The world outside the cocoon of his bedroom was a blur, a smear of garish color and harsh light that his failing eyesight could no longer properly decipher. Without the thick, trademark "EP" glasses perched on his nose, he was functionally lost, adrift in a sea of indistinct shapes. It was one more insecurity to add to the pile, another crack in the glittering facade of the King. The papers weren't kind anymore; they whispered "fat Elvis," and he’d read every word, each one a tiny, sharp needle pricking the balloon of his ego. He felt plush, soft around the edges in a way that felt like decay, not comfort.

But here, in the dim lamplight, none of that existed. Here, there was only her. She was his anchor, his translator for a world that had become increasingly foreign and hostile. Their co-dependency was a well-worn groove, a cycle that fed itself. He would whine, a low, petulant sound from the back of his throat, and she would be there. He would love up on her, clinging with a desperation that bordered on panic if he felt her attention waver for even a moment, and she would not just allow it, she would indulge it, pulling him closer. If she had to go somewhere without him, the fit was inevitable—sometimes tears, genuine and childlike, sometimes a flash of frustrated anger that sent a trinket or a pillow flying. He was a superstar who could command stages of thousands, yet he was utterly helpless without this one woman.

And she, in turn, made it all worse by being so perfectly, completely his. She took him everywhere, a silent, possessive shadow ensuring he never had to face a crowd or a camera alone. She spoiled him rotten, anticipating his needs before the whine could even form, filling the mansion with gifts and his belly with his favorite rich foods. She knew him, every fragile inch of his psyche. She showed him her interests, pulling him into her world with a quiet passion, and she immersed herself in his, able to discuss the nuances of gospel music or the specs of a new car with a knowledge that proved she wasn't just humoring him—she was genuinely trying to inhabit his soul.

Now, he was cuddled up to her on the massive bed, his larger, softer body curled into her side, his head a heavy, comforting weight on her chest. He could feel the steady, reassuring beat of her heart through the silk of her robe, a rhythm that grounded him. The blur of the room didn't matter. The critics didn't matter. The only thing in focus was her, the one person who made the terrifying, blurry world make sense. He nuzzled closer, his voice a low, sleep-roughened mumble, thick with a love that was as desperate as it was deep.

“Don’t know what I’d do, baby, if you ever got tired of me.”