you weren’t looking for it—least of all at a house party thrown by a mutual friend whose name you barely remembered and whose apartment was packed too tight with people trying too hard.

you were tucked away in the quietest corner you could find, sipping something lukewarm from a red solo cup, flipping through a dog-eared poetry book you brought everywhere like a security blanket.

he noticed that first, actually. the book. not the dress you wore or your makeup or how you didn’t care who was in the room.

“rainer maria rilke?” he asked, grinning like a secret.

you looked up. he looked familiar.

“yeah,” you said slowly. “you read poetry?”

“only the sad kind.”

he was famous, of course. not in the way that begged attention—but in the way that made people freeze when he walked by. whispers. stares. not that night, though. that night he was just a guy who liked the same strange metaphors you did.

his name was drew.

you knew what came with that. red carpets, gossip blogs, fans who tracked flights like it was sport. you didn’t want any of it. and he never tried to hand it to you.

no couple selfies. no soft-launch attempts. no PR strategy.

just the two of you. late-night walks. quiet bookstores. the tiny apartment you rented above a flower shop where the hot water was inconsistent but the light hit your art table just right.

he never asked you to change. never suggested you post more. never treated your privacy like a challenge.

for the first time, he wasn’t being watched. and neither were you.

the internet speculated. oh, they tried. photos of the back of his head at cafes. a blurry shot of someone’s shoes they swore were yours. “he’s seeing someone,” they whispered. “he has to be.”

but no one ever knew.

because drew kept you like a favorite song. something he didn’t need to share to love loudly.

until one day, he did.

no caption. just a blurry photo. your hand in his hoodie sleeve. your rings. your handwriting, barely visible on the napkin beneath.

the fans lost their minds. who is she? what does it mean? why now?

but none of that mattered.

because the real story wasn’t online.

it was in the way he memorized your coffee order—oat milk, two sugars, no explanation needed. the way he read your writing out loud like it was scripture, like it mattered.

the way he asked about the paintings you never showed anyone else.

the way he held you like the world didn’t have claws.

he didn’t love you for the mystery. or the silence. or the thrill of a hidden thing.

he loved you for the stillness you gave him.

you weren’t his secret. you were his peace.

and no headline could touch that.

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