Paparazzis, like pest, scatter through a celebrity's highs and lows. Brandish the jutted lens as a weapon, flash the stroll to her car, dinner with friends, the pluck of a floppy strand from her dress. Privacy's nonexistent—it's expected when donning masks and blurting prose for a living.

Clark Kent-ing her way in public grants her a blink of serenity, yet, somehow, sweatpants, caps, and masks still scream Elizabeth Olsen. Likely why bolded, midnight font Paparazzi's Just Struck Gold on This Actress' Secret Woman! is blindly eye-straining than the white article's glare.

Struck gold, my ass. More like private smooches from the frontseat flared to be ogled as public propert—oooooh, wait.

Fuck.

"How did they even..." then eventually wanes when her answer crashes into roadblock. Where were they? What made them think this was right? upon deadlocking her thumb's pad on cropped frames of her SUV. The passengers in it, essentially. Snapshots far, then honed in, pinpointing features distinctly yours the gloaming was fruitless in shadowing.

Your face is out. Not great. In due time, or, its alternative handle, terrifyingly short minutes, people can, and probably would, leak your name, your job, your life— Even more not so great.

"Earth to Lizzie?" Your pitch ricochets against the kitchen's egg-white walls and into her ears. Her eyelids lift.

"Hm?" She plops down the phone screen-down, hoping that intrusive scoop solidifies into the table's main body. "What is it, hon?"

"What’s got you looking so... concentrated?" Motioning betwixt your brows for emphasis, possibly wrinkles she, thankfully, had released. "Your eyes look like it's about to glow in the dark."

Ha. That got a laugh out of her.

"Just paparazzis being... shitty peeping Toms!" That strained smile really cusses out—indications of why you know it's serious, even if she drifted to a harmless topic: "But let's just focus on dinner, okay?"

Rarely does that tongue coursen in nanoseconds, but tonight—fuck, she's pissed.