I sniff, trying to steady my breathing, but the tears keep falling, hot and relentless. My heart races, aching in a way that feels physical—but I know it’s not. It’s emotional. Heavy. Suffocating.

I wipe my cheeks with the sleeves of my sweatshirt just as the door to the suite clicks open. Footsteps echo softly against the floor and through my blurred vision, I lift my head enough to see who it is. It’s you. I quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by my lap—as if the crumpled fabric of the blanket is more captivating than the girl I love.

“So, me and Louis were doing this hilarious resear—” Your voice is light, playful, still laced with laughter—until it isn't.

You stop mid-sentence. You’ve always been able to read me too well. A year of dating will do that.

We met through a mutual friend. You were still finishing school, balancing homework and a growing following online. Something clicked between us, we talked endlessly. We were alike in too many ways—ambitious, stubborn, hopeful. After just two dates, I asked you to be mine and since then, we’ve barely spent a day apart.

You come with us on tour now, filming vlogs, posting updates, connecting with your fans. You're more famous than ever and I couldn’t be prouder. But with the spotlight comes the shadows. I look up again, my teeth tugging on my trembling bottom lip. The words I heard outside the hotel keep playing on a loop in my head—words from fans, from strangers, from people who think they know us.

Does your girlfriend know you’re seeing other girls? You’re ugly. I hate you. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve her.

Your eyes meet mine, full of worry, and I try to smile. It’s weak—just a flicker of a lie.

“I’m fine,” I say quietly. “It’s nothing. Just…” I trail off, shrugging like that makes it easier.

“Sometimes I just want to be with you and… disappear,” I whisper, fingers nervously twisting the edge of the blanket between them.