Was it wrong of me to say that I quite liked the paparazzi?

Most people would disagree, saying no it wasn't wrong—they'd want to have attention as much as the next person. When you're a high-profile person like myself and the rest of my family (thanks to Emaad), that kind of recognition, acknowledgment, power,  fame—all of it—it becomes a part of you whether you like it or not.

You turn into a spectacle. An idol. A show. I happened to enjoy all of it. Of course, when that meant I was in charge of everything. When it meant I had the upper hand. No one could taunt me, frazzle me, or hurt me.

I had to make the best of a shitty situation, and oh boy, was I going to make sure I razed Hell on Earth.

I'd put on a smile, put on the best fucking show I could, and spew. A woman's true power lies in her words, because men refuse to believe anything else. You show them proof, they won't buy it. But you tell them a story, and suddenly they think they're Gandhi—they'd want to tell everyone and their mothers about what you told them. Not because you're particularly smart or pretty, but because they were too smooth-brained to think for themselves.

I liked the paparazzi because they were stupid people doing (an unbeknownst) powerful job. They say actions speak louder than words, but I think they were of the same merit. You just have to use it right.

"Miss Huseinni!"

"Aya look here!"

"Emaad, is it true you help direct Little Women?"

Darren's hands pushed me along as I stumbled and fumbled trying to make it to the plane. Flashing lights blinded me, and I grimaced.

It was too early for this. Emaad, the rest of his team, Darren, and I were to go to Cannes, France for The International Film Festival to premiere the film. It was only a two-day event. We'd be home soon enough, and rested for a while before my brother's tour in September.

But getting to the plane was half of that. If the event was two days—one day of unpacking and unloading, one day for premiere—this was another twenty-four hours combined. The airplane dock was brimmed with all kinds of press and screaming, crying, grubby fans.

A part of me understood their rationale. A part of me irked inside. They didn't see us as human, and it showed.

"Keep walking," Darren urged, his voice loud and clear for all of us to hear.

"I should've worm flats." I commented, knowing Darren wouldn't respond. His hand gently pushed me forward. Still, cameras flashed in our faces. It winded me.

"I'm such a big fan," someone fan girl gushed, reaching her hand out to me. I looked at her, part confused who she was talking to (Emaad was conveniently in front of me), and part baffled that she was looking straight at me.

I stopped. That made the rest of the line bump into one another like dominoes. "Are you talking to me?" bam, the camera flashed me.

The girl nodded, a whooping, bright smile on her face. "I love your work in Rolling Stone," she mused.

I blinked. "Thanks," I said, tone unsure. My eyes lingered on her person. She knew who I was?

I should've been more happier, more positive–maybe said something great and special to this girl who didn't look much older than me–but I didn't. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

I could only say "thank you."

And somehow, that felt bigger than anything grand or poetic or those really long-winded, self serving monologues other people in my position would say to people like her. To a girl like her. A woman that she was.

She acknowledged me. That had to mean something.

Shouldn't it?

"Jesus," Darren cursed, bumping into me. He stared me down, clearing his throat, and gave me the "don't make me repeat myself" look.

He was so silly.

Silly as in stupid. Boarding a plane was not that serious, but he was treating it like it was the end of the world.

"I want to take a photo," I butted, flashing the girl a smile. That seemed to spark interest in the camera crew, and immediately they rushed to my side, poking me with their misc and lenses. I extended my arms for her and pulled her into the already-crowded circle I had created for myself. "What's your name, sweetheart?" I asked her.

She let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Meredith," she answered, her round, rosy cheeks turning a darker shade of pink.

"You-you are holding up the line," Darren hissed, his jaw clenched.

"Is the line with us right now? Because it looks more like a blob." I scanned him up and down, giving him a sideways look. "If you're so worked up, you can wait."

To my amazement, he did. He stood by the aircraft's steps, hands folded over his pelvis, posture tall and taut. He certainly looked the part of a bodyguard. And he took it very seriously.

I turned my attention back to Meredith. "I want you to know one thing, Meredith," I said as the cameras crammed in our faces, and the crowd of people went wild.

I was sweating bricks out there in the spring weather, but I didn't give a shit. "Never forget who you are. Your legacy is what you choose to make of it. Don't let anyone deter you from your dreams."

I didn't know if I was saying that to myself or to her. Whoever it was for, I knew I had to say it before the opportunity slipped from my fingertips.

As a woman, I didn't know when I would have the chance to talk again–to cause moral chaos among the crowd, clambering cameramen, and crew. My existence was enough to have them screaming at me, at my feet, or on their knees.

But what I really wanted was the opportunity to choose what I did, and when I did it. For me and no one else.

Yet, with all those people and cameras shoved in my face it seemed like the only person outside the aircraft that truly understood what I was for, was Darren. Who stood calmly by the steps (or as calm as you could be when you did hold up the line, and potentially run the risk of being late), waiting for me.

He always did.

I smiled. Meredith and I took the photo.

"Thank you," Meredith said, her tone upped yet beginning to sound a bit more comfortable. She pulled out a pen and blank piece of paper.

"Oh, that pen won't do," I gleamed, noor shining on my face. The woman blinked, mouth agape. I took out Emmad's special autograph signing pencil from my handbag.             "There." I signed the paper. "Why the blank paper?"

"Because whatever and wherever you write means so much already, even if it is just your name on a blank piece of paper," she reasoned.

The right side of my lips curved upward involuntarily. I didn't respond back. Not right away. After that kind of reasoning, I wasn't sure I'd be the same again.

She was right. This seemingly random woman was right. My name was important.

"Thank you for sharing," I told her in earnest. I watched her disappear into the crowd, her lingering touch and impression forever engraved in my memory.

When I looked up ahead to finally find footing to board—in truth I had been stalling. I was the one terrified of flying—Darren and I met eyes. Despite his normal demeanor, stiff and looked like he would rather die than be here, something was off.

Today he was different, but the same.

He was an arrogant asshole, but considerate. He was incredibly annoying, but always put me first. He had an ego as big as a balloon, but was strangely humble. What the hell was this man? How did Emaad vet him in such short notice and hire him?

So many questions, there was not enough time to have all of them answered.

A camera man bumped into me with aggressive force. Snap. I lifted my hands in front of my eyes to shield myself, but the abrupt light was far too strong to ignore or diminish.

"Hey!" I scrambled out to say, annoyance laced in my voice. "Didn't anyone teach you manners?"

The cameraman looked at me dumbfounded. "Uh..."

"If you wanted to take a photo of me, you should've asked first." I stood my ground. I was so accustomed to having things taken from me, standing my ground right before I had to board a goddamn plane was not something I ever anticipated doing.

An airplane.

I thought my big moment would be on a stage, holding an award I was long overdue for.

Not as I was boarding an airplane. I was sweating like a pig, hair half done, makeup slicked, my feet aching.

When push came to shove, I'd come to realize "your moment" —whatever that may be—was yours alone. I had to put my foot down at some point, and with everything that was happening up until then, the airplane fiasco seemed fitting enough.

I'd have all the time in the world to be me. And if I didn't, I'd make time.

"Is it true that you have a mystery man?" Blurted one of them, the sun smack in my face. I couldn't recognize who was talking to me.

I strained a laugh. "No mystery man," I answered, putting the rumors to rest. The papers talked, a lot of shit, so I had to try to turn it away from me. "That man was"—I swallowed—"just security. He was just doing his job—"

Big, firm, hands gently grabbed my shoulders and pivoted me to turn to face the aircraft staircase. It was a swift move; not an ounce of give, on my part or his.

I looked over my shoulder, my eyes meeting the cameraman, as I leaned against the railing of the steps. "Take all the pictures now, sweetheart. I'm going to fucking France!"

I wanted to throw up at the thought.

The last time I had gone... let's just say they didn't like me or my family much. I was there for my friend Millicent, because she'd gotten paired with a Frenchman via their parents, respectively.

Until I realized that Frenchman was the son of the host of  Saturday Night Live: Starring Pascal Auclair.

It all started to make sense why these people didn't like mine. It wasn't my fault my family grew up eating biryani; the warm, hot rice served hearty with meat and potatoes.

And not fucking cheese and bread—or whatever the hell French people ate for dinner.

It wasn't our fault.

Darren's enormous feet stepped on mine. "You won't be going if you don't move, love," he hissed.

"Who's to say I do?" I whispered back. He licked his lips, pursing them as if he was in thought.

"Just get inside." He closed his eyes, his breath fanned hotly in my face.

"Yeah, okay." A cold shiver shuddered through my body as I made my way in.

I had definitely overstayed my welcome.

The door closed behind me.

"You're with me," Darren said, stringing me along the aisle to our seats. I slid in first by the window.

"How long is the flight?" I asked gingerly, looking down at my freshly-painted fingernails.

"About half a day," he answered, tone unwavering. He sat right beside me. Darren's body took a considerable amount of space; with his long legs and arms.

"Oh," I said fleetingly, unsure of what to say. It was as if anything I'd ever touched, said, or did I somehow turned it on its side. I messed every good thing up.

This wasn't supposed to be about me. But that taste of my life, my work, my person was as respected as my brother...

Hope was near, and nearer than I thought, too. I hadn't meant to yell at the cameraman, truly, it just came out. My anger, annoyance, frustration. I wanted to prove them all wrong, and I failed.

"He's just security..."

God, I was so stupid.

About three hours into the flight, the sun set and we'd been up in the air. Currently, we were up in the black, night sky clouds. I wasn't allowed to open my window.

I tried to catch up on sleep, but my heart and my head wouldn't seem to calm down no matter how hard I tried.

I couldn't stop thinking. About my life tomorrow, where we'd be; who I'd see. And that Darren was stuck by my side, when he was the last person I wanted to be around.

Truthfully, I didn't want to be around anyone. I was a public figure, a private life wasn't something I was permitted to have.

"Hey," I whispered. "Are you awake?" My face was turned away, chin pointing towards the window.

"Hi," he replied. "No, I'm not awake. I'm fast asleep." He tossed in his seat.

I whipped my head around on instinct, passing him a sharp, tired, unimpressed look. His eyes were closed. "Do you..." I swallowed, feeling the bile rise. "Do you... ever wonder what your life would be like if some things... didn't happen?"

He didn't hesitate to answer. "Yes."

"Hmm..." My face heated up, my throat swelling up from the bile. That didn't make me feel any better. It should have, but this was Darren, he wanted nothing to do with me other than doing his job.

"Is something upsetting you?"

I blinked, my lips part. Yes. "No," I lied. "I was just wondering. I'm bored." That couldn't have been farther from the truth. I was bored? Really? Unbelievable. Flying always made me nervous. It only got worse after the accident last year.

"I'm not a doctor," he told me, "but you ought to go to sleep, love. There's still a considerable amount of time left."

"I can't sleep," I said.

"Fake it until you do."

Now, typically I wouldn't make a snide comment, but my lack of sleep was getting the better of me. You know what they say, sexual activity helps to fall asleep.

I covered my mouth as I choked out a snortful laugh.

"What's so funny?" He asked, voice drawled and sleep-filled.

I curled up in my seat, covering my reddened face with my hands. This wasn't supposed to be something funny.

And it surely wasn't supposed to be hot. The way he enunciated his words, how serious he was about it. The slight husk in his voice.

Was it always like that? Has it always been there?

"Nothing," I eased, trying to stay as quiet as possible. "I'll try your advice. It's solid." I bit my lip.

"I'm trying to sleep," Darren grumbled.

"I thought you were gonna stay awake the whole time."

"I'm not a watchman, for God's Sake.  That time of my life is already over."

For some reason that made me jolt awake. "Wanna play a game?" I was puzzled even by my own question. Who the hell asks that?

"No."

I cleared my throat, brushing it off. "You never answered my question back when we were shopping," I said offhandedly.

This time, he leaned back, moving his hands to cup the back of his head like a cushion. He opened his eyes, turning his head to face me. "You ask too many questions."

"And you don't give any answers. How could I trust you when I..." I looked down. I should sleep. I needed it bad, this would only make things worse. I didn't want to accidentally say something I'd regret later in the morning—"how can I trust when I don't even know you?"

Darren sighed. It was the kind of sigh you would do when you knew the other person was right, but you still held your ground. The awkward, weird kind of limbo. "Fair point," he said. "I was discharged."