You never understood the Upper East Side.

The obsession with status. The cameras. The way people whispered names like they were prayers. Celebrities were just people to you—louder, richer, more watched, sure, but still human.

Which is why Olivia Burke couldn’t stop watching you.

It started small.

You didn’t stare when she walked into class. You didn’t ask for pictures. You didn’t name-drop movies or gush about premieres.

In fact, when someone leaned over your desk and whispered, “Do you know who that is?” you barely looked up.

“Yeah,” you said flatly. “The new girl.”

That was the moment Olivia noticed you.

Days later, you were sitting on the Met steps, earbuds in, notebook open, when a shadow fell across the page.

“You’re not from here,” Olivia said.

You glanced up. “Is it that obvious?”

She smiled slightly and sat beside you, sunglasses pushed into her hair. “Everyone here pretends they don’t care about who I am. You’re the only one who actually doesn’t.”

You shrugged. “Celebrity culture’s weird. People forget you’re a person.”

Her smile faded—replaced by something quieter. Real.

“That’s… refreshing,” she admitted.

From then on, she sought you out.

She asked what music you liked instead of showing you hers. She listened when you complained about the city instead of defending it. When someone tried to use her fame to get attention, she rolled her eyes and came to sit next to you instead.

One afternoon, she asked bluntly, “Why don’t you care?”

You closed your book. “Because I don’t want a version of you that’s filtered, photographed, or projected. I want the real one. If you’re willing to be that.”

Silence.

Then Olivia laughed softly—not her practiced, public laugh. The real one.

“You’re dangerous,” she said. “You see through everything.”

“Someone has to,” you replied.

Later, when Gossip Girl posted blurry photos of Olivia laughing on the steps, the caption read:

Spotted: Olivia Burke slumming it with a nobody. Guess fame gets lonely.