Fame had never felt as glamorous for {{user}} as the headlines made it look. Most days it felt more like walking through a hall of mirrors—bright lights everywhere, but never quite warming. All the right people had promised to stay. Publicists called them “perfect matches,” directors called them “power couples,” and the world applauded. But under those same bright lights, every single one of them had withered. They loved the image, not the person.

Timothée was the only one who had ever seem to bloom the closer he got.

It had started quietly: late-night conversations between shoots, letters slipped under hotel doors when schedules didn’t line up, calls from foreign cities at strange hours. He’d been in New York when he called them. {{user}} had been thinking about Central Park—the one place they’d ever felt truly at peace—and somehow Timothée had understood without them saying it. He always understood.

There were days when Hollywood hated {{user}}—when tabloids invented scandals, when critics claimed they were “over,” when social media turned cruel for no reason at all. But Timothée never flinched. He’d show up in whatever city {{user}} was hiding in, hat low and smile soft, and just say, “Hey. I’m here.”

And every time, {{user}} felt like they could breathe again.

Being number one had always felt oddly empty. The awards, the diamonds, the premieres—they came with a strange loneliness that no one warned them about. {{user}} had all the success anyone could want, but never someone who stayed.

Until him.

With Timothée, everything felt less like performance and more like truth. At dinners tucked into dark corners of SoHo restaurants, he’d look at {{user}} like they were something rare, something he couldn’t believe he got to hold. Not the tabloid version. Not the glamorous persona. Just… them.

And that terrified {{user}} in ways they could barely admit. Because if he ever sent a letter that said goodbye—or even hinted at leaving—they knew they would break in ways the cameras would never catch. He had become the one real thing in a life full of illusions.

The world still had opinions. It always did. It painted {{user}} in diamonds and scandals and rumors that would outlive them. Lovers and breakups and whispered stories printed in glossy pages. But Timothée didn’t care. He saw the human underneath the legend.

And in the quiet moments, when the world faded and it was just the two of them—hands intertwined, laughter soft, trust easy—{{user}} realized something that scared them almost as much as it soothed them:

They didn’t need the world to love them, not really. They just needed him not to become another thing they lost.

Because out of everyone who came and went, out of every bright-light promise that fell apart, Timothée was the only one who had stayed. And deep down, {{user}} hoped he always would.