. I wave the diagnosis report in front of her and press for marriage. Yet, she still tells me to wait. While I wait for her, the sun rises and sets over Mount Carlisle more than 3,600 times. Finally, I think she is ready. Holding back tears, I promise my seriously ill father that he will live to see me get married. What I don't know is that Maren is not opposed to marriage. It's just that the ten years she spends fooling around with me are nothing more than an act of rebellion against her mother, who has driven away her former fiancé. Before the banquet, I see the ring I give Maren inside her handbag. I think she is finally going to accept my proposal. Nervous and hopeful, I wait the entire evening. But just moments ago, during a game of dare, she casually tosses the ring to a male model she has just met. "The kid is turning 20. A pink diamond suits him perfectly. Next time, I'll have an emerald one made for us." The entire room bursts into laughter. I laugh along with them. "Don't bother," I said. "Someone else already has a rock waiting for me, and I said yes."

I went to my best friend's place for her birthday, and out of nowhere, she started complaining. "I'm so jealous of you," she said. "Your boyfriend has basically no sex drive." "Mine's the complete opposite. He wanted it seven times last night. I was crying so hard I lost my voice, and he still wouldn't stop." I gave her a sympathetic smile. "That just means he's crazy about you. Unlike mine—he's practically celibate. Like a monk." She raised an eyebrow, casually stroking the two-million-dollar ruby bangle on her wrist. "He's not bad," she said, a hint of smugness in her voice. "He was with his ex for five years, but he still chose to marry me behind her back. He was so afraid she'd push for marriage that he faked going bankrupt and told her he had ALS. "The girl wouldn't let go, though. She sold her blood, her kidney—whatever it took—to scrape together money for his treatment. "She was working the graveyard shift at a factory, while he and I were fooling around in a twenty-million-dollar villa." I froze. To help my boyfriend Nathan Whitley pay for his ALS treatment, I had done all of those things. Before I could even process it, the door opened, and a tall, sharply dressed man walked in. "Babe," he said, "I got that strawberry flavor you like. How about wearing that silk nightie tonight?" Our eyes met. I stood there, frozen in shock, a chill running down my spine. It was Nathan Whitley—the man who was supposed to be broke, bedridden, and dying of ALS.

I married him when he couldn’t even open his eyes. Four years I sat beside Evanthe Blackwood’s bed. Keeping him alive while his family held their breath. The marriage was a contract. A legal arrangement. Nothing more. Nobody warned me that four years of silence could break a person open. Nobody told me that loving a man who couldn’t reject you was the most dangerous kind of loving there was. Then he woke up. He looked at me like I was a stranger who had broken into his house. To Evanthe I was an opportunist. A woman who had married a helpless billionaire for his name and his money. He decided who I was in the first five minutes and nothing I did was ever going to change that. He kept me anyway. For the heir clause. For the contract. Never for me. I should have left then. Instead I stayed and I hoped and I let myself believe that maybe underneath all that coldness something real was trying to get out. Then Sena came back. His first love. And I watched him look at her the way he had never once looked at me. So I left. No tears. No confrontation. Just his ring on the desk and my signature on the divorce papers. What he didn’t know was that I didn’t leave alone. Now he’s found me. Three years later. Standing at my door with regret all over his face and my daughter’s eyes staring back at him. But is sorry ever really enough?