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theetherealbloom · 22 days ago

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That's So True

Summary: You write a song about Hugh Jackman because you made it out alive.

Or�� But you know, what you know, and he’s just another dude, ooh, that’s so true.

Paring: Hugh Jackman x Singer F!Reader

Warnings: ANGST, Tiny Fluff, Kissing, Break-Up, Hurt, Homewrecking Allegations, Cheating Allegations (not towards the reader), Good For Her(you) trope, Mean!Hugh Jackman, Gossip, Media, Paparazzi, Crowds, Concerts, Confrontation, Drama, Arguments, Real People Fiction

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Sigh, I saw the news/picture today :,)) *BLASTS THAT’S SO TRUE ON REPEAT* I have ideas hehe. Again, this is all fictional so shhHhhHh I have no beef with Hugh or Sutton. I am indifferent or in denial whatever works LOL.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: That’s So True - Live From Radio City Music Hall by Gracie Abrams

| Main Masterlist |

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when you first met Hugh, seated at a small café tucked into a bustling New York street. The air smelled of roasted coffee and faintly of rain. You were there with a mutual friend, but the moment Hugh walked in, the world seemed to tilt.

He was magnetic in a way that defied logic. His laugh came easily, rich and unguarded, and his charm could’ve disarmed anyone. But you noticed something else—a subtle weight behind his words, the kind of heaviness only someone carrying unseen scars could have.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he said, his smile soft but his eyes searching yours as if testing the waters of vulnerability.

By the time the coffee cups were empty, you felt it—an unspoken connection that left you both lingering, unwilling to part.

Hugh was married then, and you respected that. Over time, your connection deepened into a friendship built on quiet understanding. When his marriage began to crumble, he sought solace in you.

Late-night calls became your norm, his voice weary on the other end of the line.

“She says I’m too distant,” he confided one night, his words tinged with frustration. “Maybe she’s right. I don’t know how to be… enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” you said softly, the sincerity in your voice catching him off guard.

On a particularly stormy evening, he showed up at your door, soaked to the bone. You handed him a towel and a mug of tea.

“My house is your house,” you said gently, watching as he lowered himself onto your couch like a man carrying the weight of the world. “You’re always safe here.”

His gratitude was palpable. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, staring into his tea like it might hold the answers he sought.

Months passed, and his life began to piece itself back together—or so it seemed. He was Hugh Jackman, after all, the man everyone adored. His career soared, but somewhere along the way, he began shutting people out. You included.

Fewer texts. Missed dinners. Excuses that felt like thinly veiled walls being built brick by brick. You told yourself he was busy, that it was nothing personal. But deep down, you knew.

One night, the wall between you crumbled.

You were sprawled on his couch, an old rom-com playing on the TV. For a few blissful hours, it felt like the early days again. As the credits rolled, you turned to make a joke, but the words never left your lips.

His gaze was on you, raw and unguarded. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours. It was tentative at first, almost a question. When you didn’t pull away, it deepened, pulling you into the kind of kiss that stole time and left you breathless.

The next morning, tangled in his sheets, reality weighed heavily on you. He wasn’t ready for this, and maybe you weren’t either. But love doesn’t ask for permission.

The highs of being with him were intoxicating—quiet mornings, stolen kisses, the way he’d pull you close when the world felt too big. But the lows were suffocating.

One night, as you sat across from him at his dining table, the weight of it all became too much.

“I knew this was never supposed to be serious,” you began, your voice trembling. “That we’d end up going our own ways eventually. But I still fell in love with you. I just… I need to know—do you love me, too?”

Hugh froze. His jaw tightened, and his gaze fell to his hands as if the answer might be written there.

“Trust me,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I would love you if I could. But I’m just… not ready. Not after everything that’s happened.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest, sharp and unforgiving. A bitter laugh escaped your lips as tears blurred your vision.

“I can’t love you into loving me,” you said, your voice breaking.

He reached for you then, his eyes pleading. “Please, don’t go. Tell me how I can fix this.”

You shook your head, stepping back. “You can’t.”

His face crumpled, but you forced yourself to hold firm.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you said, half-sobbing, half-laughing as you wiped at your tears. “God, I wanted this so badly. I wanted you so badly.”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, memorizing the way his face looked in the dim light of the dining room.

“Goodbye, Hugh.”

As you walked out the door, the ache in your chest felt unbearable, but for the first time, you chose yourself. And that had to be enough.

LONG POND STUDIO, UPSTATE NEW YORK — DAY

The studio sat nestled in the woods, the floor-to-ceiling windows letting in shards of winter sunlight that painted the room in pale gold. The air was crisp, almost still, save for the soft hum of a guitar and the faint scratching of a pen against paper.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, a heavy knit sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder, and your journal balanced precariously on your knee. The fire crackled in the corner, but its warmth barely reached the icy knot in your chest.

“All I ever did was consider you,” you muttered under your breath, the words raw and jagged, “’til all I could do was consider me.”

Tears streaked your face, but you barely noticed. The pages of your journal blurred as you furiously scribbled down the line, your hand shaking as you wrote it again, harder this time, as if trying to etch it into your soul.

Across the room, your best friend paused mid-chord, her eyes snapping to you. “Wait!” she exclaimed, setting the guitar aside and bounding over. “Say that again.”

“What?” you asked, startled.

“That line. That line,” she said, her voice brimming with urgency. “It’s raw. It’s real. Say it again!”

You swallowed hard, meeting her gaze as you repeated, “All I ever did was consider you, ’til all I could do was consider me.”

The words hung heavy in the air, vibrating with a truth that made your chest ache.

Your best friend clapped her hands together, her grin wide despite the melancholy woven into your tone. “That’s it. That’s the hook.”

You blinked at her. “You think so?”

“I know so.” She grabbed a pen and scrawled the line across a blank sheet of paper, then added, “It’s like... it’s a battle cry. A moment of clarity. God, it’s perfect.”

A shaky laugh escaped your lips. “It doesn’t feel perfect.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” she said gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Because it’s still fresh. But this? This is how you take all of that and make it yours.”

You nodded, though the ache in your chest didn’t lessen. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

The two of you worked tirelessly, piecing together fragments of lyrics, melodies, and memories. Each word felt like a wound reopening, but also like a weight being lifted.

“Think about that day in New York,” your best friend said at one point, strumming her guitar absentmindedly. “When you saw him again. What did you feel?”

You closed your eyes, the image flooding back unbidden. The way his eyes had met yours across the room. The way your heart had stuttered, even though it shouldn’t have.

“I felt... angry,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Angry at him, angry at myself for still caring. And I felt... free, in a way. Like I could finally see it for what it was.”

She nodded. “Then put that in.”

You wrote furiously, the lyrics spilling out of you like a confession:

"Said I was fine, said it from the coffin

Remember how I died when you started walking?"

Your best friend looked at the words and let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s brutal.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “So was he.”

By the time the session ended, the notebook was filled with scribbled-out lines and circled verses. The final song was an anthem of heartbreak and resilience, a mirror of the journey you’d been on.

“Do you feel better?” your best friend asked, leaning back against the couch as the last note faded into silence.

You stared down at the pages, your chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. “No,” you admitted, your voice soft. “But I feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe again.”

She smiled, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “That’s all that matters.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed her.

RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL, NEW YORK — NIGHT

The air in the venue was electric, a crackling tension that felt alive. The sold-out crowd was on their feet, their collective energy buzzing through the walls of the iconic theater. You stepped onto the stage, your acoustic guitar slung over your shoulder like armor.

The spotlight hit you, momentarily blinding, but grounding you in its heat. You adjusted the mic stand, fingers trembling slightly as you wrapped your hands around the neck of your guitar.

“This next song…” you began, your voice clear but laced with raw emotion. You swallowed hard, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the applause. “This next song means a whole lot to me. I wrote it with my best friend during a time when I was trying to piece myself back together.”

The room fell silent, anticipation palpable. You took a deep breath and strummed the first chord, the sound slicing through the quiet like a blade. The band joined in, and the melody swelled, filling every corner of the venue.

You leaned into the mic, your voice low and aching as you began to sing:

"I could go and read your mind

Think about your dumb face all the time

Living in your glass house, I'm outside, uh

Looking into big blue eyes..."

The crowd’s voices rose with yours, singing the lyrics back to you. The familiarity of their energy pushed you forward, your voice growing stronger.

"Did it just to hurt me, make me cry

Smiling through it all, yeah, that's my life..."

Each lyric was a slice of the pain you’d carried, now stripped bare for the world to witness. But you weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

As the song built to its bridge, your eyes scanned the crowd, their faces blurring in the haze of lights and movement. And then, you saw him.

Hugh.

He was tucked away in the VIP section, half-hidden behind the shadow of a curtain. But you knew it was him—the way he carried himself, the way his gaze felt like a physical weight on your skin.

Your breath hitched, your fingers faltering for the briefest second before muscle memory kicked in. Your voice didn’t waver as you locked eyes with him and sang the words you’d never been able to say out loud:

"What'd she do to get you off? (Uh-huh)

Taking down her hair like, oh my God

Taking off your shirt, I did that once

Or twice, uh..."

The lyrics twisted like a dagger, your tone a perfect balance of bitter and defiant. His expression didn’t change, but you saw his jaw tighten.

"No, I know, I know I'll fuck off (Uh-huh)

But I think I like her, she's so fun

Wait, I think I hate her, I'm not that evolved..."

The crowd roared, their voices carrying the song forward as you poured everything into the bridge:

"Made it out alive, but I think I lost it

Said that I was fine, said it from the coffin

Remember how I died when you started walking?

That's my life, that's my life..."

The spotlight shifted, casting you in stark relief against the darkness. Sweat slicked your brow, but you didn’t care. You leaned into the mic, your voice climbing to its crescendo:

"I'll put up a fight, taking out my earrings

Don't you know the vibe? Don't you know the feeling?

You should spend the night, catch me on your ceiling

That's your prize, that's your prize..."

“Mm, bet you're thinking, "She's so cool"

Kicking back on your couch, making eyes from across the room

Wait, I think I've been there too, ooh

Ooh, you've got me thinking, "She's so cool"

But I know what I know and you're just another dude

Ooh, that's so true, ooh, ooh, oh”

The crowd exploded as the final notes reverberated through the theater, applause and cheers drowning out everything else. You took a step back, lowering your guitar as the adrenaline coursed through you.

The lights dimmed, leaving only your silhouette illuminated in the glow of a single spotlight.

Hugh was still watching, his eyes dark and unreadable, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, your chest heaving, before turning away.

This was your moment. He was part of your story, but he didn’t own it anymore.

You had made it out alive.

BACKSTAGE — EVENING

The adrenaline from the stage was still coursing through your veins when your assistant appeared in the doorway, her expression uneasy.

"There's someone here to see you," she said cautiously.

You didn’t need her to say who. The knot in your stomach told you everything.

“No,” you said quickly. “Tell him I’m busy. I don’t want to see him.”

Your assistant hesitated but nodded, slipping back out. You exhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself, but you barely had a moment to breathe before the door opened again.

And there he was.

Hugh stood in the doorway, looking disheveled in a way you’d never seen before. His usually polished demeanor was gone—his hair slightly messy, his jacket wrinkled like he’d been pacing or wrestling with himself.

Your assistant hovered behind him, mouthing, I’m sorry, before quietly shutting the door to give you privacy.

Your heart raced, anger and longing swirling in equal measure.

“Are you trying to make me hate you?” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly over your chest.

His eyes met yours, desperate and tired. “I just need to talk to you. Please.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Talk? Here? Where you’ve ambushed me after a show, where I’m supposed to be celebrating with people who actually care about me?”

“I care about you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You know I do.”

“Do I?” you shot back, your voice rising. “Because it feels like you only show up when it’s convenient for you. When you need something.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, stepping closer. You took a step back.

“What’s not fair is you thinking you can waltz in here and expect me to drop everything because you suddenly decided you want to talk.”

He flinched at your words but didn’t back down. “I messed up. I know I did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to fix it—how to fix us.”

“There is no ‘us,’” you said, your voice trembling. “Not anymore. Not after you made it so damn clear I was never enough for you.”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’ve always been more than enough. I was the one who wasn’t ready, who couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” you interrupted, your anger boiling over. “Couldn’t love me? Couldn’t choose me? Couldn’t figure out how to be honest with yourself and with me?”

He opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of your words had finally crushed him.

You laughed bitterly, wiping at the tears you didn’t want to fall. “You don’t get to do this, Hugh. You don’t get to show up here and act like you’re the one hurting.”

“I am hurting,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “Every day. I think about you every damn day.”

“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” you asked, your voice breaking. “Why didn’t you show me that I mattered to you?”

He stepped closer again, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t know how. I was scared of losing you, of messing things up even more.”

You shook your head, tears streaming freely now. “You already lost me. And ambushing me backstage isn’t going to change that.”

“Please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just give me a chance to explain.”

You took a shaky breath, every fiber of your being wanting to let him in, to hear him out. But you knew better.

“Not here,” you said firmly, forcing your voice to steady. “Not like this. Figure your shit out, Hugh. Then maybe we’ll talk. But until then…”

You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, and turned away from him, your back to the man who had once meant everything to you.

You didn’t look back, even when you heard the door close softly behind him.

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