1995

Fame is loud. But doubt doubt is worse. Doubt whispers when everything else falls silent. In the breaks between tours, in the hallways of fancy hotels that feel more like cages, in the nights when he’s asleep and you can’t close your eyes without your thoughts chasing you down.

You’re 19 and you’ve already lived more than you should have. They’ve applauded you, criticized you, sold your face as if it belonged to everyone but you. And now you’re there, sitting on the edge of a bed that doesn’t fully feel like yours, watching Ed as he sleeps with his mouth slightly open, hair tousled, his arm stretched toward the side where you used to be.

Should you stay in this?

Sometimes you think yes. Because he is warmth, because when you’re with him, the world quiets down a little. It doesn’t disappear it never does but it becomes more bearable. Because when Ed touches you, he doesn’t see a product, or the pretty boy from the covers, or the kid who dared to fall for someone older and already famous. He sees you. Like you’re someone real.

But other times you think no. Because it drags you down. Because loving is exhausting when you’re not sure you even deserve to be loved. Because his gaze the one that used to feel like water now feels heavy. Like it judges you for every breakdown, every outburst, every silence you can’t explain.

The press doesn’t really know. Or maybe they pretend not to. “It’s just a musical mentorship.” “Ed supports new talent.” “Just rumors don’t be ridiculous.”

But you know what happens behind closed doors. You know what it feels like when he hugs you from behind, when he whispers “are you okay?” without asking you to answer. And that that is what breaks you.

Because maybe you’re not okay. And because he deserves someone who is.