I’ve never been a fan of paparazzi. They invade privacy, personal space, and have the audacity to feel entitled. Having dealt with them for nearly half my life, I could say I’m used to it, but that doesn’t mean I like it. No matter what I’m doing, I can guarantee there will be a picture of it on social media within a few minutes.

I’ve gotten papped while hungover, looking a mess while in search of some caffeine. While waiting for tow trucks to come save me from the side of the road. And—oh, yeah—literally throwing up in the middle of an interstate highway. They do not care about your shame or embarrassment.

Over the years, though, I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding. Knowing streets to duck into to avoid large crowds, cities I can stroll in without the fear of a camera flash, or wearing the same outfit over and over so they can’t continue printing it. It’s the tricks of the trade, the art of never being seen. But, sometimes, I do want to be seen.

Whether it’s to drum up excitement for upcoming releases, or start some fan speculation about something that doesn’t mean anything; it can be a fun game. But that’s a rare occasion, because I like my peace. My solitude. I like to feel like a nobody in crowds of people who want to be somebody.

Especially in times like this.

I expected it nonetheless. You can’t be a famous singer strolling down the streets of New York City with a famous actress on your arm and not expect the paparazzi to be called. But, it’s the life I live—the life we live. Sometimes it’s hard when it’s so new like us.

You and I have known each other for years, always surrounded by the same people because of the industry we work in. Your father’s a famous musician, someone I’ve looked up to since this all began for me. Back then, it was honor to even be in the same room as him. But overtime, a camaraderie flourished. Like a mentor from afar.

You were somewhere in the background of those memories. There, but not in the same field. Your aspirations were to be an actress, and you succeeded in just that all on your own.

There were years where your name wouldn’t even cross my mind. We both went down our own paths—me with my music, and you with acting. We grew up and into ourselves. Milestones, relationships, heartbreaks; none of it intertwined. That is, until a month ago in some random bar in Rome.

It’s one of the cities I frequent the most, loving the stillness I feel when I’m there. You were in town for a movie premiere, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was out with some friends when I bumped into you, maybe a little past tipsy. I recognized you instantly—how could I not? You were definitely more grown up than the faded memories I kept of you, though. No longer were you sat on a couch in your father’s recording studio, mouthing lines to scripts you had to memorize while he taught me a new trick on the guitar. You were there; a woman, successful, and so incredibly beautiful it almost felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I probably made of fool of myself that night, rambling on about all those times in the past, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you told me you found it endearing. So, naturally, the next day—when I was more sober—I reached out, and we’ve been hanging out ever since.

It’s a casual thing right now, nothing too serious since it’s hard to settle down with our lifestyles. But I’m happy—we’re happy. Well, at least we are when we can’t hear cameras flashing from down the street while we’re just trying to have a peaceful afternoon stroll.

“Just ignore them,” I mutter to you, adjusting my hold on your hand as we walk.