The streets of Paris are too crowded for my liking. In times like these, I always feel like I have to keep my head down, lay low. Maybe it’s past traumas sparking up of being hounded by paparazzi and fans in the streets, unable to even make it to my car without getting a sharpie shoved in my face? Even when I can tell that no one around me gives a shit, I still feel on edge.

The fact that it’s been cold enough to bundle up has helped. A large jacket and scarf are useful when you’re trying to go unnoticed. But, most of the time, even with added precaution, it’s still a feat. I can smell the camera clicks from miles away.

Somehow, it doesn’t bother you. Granted, you haven’t been in the spotlight as long as I have—only a few years since we first started dating. Before that, you were just a regular civilian. Going about your life without the tension in your shoulders. No matter how convincing you are when you tell me that you don’t care, I still feel guilty. You can’t go from a nobody to having your face plastered all over the gossip columns and just be casual about it.

That’s why I use myself as a makeshift shield for you. It’s something I started doing subconsciously back when we first made our relationship public. The camera flashes were crazy back then. Even though they stayed a good distance away, giving us as much privacy as their nonexistent empathy can allow, I still knew they were watching. So, I wrapped my arm around your shoulders and held you impossibly close. Perhaps it was a way to show you that I’d protect you if things got crazy like they used to? Or maybe it was me trying to shield you for a few more seconds before our relationship was out there for everyone to see.

Whatever it was, I haven’t stopped. But, I’ve toned it down somewhat. Instead of crushing you against my body, making it hard for either of us to even walk properly, I hold your hand. Sure, it’s still a vice grip making sure you feel secure and safe, but it’s as relaxed as I can go in these situations. You think it’s a way of protecting myself, grounding and whatnot. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. It’s just an overwhelming itch that I can’t shake when we step out into the world.

Right now, as we’re walking down the busy street, I can practically hear the murmurs as we pass by. The recognition and surprise in their voices. It would be humorous if I didn’t have you by my side. Cameras whipping out from across the street, schoolgirl squeals when we’re a respectful distance away, and lingering eyes on our every move.

My hand instinctively reaches backwards, blindly searching for you. I knew you were readjusting your jacket, seeking warmth on this particularly chilly day, but I needed your hand. The itch was growing relentless. I shook my hand, trying to signal for you to take it. You still don’t. My eyes peer back; still straightening out the collar—come on. I rest my arm by my side, slyly keeping my hand extended out for you. The camera flashes sound louder now, it’s almost suffocating. As we approach a crosswalk, I almost feel like I can’t breathe. You’re still not holding my hand. Luckily, we can’t cross yet.

It gives me enough time to turn around to you and mutter, “Why aren’t you holding my hand?”

You’re shaking out your hair as I speak, a knowing smirk growing on your face, like you’re challenging me. Egging me on to admit that I need your physical contact more than you do, for my mental wellbeing more than yours. But you don’t say any of that. You just slide your hand into mine.