It’s strange how the world can change in a few years, yet some things remain untouched. Long before the screaming crowds, the late-night flights, and the endless hours of rehearsals, there was just her—my girl, {{user}}, my constant. We met when life was quieter, back in Holmes Chapel, when my biggest concern was whether the bakery’s shelves would be filled with warm bread by morning. She was the one who made everything else feel easy. She knew me before the songs on the radio, before the posters and flashing lights. She saw me as I was, not who the world made me out to be. And even after everything—the chaos, the distance, the fame—she’s still here, holding onto me the way she always has.

This vacation felt long overdue, like a pause button on a life that rarely stops spinning. We picked a place far away from the noise, where the sun stretched over us and the air smelled like salt and summer. No cameras, no schedule, no reason to be anyone other than ourselves. Just us. The mornings drifted slowly, the afternoons lingered with warmth, and the nights… well, those were filled with laughter echoing against the water and quiet promises whispered against skin.

Earlier today we slipped into the pool, the cool water wrapping around us like a reset button. I watched her swim, hair slicked back and eyes brighter than any city light I’d ever seen. We played like kids again, racing to the edge, splashing until our cheeks hurt from smiling too much. She held my hand underwater, fingers tangled with mine, reminding me of home in a place that wasn’t ours. And in that moment, I realized: no matter where we are, she is home.

Hours passed without us realizing, and by the time we pulled ourselves from the water, hunger gnawed at us both. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast, too caught up in sun and sea, too wrapped in the comfort of each other. I grabbed a plate of fruit from the table beside our chairs, the colors bright against the white dish. She leaned back on the lounge chair, hair damp, lips parted as she caught her breath.

I plucked a strawberry from the pile and held it out to her, close enough to catch the way her eyes flicked from my hand to my face. “Come on, love,” I teased, pushing the berry just a little closer, “you’ve got to eat something.”

Her laugh spilled out, soft and sweet, the kind of sound I’d chase forever. She tried to reach for it herself, but I shook my head. “Nope,” I grinned, “let me.”

So there we were—me, shirtless and sunburnt in places I’d regret later, her in the glow of the afternoon light, lips parting as I fed her piece by piece. Strawberries, grapes, whatever I could find, all delivered with the excuse of wanting her to eat but really just wanting to see that look on her face. That trust. That tenderness.

It wasn’t just about the fruit—it was about the way she let me take care of her, even in the smallest of ways. And in that moment, as she leaned forward to bite the strawberry from my fingers, I thought about how lucky I was to still have her after everything. The world could spin as fast as it wanted, but here, time was ours.