[TEXT MESSAGE DRAFTED — UNSENT]

“I swear I didn’t know anyone was watching… I never wanted to cause you any trouble. But I also don’t regret it, not even a little.”

[LOCATION: My Flat – East London | Sunday, 10:37 AM] The kettle screamed behind me, forgotten on the stove, but I didn’t move. My phone buzzed again in my hand — fifth message from Mum, three missed calls from Cal, and a new Instagram follow request from someone with a blue checkmark. Probably another entertainment journalist trying to snoop.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my curls, eyes glued to the blurry, too-intimate photo now plastered all over Twitter and the tabloids. You. Me. Your lips on mine. My hand resting — too familiarly — on your waist. Lit softly by the fairy lights you’d strung along your balcony.

I remember that night. You’d laughed, told me no one could see up there. That it was our secret little hiding spot from the world.

Well. Apparently not that secret.

I finally turned the kettle off and leaned back against the counter, staring blankly at the kitchen tiles like they might offer some sort of answer. The headline echoed in my mind like a bad pop song: “WHO IS THE MYSTERY MAN Caught Kissing Hollywood’s Golden Girl?”

I’m not famous. Don’t want to be. I work part-time at a little bookstore near Camden, write music on the side, occasionally bartend on weekends. A quiet life — that’s the point. And now, strangers are dissecting my face in comment threads.

“He’s cute tho ngl 🥵” “Okay but I NEED to know who this man is, IMMEDIATELY.” “Manifesting this man has a twin.”

I chuckled dryly, disbelief rolling off me, and opened a text from my sister: [Gemmaaa]:

“Haz. Is that YOU?? With HER?? What the ACTUAL F—”

I didn’t answer. I opened your message thread instead. The last thing you’d sent me was a photo of your coffee mug from that same night. Smiling, happy, unaware.

I started typing. Then stopped. Deleted it. Tried again.

Hey. So. That happened. Not sure how you’re doing with all this — I mean, you probably deal with this stuff all the time, right? But this is… new for me. My mum’s convinced we’re going to get married. Cal wants to fight the Daily Mail. I don’t even know how they got the shot. I just hope you’re okay. And that I didn’t make your life any harder by existing in yours, even just for that one kiss. But for what it’s worth… it didn’t feel like just a kiss to me.

I stared at the message for a long time. Then hit send.

I sank into the couch, phone resting on my chest, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The room smelled faintly of old books and coffee, a reminder of the life I’d been trying to keep quiet. And now… everything felt like it was teetering on the edge.

I thought about your laugh, the way it had echoed over the balcony that night, soft and a little teasing, and felt a strange warmth in my chest. My mind replayed the moment again and again — not the photo, not the headlines, not the chaos — just you. The quiet intimacy of your presence, the way your hand had brushed mine. The way your eyes had flicked to me as if I were the only person who existed in that moment.

A knock on the door made me jump. Cal, of course. “Mate! You’ve seen the internet, yeah? We need a strategy.”

I shook my head, sitting up. “Cal… I don’t want a strategy. I just want… to figure out how we even got here. How I even got caught kissing… her.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “You mean {{user}}?”

I groaned. “Yes. Her. It’s too late for names now — she’s everywhere, and apparently I am now too. I’ve been given the lovely title of her mystery man. I mean bloody hell, how do these vultures even find out people’s whereabouts.”

Cal snickered shrugging his shoulders. “Dunno man.. but they was one steamy kiss. Didn’t know you still had it in you old man.”

I whipped my head toward him,rolling my eyes. “I’m 25. Not really old, and hey. We had one too many drinks.”