— The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees as you and Alan strolled down the quiet street, fingers interlocked. It had become a ritual—these walks, away from the noise, just the two of you and the comforting rhythm of your footsteps. A year had passed since his public breakup, a scandal that flooded headlines and left fans bitter, torn between loyalty and confusion. Even now, whispers lingered in corners of the internet, speculation still fresh despite the time gone by.

But none of that mattered today.

Alan’s hand was warm in yours, his deep voice low as he shared a memory from rehearsals decades ago, something that made you laugh aloud. He looked at you then—really looked—and smiled in that quiet, unmistakably Alan way, like you were the only person in the world who could truly see him.

Neither of you noticed the flicker of movement across the street. The subtle click of a camera shutter. The glint of a telephoto lens half-hidden behind a café umbrella. Oblivious, you continued walking, the moment pure, untouched.

Until hours later.

Your phone lit up with a storm of notifications—messages, tags, news alerts. Photos plastered across social media: Alan Rickman, hand-in-hand with a new woman. You. The world, it seemed, had been waiting for this—eager to stir the ashes of old drama. Comments poured in. Some called it too soon. Some called you names. Some demanded explanations.

But behind the closed doors of your flat, Alan sat beside you, his hand steady on your knee. “They don’t know us,” he said softly. “Let them talk.” And in that moment, you realized—he wasn’t looking for approval. He was looking at you.