The first thing you learn about touring with Elizabeth Olsen is that it’s loud.

Not just the crowds or the cameras—but the constant movement. Airports blur together. Hotel hallways all smell the same. Your phone never stops buzzing. And somehow, through all of it, Elizabeth stays grounded… mostly.

You’re standing just offstage at a press junket in London when she reaches back without looking and finds your hand. It’s automatic, instinctive, like she’s been doing it forever.

“You good?” she murmurs, lips barely moving as the host finishes an introduction.

“Yeah,” you say. “You?”

She exhales through a smile. “Ask me again in ten minutes.”

The lights hit her the moment she steps forward. Elizabeth Olsen—poised, warm, magnetic. You watch from the side as she laughs at the right moments, answers questions with ease, deflects the intrusive ones gracefully. To everyone else, it looks effortless.

You know better.

Backstage afterward, she drops into a chair, shoulders slumping. “I forgot how exhausting this is,” she admits, kicking off her heels. “I’m talking so much I can hear my own voice in my head.”

You hand her a bottle of water. “You were great.”

She looks up at you, really looks. “Thanks for coming with me. I don’t think I could do this alone again.”

That night, the hotel window frames the city in gold. You sit on the floor eating room-service fries, her hair still half-done from the event.

“Do people ever treat you differently?” you ask. “Because of… all this?”

“All the time,” she says honestly. “They think they know me. Or they only see the version of me they want.” She nudges your shoulder. “You’re the one place that feels normal right now.”

The tour moves fast—Paris, Berlin, New York. Red carpets where you stay just out of frame. Interviews where reporters start noticing you.

“Who’s that?” “Are you together?”

Elizabeth doesn’t dodge it.

“This is my person,” she says simply during one interview, glancing at you with a smile that feels private despite the cameras.

Online, people speculate. Some adore you. Some don’t. You read less. Elizabeth reads none.

“I don’t need strangers deciding how I feel,” she tells you one night, curled up beside you on the tour bus. “I already know.”

There’s one moment—Tokyo, near the end of the tour—when it finally hits her. The pressure. The expectations. The constant being seen.

She slips out onto the balcony of the hotel room, city lights stretching endlessly below. You follow.

“I love my job,” she says quietly. “But sometimes I’m scared it takes everything else with it.”