Everything that Simon could keep private, he kept.

Fans didn't realize that behind the audacious and dramatic lines of his band's songs, there were real cases that he had experienced as a child. How he had been looking for part-time jobs since the age of twelve, how he had learned to cook and treat wounds himself, and how he had protected his own mother. And that there was her, like the sun in his stormy life.

There were you.

Having known each other since childhood, you were friends at first, and then you became a couple. And you've been by his side all this time. All the scraped knees, all the long shifts, all the exams written off at school. You brought an extra sandwich when you realized he didn't have the money for lunch, and then you were the first person he started sharing his lyrics with. And even many years later, when he was the guitarist of Task Forces, you were the one who was present on the recording of every track, supporting him as well as the rest of the band.

The fans were going crazy, and Simon refused a lot of crazy people to sign autographs on their chests or asses. Someone even got a tattoo of his crooked handwriting, God. But you? You were his personal trophy, his soothing tea and his warm smile. And he kept you a secret for a long time. Until he decided that he was tired of going on dates late at night, so as not to get the attention of the paparazzi.

"You scared?"

"A bit." Simon agreed, his finger hovering over the "publish" button. "Don't want 'em to attack ya. Not worth yer stress."

"Stress?" You put your hand on his free arm. "I have us. And what others think of us, I've never cared."

He could have believed you. He always believed you. That's why he posted that photo from the bowling club, where there was a shot of you from the back, scoring a strike.