Originally I published this in December of like 2018 I think and I took it down because I knew I wouldn't finish it and I didn't really like it at the time. I think it's just... just fine when I look back on it so idk what was up with me in December lmao. I really wanted to write spies and detectives and superheroes over romance. So going back to this now, it's not bad but it's a little cringeworthy. Some of the dialogue is weird and I hate the first chapter a lot, but I do like some parts of it. Anyways, I don't know if I'll ever come back to this one. Tried to a couple times and it never went anywhere.

1

The beach is a beautiful place. The sand is warm and the water is cold, and everything is in perfect balance. One world meets another, and it's cherished by everyone that understands and appreciates the crashing of the waves that wipe out whatever is in its path.

My life is a sandcastle, and I'm surrounded by ten foot tall waves, all rushing towards me at once. It's terrifying, to have your entire life and everything you thought you knew to be demolished into nothing in one swift move. The thing is, the waves don't stop. They feed off each other as they retreat and relentlessly slam the shore again and again and again, until there is truly nothing left to destroy.

Dallon Weekes: Liar, Greedy, Traitor — Is His Career Finally Over?

The Breakup Song King Has Been Dethroned By His Own Friends?

Don't Trust a Snake, AKA Dallon Weekes, and Here's Why.

My friends — the people I thought were my friends — turned on me all at once, twisted my words, released false statements to everyone who would listen, spun webs of lies from things I'd never done or said to people I'd never met. I don't know what they meant to gain from it but my downfall; either way, they succeeded. They had convinced the entire online universe to hate my guts.

Does This Recent Revelation Put Weekes's Next Album in Jeopardy?

Click Here For The Complete Timeline of the World Sensation's Well-Deserved Harsh Downfall.

One of the Most Successful Musicians of All Time Has Officially Been Cancelled, and Here's Why.

The Reputation of One of the Biggest Artists Has Been Shattered. Say Goodbye to Dallon Weekes.

I never got a chance to explain the flaws behind the tornado swirling throughout the internet. Comments flooded in, ruthless insults by strangers who never understood that everything was an exaggeration or a lie.

Even if I did find the time to try to set the record straight, there was no guarantee I would ever be heard or even slightly believed, and I had the opportunity to make things a thousand times worse. Some of the things they said were true mistakes that I would and will be willing to admit to, and no matter if the other things were false, I would still be painted as an awful person. There was no way out.

Can Weekes Bounce Back for the Fourth Time? Not As Likely As You'd Think.

Another Show-Stopping Career Reaches the End — Here's What Went Wrong.

Backstabber Gets a Taste of His Own Medicine From His Own Friends?

It all fell apart so quickly. I didn't have time to try and save any bit of it. My life, my career, my reputation, all cane crashing down on me all at once, and it crushed me to dust. There's no way to recover, no way to pull myself back from ashes and rise like I used to by minor inconveniences. There's nothing left, not even myself.

Is This The End of Our Fav Pop Legend?

Dallon Weekes is Finally Over, and We Couldn't Be Happier!

Traitor of the Music Industry Gets What He Deserves, and It's About Time.

Everywhere I turn, I'm faced with more and more article titles spitting false words and adding more baggage to my name, as if it wasn't ruined enough.

On the beach, I sit and wait for a wave that's big enough to wash me away and carry me out to sea to I never have to face the media tearing me apart, piece by piece, like I'm a chunk of meat instead of a genuine person.

I wait, and I wait, and I wait. For two hours, there's nothing but sweet little ripples lapping at the shoreline, and the occasional larger splash that reaches my ankles and drenches my slides. I should've chosen an isolated retreat home with a busier lake.

I'd worked my entire life to pave my career and prove I had a spot in the industry, and I became one of the most popular artists in the world. I played for stadiums packed with people, all screaming my name. I broke records, performed at awards shows, took home Grammys and AMAs by the handful. Tickets for stadium venues sold out in seconds. I was one of the richest people alive. I donated and volunteered, sent personalized gifts to fans in every country I could think of, built and sponsored homes and schools in my free time, and I visited children's hospitals when I had a free moment.

None of that mattered.

Because still, the media painted me as a selfish and greedy monster who betrays everyone in my path. I was labeled a slacker, narcissistic, fake, a sellout, overrated, and the list never ended. I put up with it for those people that did give a shit, but they have to be gone by now. I would leave my own body if I could, and I know everything that was said about me is far from true. 

There is nothing left of my reputation, and for bit, I thought that was okay, and I hate to recognize it's far from fine. I'm just a sandcastle in the ocean now.

  
2

Two days later, I toggle off the comment option on my photos, and then a day later I make the rash decision to delete every single post I have on every social media account. It takes over two hours, but I truly have nothing better to do. People call and people email, but I don't care.

I also block all my friend's phone numbers and delete every email from whatever news pages reach out to me, which is a lot. One of my 'friends' released my personal email and phone number, and I haven't gotten the chance to change it yet. My notifications are still exploding with texts from fans and gossip pages begging for a quote.

I'm considering tossing my phone into the lake, but then Brendon has no way to contact me whatsoever, and he worries.

My drafts for all of the songs supposed to be on my next album sit in a large threatening pile near the piano and wall of guitars. The ceiling fixtures cast their shadows on the wall like monsters. They all suck. They're all fantasy stories fabricated from old movies and dreams, nothing real or associated with anyone I know. I hate them, but I have nothing else.

My manager emails me an hour after I set fire to the tower of chords and lyrics, regarding taking a long well-deserved break from the spotlight to recuperate and bounce back with an award winning album to stuff it in everyone's face.

I'm not sure that will happen, but I say okay and head down to the dock of my lake to sit and think. I truthfully don't end up doing either of those.

I call up Brendon. "Hey. It's Dallon."

"I saved your number when we met, I know it's you. I thought you wanted to be alone so I didn't want to call and bother you."

"Smart. I, uh, just burned all of my drafts and flushed the ashes down the toilet."

He doesn't say anything for a solid minute. It takes me a second to realize he's gone for so long because he's cooking, and that absorbs all his attention for at most five minutes at a time. He's very dedicated to food. "Sorry to hear that, Dallon. Are you starting over then, or are you done for good?"

"Not sure yet. What do you think about jumping off a cliff or living in the woods until I inevitably die a horrible lonely death? Did you ever read Into The Wild? I'll be the next Chris McCandless, but nobody will be inspired or take any valuable lessons from me."

"Anyways, I think you should take some time to yourself," he takes another pause, only about thirty seconds this time, "and come back to the industry as you. Not this facade you've had for the media the entire length of your musical career. It's been, like, four months, and I think everyone still has yet to meet you."

"... Okay, fine. You can come over. Fuck being alone."

"No, I'll leave you alone for now. Might swing by tomorrow with some food. That's what I'm making right now."

The oven timer screeches in the background just as he says it. "Alright. I'm... I'm gonna throw my phone in the lake now."

He sighs and takes a second to respond. "You do that. I'll be by at about noon tomorrow, then. I'll call your house phone if you need anything."

"I smashed it half an hour ago. I'm in need of an entire kitchen's worth of supplies. Send letters or just show up." It's sitting in a sad pile of plastic and wires on the kitchen floor next to a baseball bat, which I also broke against a door frame. I'm also short of a blender and toaster, as well as a coffee machine and a dish drying rack. The microwave is on its last whim, and my refrigerator is missing a door.

"Okay, Hulk. Tone it down to mild-mannered Bruce Banner before I get there tonight. Not tomorrow, I changed my mind. Anyways, have you ever realized that 'Bruce Banner' and 'mild-mannered' rhymes? Isn't that fucking crazy? I love words."

"Okay cool, see you tonight, nerd." I hang up on him with all the love in the world before he can say anything back.

And then I chuck my phone into the lake.

♾

He brings over homemade pizza, a tin of double fudge brownies, a red velvet cake, fried chicken, three pies, a dozen glazed donuts, and a large cup of iced coffee from my favorite place downtown.

When he sets down the final bag, he collapses beside me. "I didn't think you'd be leaving your house for a while. This should last about a week. I'll cook more in the meantime."

It's only been three months, nearly four in a labeled fling, but he's shown more compassion in that time frame than some people have over the course of years. It's hard to reciprocate that, but I try. He knows I do.

"Gee, did you cook enough?"

He frowns and examines the literal buffet set out in front of us. "Nah. I almost made a fancy little macaroni and cheese casserole and I was about to hand-bake a cheesecake, but I ran out of time."

I know he's joking because he smiles and leans over into my side, pulling my arm over his shoulders and playing with my fingers. "I think this'll last me for two weeks."

"I hope so. I'm running out of recipes that you'll like. I can only make so many desserts at a time, Dallon. I've gone through entire cookbooks."

"Don't make fun of my sweet tooth, you've known me for five months and dated me for almost four. You don't even know the real me, mom, nobody understands me."

He laughs, grabs the red velvet cake and a spoon, and doesn't even bother to cut a slice before ripping into it. "I know you love music, and that you're really good at what you do. I know you're one of the nicest people I've ever met, and all this hate is stupid and undeserved. I know everything that's going around is an utter lie made by jealous idiots."

"I know you're an excellent photographer, except for that one time when you fucked up all my photos."

"I was overwhelmed by your face. And the whole date proposal thing. That was a lot right before a photoshoot, you know. Why couldn't you have waited until afterwards?"

I shrug. He knows the answer, but I tell him again anyways. "I couldn't wait."

He took a video to send to his friends over social media to explain what had happened that day, and I downloaded it on a disk, transferred it to CDs, my phone, every computer I owned, and three different USB sticks because I'm very prone to losing things, and it's entertaining to watch so I can't risk never seeing that video again.

I also framed the blurry photos he took that day, and one of them in which he was crying while he cleaned the lens backstage. That one is on the mantle. He hates them, but they've been up for a month now, and he hasn't even tried to take them down, so they stay.

"Did you really burn all your song drafts?" He meets my eyes and curls up a little closer to me. He yanks a quilt down from over the couch and kicks it over us. "I liked a few of them. They were soft and sweet. The story-based ones are always my favorite."

The corner of the room they had all resides in is empty and sad. "They're all gone. I can't put them out after everything, and you know that."

"Yeah. I was just hoping, y'know? I like your slow songs. They're the only thing that can help me fall asleep."

I sit up and grab a tray of fried chicken. "Melatonin. I use it. It's an over the counter drug so you can get it from anywhere. It tastes like blackberries."

"If a drug tastes good, I won't eat it. I've got a family history of easy addiction, and I'm not in a hurry to test it out." He doesn't even look up from his plate after sharing a personal secret so nonchalantly. I don't understand him sometimes, but I roll with it.

"Okay, okay. I'll write a little collection of acoustic songs for you then."

"Songs for food. It's a fair trade in my book."

He's so warm, I love it. "Whatever makes you happy."

We stay in the same position for a while, just enjoying each other's company and the piles of food set in front of us. A documentary about arctic wildlife airs on the television, but neither of us pay it any attention. For the first time in days, maybe years, I feel like everything is okay. I wish I'd found him sooner.

"Your house is a mess." He mutters and I assume he'd been eyeing the pile of broken plastic and various devices near the door to the garage. I needed to remodel my entire kitchen with new appliances.

"I'm the Hulk. Let me be."

Brendon sits up and sets down his empty plate on the coffee table, crossing his arms and giving me a look. He's concerned, and a little angry and scared. "I am very, very worried about you. You haven't slept in two days, you've broken half the things you own, you burned seven months worth of drafts, and you drowned your phone in a fucking lake. Sane people don't do that."

"Well, look—"

"I'm gonna say something really rash and heavy, so I want you to take five or more minutes to think about it." He glances at the clock behind me, and then back to me. "I want to move in with you. Mainly to make sure you don't do some irreversible shit, but I like you a lot, more than I could probably ever tell you. If you don't want me to, I completely understand, and I wouldn't take offense to it at all if you say no—"

"Well, I don't want to say no. Let's do it." I don't even have to think about it for long. It's an easy answer, a logical one too. I'll admit we haven't been together for the longest time, but there are just some times when things are right.

He glares at me. "I said think about it. That was fifteen seconds."

"I did think about it, and I've decided that I really want you to move in with me. I'm not joking. We can stay here until I'm out of the woods and then we'll go to the house in New York or wherever you want to go."

His eyes turn wide and glassy, and he smiles. "I'd like that a lot."

3

The media catches a few photos of a moving truck headed up to my exclusively private retreat home, and I had no choice but to hire a team of movers to transport everything. We try to help as much as we can, but there's not much we can do with a thousand cameras watching, so I tip the crew a little extra.

Our compromise was simple; I keep about half of my furniture, he brings about half of his. Our styles are the same, so there isn't much arguing in the process, except for disputes of previous but ugly sentiments, and when we ended up with two copies of every movie and television show to exist. We kept most mine because the majority consists of signed disks or cases.

"Can I write a song about moving boxes full of bricks?" I ask and he glares at me while I lug in another one of his boxes loaded with old hardback books.

"No. That's stupid, and you're on a break. Breaks mean not doing anything until a deadline, or until your partners cooperate. Your metaphorical partners are the media, and they are not cooperating."

I kinda assumed that, but it's fine. I don't tell him that. "Being on a break still means I can work, it just won't be released anywhere after I record it."

He sets his box down with a slam. When I look up, he's staring at me, expressionless. "No. It won't be sent anywhere. I don't think you understand that everyone to ever exist, including the people who manage your equipment and drafts, hate your guts. Keep it here for now until you're off your break — and no songs about heavy boxes."

"Don't stifle my creativity."

"That was not creativity, sweetheart. I hate to burst your bubble, but it's not the best idea you've had. My boxes aren't filled with bricks, either."

I stare at him for a while as if I'll convince him to admit it's a good idea via telepathy. "What if my moving song is the highlight of my career? What then, brick boy, whatcha gonna do?"

"I can already tell I'm saving what's left of your career. You're welcome." He walks by to grab more of his things from the front room and kisses my cheek before he goes.

I was just joking. I don't even know what a song about moving would sound like, and I don't think I ever want to, but he did prove a good point and I hate that. I need a break, but I don't want one. I'm ready for it, whatever it is, and it isn't a hiatus.

I pass by the dining room to grab more boxes but instead I see Brendon sitting on the floor over a pile of miscellaneous nonsense. He looks like he's about to fall asleep.

I sit beside him. In his hands is a little stuffed hedgehog on a plastic keychain. It has the McDonald's tag hanging on by a thread to the company logo. "Whatcha got there?"

He sets it down and sighs. "I don't know why I kept these things. It all just kinda makes me sad now."

Tragic backstory partially unlocked. "Why? You never told me about these. Apparently they're important."

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes until I pull him into a hug and he relaxes in my grip. I'm not sure if I need to adjust the thermostat because I'm warm, but he's freezing, even through he's wrapped in my old sweatshirt from my most recent world tour.

"I lived off McDonald's for months because I had to work there as soon as I was old enough. I'd get the happy meals cheap and they came with toys, and I guess I kept them."

I don't know what to say other than, "that's some deep shit", and it's just a bit embarrassing.

He nods. "Fuckin' wild. Loads more where that came from."

I'm glad he sucks at responses too. I feel a little less stupid and awkward. "I'm tired of unpacking. You've got a lot of crap."

"Only half of it is crap," he admits and turns away from the monstrous pile labeled for the Salvation Army, "the other is... slightly less crappy. I'll admit that."

Everything has some meaning to it though, or some long story full of ups and downs. I envy that. I want that. I know I'll get that with him around.

♾

While he takes a nap on my couch, I sit in my own private recording studio with a pad of paper and my good blue pen that also turns into a stylus.

I have one idea. Nothing else. 'Sometimes I wonder when you sleep, are you ever dreaming of me'. I have nowhere to go with it, so it sits on the tip of my tongue and sticks in the back of my head.

I'm treading on a bridge of thin ice on a hot summer day. I'm walking over a shark tank with a bucket of meat in my hand. I'm running off a cliff without a parachute. If I make one wrong move, everything I have crumbles to pieces.

The one thing I'm truly worried about is him moving forward without me. He moves fast and it's hard to keep up, but he's always on top of every little detail behind the scenes of the blurs around him. He's been open enough to keep me in the loop of his exes and relationships that ended in no more than grudges and anger, and it's worrying. I don't want to be like them, I want to be end game.

Before I can even begin to write down a single note, my phone buzzes with messages from my manager. It's a flurry of news articles from gossip pages, searching for something in a needle-less haystack.

First up is the rumor of Brendon being a state-of-the-art robot because nobody else can stand to be around me, because I'm a rich bitch who ruins everything. What a funny joke. Our relationship isn't even confirmed and yet we're still a big conversation.

The second topic discussed is the back porch of my secluded and private retreat house on even more private property. There's a photo of me on one of the lawn chairs, holding a can of soda being poured into a plastic coconut cup meant to mimic the classic drink style from Hawaii. One of my professional ties is knotted around my head, and my favorite Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned halfway down my chest. I was supposed to be partying, but I just looked like a sad idiot. They've already started to say I look dead, even though it's barely been a week since I stepped outside, and two days since they had last tried to photograph me for their lame invasive articles.

In my reminders, I write a small blurb about needing to hire someone to hang a thick tarp to hide my house from view so I can get some goddamn peace and quiet.

For about an hour, I'm tempted to break the silence that I haven't held for very long. Every website on the internet is itching to hear from me again so they can tear me to shreds like a pack of rabid wolves, and I know that no matter what I say, they'll do it anyways. I withhold my tweets for my sake.

I do stalk people, and I scroll through Brendon's profile on instagram, which is still up and running. His comments are flooded asking about me, all because of the photos released with the moving trucks. He hasn't been online to post for a while, but he likes a few pictures every now and then about being single and eating pizza, mainly to steer people into thinking he's not with me at all since I'm ghosting life at the moment.

A few of his candids sprinkled in between promotions of artists he did photoshoots with have the comments turned off; I took those. He also deleted the one promoting me, which I specifically asked him to take down. People ask where it went on a daily basis, and he leaves tens of thousands of comments without a reply.

When I return to the homepage, I see he posted a photo ten minutes ago, while I was deep in the feed of his profile. It's a picture of the fireplace — my fireplace — and two cups set next to each other. One for me, and one for him, but nobody knows that but us. He's curled up on the couch still, and the end of the blanket covering his socks touch the coffee table. He forgot to turn off the comments, and people start speculating, because he supposedly lived in a fireplace-less apartment.

The caption reads, "happier than I've been in a long time".

   
4

"Did you know," Brendon pipes up from the corner of my studio, swiping dust off the lens of his camera with a fancy little brush, "that wombats poop square poops so it doesn't roll away? It lets them mark their territory effectively."

I have a guitar in my hand, but I stop before I can strum out another chord. "I did not. I'm not sure I ever wanted to know that."

He shrugs. "The more you know." The flash goes off, and he's squinting at the screen to catch a quick glimpse of the moment he captured. He smirks and then turns it around to show it to me.

"I look like a zombie." I tell him because it's true. My hair is a mess, my shirt is white and stained with food, and my eyes are caught in a haze of a weird half-blink. "I'm a drunk zombie."

"You're a cute drunk zombie."

"New album title," I snap my fingers and point at him, "Drunk Zombie. That photo will be the cover. Boom, nailed it. Hiatus over, I'm going back on another stadium world tour. I'll have two catwalks this time around in the shape of an 'X', and the floor will have LED lights so it'll look like I'm walking on water or standing in space. I'll close the show with a love song played on a piano that will be on the edge of one of the cat walks and they'll both go up and spin over the crowd like a helicopter blade, but slower."

He sets down his camera on his lap and stares at me like I told him I was going to schedule a venue on Mars. "New rule: no more new music era talk until you're in the clear. Make songs in secret for all I care, but don't you dare start planning this shit."

"Yeah, but—"

"No.

"How do you know I wasn't just kidding?"

"You've talked about it in your sleep before. That's your dream stage. You'll monologue to the audience too. You thank the pillows for coming out tonight, and you tell the lamp you'd like to play them a surprise song. You slap me in the face every once in a while because you think you're high-fiving people. I really appreciate it."

Fair enough. "How do I know when I'm good to go? The articles are literally never going to stop. I'll never tour again and I'll die in my room surrounded by old merchandise and despair."

Brendon picks up his camera again and starts toggling with the knobs and dials on the sides, focusing on me while he plays. "The first sign is when they stop calling you a traitorous bitch. The second is when I'm no longer harassed on social media. The third is when anyone posts photo about you and very few people give a shit about what was said and instead they focus on who you are."

That'll never happen, but I don't want to argue. "Yeah, yeah. Alright. Can we do something to keep my mind off it then? I should be planning the... you-know-what... right now. A release date should be around the corner. I'm missing my two year cycle."

Brendon gives me a look. A look that says he's going to hit me in the face with the camera if I talk again, the look that says he's not going to hesitate to uppercut me with a dictionary, the look that means I'll die or be seriously injured if I say another word. I keep quiet and follow him into the kitchen.

"You don't know how to relax," he grabs two mugs from the cupboard and sets them on the counter as he turns on the coffee and tea brewing machine, "so you're gonna learn. We leisure-ing today, boys. I wish I had a leisure suit."

"This is kinda sad."

"You not knowing how to relax or me having to teach you?"

"Yes. The leisure suit idea is sad too, but practical, so I'll allow it."

He glares at me and tells me to go sit down, and then he follows to the living room to go turn on the fireplace. He starts going on and on about how I never relax and how important time to myself is. I have music to release, tours to perform on, I don't get to relax, and I don't want to. For the last decade or so, my brain has been hardwired to do one thing, and I don't know how to do anything but.

"First, we meditate," a cup of tea is shoved into my hands, and Brendon sits across from me with a video pulled up on YouTube, "even though it's not really a step in sitting down and watching Netflix for six hours while your brain rots, it's still a good thing to do."

I can't remember the last time I binged television for even two hours, let alone six. Apparently his record is forty eight hours. I don't want to compete with that. "Are we listening to whales scream for an hour, or what?"

"No. I remember you told me before you go out on stage, the crowd fucking screams for you, and that's when you're most at peace. It's weird, but I don't judge. I have twenty minutes of crowds screaming in a moderately loud voice." He presses play, and I feel like I'm at home again.

Five months ago, I was three shows away from finishing a world tour. I was supposed to go out that night with the photographer from a shoot earlier that day. He was on the side of the stage, watching with a few other fans who'd been upgraded to priority access at the last minute.

I was terrified, for probably the fourth time in my entire career. The first time, was my first actual venue with a team behind me. The second was when twenty high-rated critics were all reviewing the same show. The third was my first stadium, when I had fireworks and two hours worth of routines and special effects to follow along to. The fourth was then, when I had probably the love of my life watching me perform. I was missing that moment of content and serenity before a show.

I never told him, but the only thing that got me out on stage was when they let him use one of the microphones that led to my left earpiece.

Every change in scenery or high note was narrated by "holy shit", "I'm having a religious experience", and "how did you hit that note". I kept going above and beyond throughout the entire night just to hear him.

I don't remember half of the comments he made because he made so many more that got me to laugh at later dates, but he'd quickly replaced any sort of calmness I had before a show. I wasn't complaining, because that meant he'd have to travel with me everywhere or I'd risk a massive freak out.

Twenty minutes pass before I can even ask if five are up. I don't think I was really meditating, but it felt pretty close.

"You were smiling," he frowns and takes a sip of his drink, "what were you thinking about?"

You. "Last date of the last tour. It was a good one, wasn't it?"

He nods. "Yeah. I liked the platform that carried you over the crowd and to the second stage. It was so sparkly."

I'd changed the cage last minute because he was rambling about it during the photoshoot since he was flustered didn't know what to say, saying it needed sparkles or something. I added Christmas lights before I went on that night. "Anyways, what's the next step in relaxation?"

"Drink your tea and do nothing. We can watch a show or a movie or something, but only after five minutes of nothing."

The fire casts shadows on his face and accentuate his features. I wonder how I look. "Alright. You've gotta sit closer to me, though."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

5

"The never ending hiatus of a has-been legend continues," Brendon reads from his phone from the bathroom connected to the master bedroom, "as his manager publicly speaks on his break from the media to work on a comeback that will be larger than life. We're not exactly sure that will ever happen, but we can't wait to see what the traitor twists next."

"That's some bullshit." I yell back at him from my bed, and he laughs. I haven't written one song or even come up with a beat, but it'll be a good album. It has to be.

He comes back with a toothbrush in his mouth and shows me the screen. "They've written about me too. Apparently it's suspicious that I've spent so much time away from social media, so I need to start posting again. Also the photo I posted with two cups instead of one really got people going."

"Can't hide anything from them. I told you." I sit up and pull him into a hug. I get the sneaking suspicion that he's not a fan of all the attention. "The constant eyes are a part of the contract. There's no way to avoid them."

He leans in to the hug with a nice and content sigh. "How have you not, like, punched a reporter or some shit like that? After over a decade I thought you'd have some vendetta against them."

I know they have to make money somehow, and if they do it by 'exploiting' me for going on a coffee run for the sugariest drink in existence, then so be it. Recently, I haven't been happy with the paparazzi, but I know it's what they're paid to do, so in a weird sense I'm alright with it. "Nah. We've got a one-sided understanding. They have to feed the kids somehow."

His eyes soften and he grins. "You're too patient for your job. I'd have lost my marbles a dozen times in a day."

I lost my marbles a decade ago, and they haven't been seen since. They may have been spotted in the Amazon jungle, but nobody is sure of their whereabouts to this day. "It's a gift."

His phone dings and he shows me another article speculating about a secret relationship mainly regarding me having one behind closed doors. Brendon had always been open because he had nothing to worry about, so they haven't been able to connect the dots. Stupid paparazzi. We've been right under their noses the whole time.

"Apparently I go through relationships too quickly." He frowns and squints at the screen. His bottom lip juts out in a pout as he keeps scrolling to the end of the page. "I'm confused. They said they love my work, but also think I'm kind of a hoe. Can they make up their minds? Am I a professional photographer or a hoe?"

That's the furthest thing from the truth. He had two relationships over the course of four years, people just chose to blow up over nothing. "You're not, and you know that, and that's all that matters. Who cares about what they think?"

"I do. If everyone thinks this is true, I'm gonna be out of work. Nobody's going to want to be in front of a camera when I'm behind it." It's just one article, and it's already getting to him. I thought about posting something out of the blue just to stick it to the media and show them I'm doing better than I ever was, but I'm not so sure that's the best path anymore.

"Hey, it's alright," I take his phone and set it on the nightstand, "don't even worry about it. They're just talking and putting us through our paces, it's normal, there's nothing that can stop it. We'll just take it, because nobody else can, and we'll get through it."

"You're too nice. I don't know how you do it." He mumbles into my shirt and doesn't move for a frighteningly long period of time, but I really don't mind. I need to brush my teeth, but that is a very minor concern.

"Kill 'em with kindness, you know? There's no use in being a dick all the time. Then everyone really hates you."

"Everyone hates you right now."

"I'm the exception. To be fair, I was sort of an asshole when I was a teenager just starting out in the business."

He finally pushes back and stares me down like I'd just told him I was going to Mars and never coming back. "Everyone was an asshole when they were a teenager. I bet those idiots that ratted you out were too."

"Yeah, but they admitted to it," they'd been better than I had been, but I don't tell him that, "and I never did. I don't think I want to. Not a fan of diving back into my past like that unless it's to perform some good oldies from the first album. Gotta love the county vibes."

He cracks a smile and lets me up to find my toothbrush, laughing his ass off in reminisce of my early years in the industry with banjos and southern accents.

♾

I wake up a few hours later and slip to the studio. I have ideas, finally, for lyrics. And that's it. It's a little sad, but I'll take what I can get.

Now, it's not explicitly about Brendon. It's more about relationships and that interaction with the media, which is loosely based on my own relationship. Technically I don't need to ask if it's okay to write a song about him, because it isn't about him.

I'll ask once they really are about us and nothing else. I don't know how long that will be, but I know it'll happen. I'm ready to work and get a jump on the game, which is the second time that has happened in an album process. The first time was when I was making a comeback from a record that didn't do too hot, which was followed up with one of the most popular albums of all time.

Truth be told, I'm worried. I watch relationships crumble in the public eye like cookies in milk, and I've been part of them as well. Of course, I didn't mind then, because I was just looking for a fling, not anything too serious. I had that 'fuck you all, I'm a star' mindset, and I don't anymore.

If they ripped apart a summer romance, I can't even begin to imagine what they would do if they found out I was trying to be in a serious and committed relationship. It would either be a field day, or a genuine good time where I am congratulated and left alone. I suspect a field day with the main event being kicking my ass and beating me up over the internet. I'd definitely beat myself up online though, so I understand.

I know keeping it a secret might not be the best option, but it's really all we have, and I know he's not a fan of all the publicity. It may be foreign to me, but whatever makes him happy is enough for me. I'll put up with the secrecy and sneaking around for his sake forever if I needed to. I might have to.

Another truth be told, I don't mind living like I am. It's comfortable and quiet, it's calm for once instead of being the chaos I'm used to.

It's strange to think he changed all of that.

6

The next three weeks are a nightmare. I have to rethink my personal stance on paparazzi and the media websites.

Brendon sits outside at the fire pit, alone. He's roasting marshmallows and watching them crumble to nothing instead of squishing them between graham crackers and chocolate like he does when he's happy and content. Instead, he's mulling over the things I said but probably shouldn't have, rightfully so because I was an asshole.

The beginning of the month was sung in with nothing but negative articles about me not facing my problems and hiding away like a coward. They criticized the decision to take some time to myself instead of jumping back into toxicity headfirst. We didn't mind that as much as what was to come, but it was still an awful thing to constantly read through wherever we turned.

Next was the bashing of everything I had ever made. My tours were torn to shreds, my songs were ripped apart, and each interview had been slashed relentlessly even by the people who had paid for and conducted the interviews. For the record, I was always as nice as I could be, and I never took advantage of my status to get what I wanted around their sets. The worst part was that I couldn't clear my name — I'd been caught trying to post something, anything, and Brendon logged me out of my account. I also don't remember the passcode to it, so I'm screwed.

The third 'incident' brought me to where I am now; sitting alone on the couch while a stupid B-list horror movie plays in the background. He was so mad, he didn't bother to choose to kick me out so he could keep watching. It was a stupid fight.

Every gossip website had collectively decided to report on all the relationships and flings I had ever had, which was a lot, because of the phase where I'd go out with anyone and anything. It was a rough time, but they didn't soften the blow in the slightest. The grand total was in the thirties, all the photos accompanied by long paragraphs about how I fucked up a perfectly good relationship by just existing.

It was fine at first, that was just how the media got attention. But then it spread to every corner of the internet, and everybody knew the me from about five years ago. Maybe they just wanted people to click on their stories, but it went too far when one article bid good luck and an essay of advice to the unfortunate and gullible idiot who dated me next.

He didn't mind at first, but of course they started to get to him. I didn't expect anything else. I did think it wouldn't really effect him as much as it did, but I'm not a psychic.

We got into a stupid argument. I didn't think it was such a big deal, but Brendon told me fairly calmly he hated that I'd dated thirty eight people in the span of five or six years. I hollered at him from across the living room to say he was being possessive and unreasonable, and chaos ensued.

As soon as he left the room, I realized he was right to worry. There wasn't any proof I'd really changed, he was just going off my word that I was looking for something serious, that he was one of thirty nine to actually fit the standards.

When I open the sliding glass door to join him, he doesn't even turn to look at me.

"Hey."

"Leave me alone. I don't want to be around you right now." He pulls his knees to his chest and scoots around to face away, but he still ends up turning his head to watch the fire spark and crackle.

"I wanted to apologize, and I'm not leaving until you listen and maybe accept my apology. You know I didn't mean what I said."

"Thirty eight is a big number, Dallon," he spins around to glare daggers, "and who knows how many secret relationships you've hidden from the media! I don't really want to be just another number and just another fling you had while you were a moody bitch."

I'm not a moody bitch, but I know he's just upset, so I let it slide. "You're not."

"And how can I possibly know that?"

I sit down next to him and he scoots away a little bit. "You read the articles. Do you know how hard they try to ruin everything about me? Yeah, there were thirty eight people in five to six years, but I also believed I was an immortal rockstar. I changed, Brendon — that's not me anymore. I want to find someone, and that someone is you."

"Thirty eight!"

"I love you!"

"I love you too!" I can feel his anger melting away as soon as he yells it back at me, for the first time, but he still tries to be upset with me. "Okay."

"...Is that an okay we're cool, or is it an okay fuck off?"

"Okay we're cool." He leans back and ends up curled up in my arms immediately. "I'm still kind of mad though. You didn't have to snap at me like that. I'm pretty sure I had the rights to be upset."

I nod and give his shoulder a little squeeze that I hope is as comforting as I had intended it to be. "Understandable, and you do have the right to be angry at me. I'm mad at myself. It was stupid shit, and it didn't matter, and I wish you knew that before I yelled at you. I wish I could run away from me."

He doesn't respond to that, I think because he couldn't think up anything to say in response to it.

"Take a picture of this," he mutters after a few minutes of silence between us and the crackling fire, "and use it for later. Use it as a mental visual for a song, or whatever. Savor this right now, though."

I do. It's one of those things you tell yourself to remember, and it ends up being a forever memory of hyper-focusing on a leaf or something stupid like that, but it's different this time, and I like it. I like the warm subtle light from the fire, I like the heat radiating from it, I like the feel of his favorite Sherpa blanket against my bare hands. I like the smell in the air of cool summer nights and smoke.

"Would you run away with me?" I blurt it out, and I definitely don't mean to, but he hears it and sits up to stare at me for a moment before asking what I'd just said.

But then I don't respond, and he's concerned. "What did you say? What does that mean? Haven't we technically already run away? I can't survive in the wilderness if you're thinking about going extreme with this."

"Look, I-I mean, like, okay, you don't need to save me or anything like that. You know, like the usual damsel-in-distress trope. But uh... I don't know, would you run away with me? We could just get out of here. We'd never be bothered again. I just really want to be with you, I really do. Nobody else really matters. Would you run away with me?"

He gives me a lopsided smile and collapses back into my arms, more so than before. "I like how our little fight isn't significant to you anymore."

"Well, it doesn't matter. You were right, and I was wrong, and I'm a big enough person to admit it. We should just get out of here, we wouldn't have to deal with this paparazzi shit anymore. In case you couldn't tell, they ruin relationships, and I'm beginning to take a liking to us."

I can feel him smile even though I can't see his face. "I would run away with you, but we aren't going anywhere. Maybe for vacation, you can pretend we're leaving behind your career for peace and quiet, but you have a job to do that you've worked your entire life for. It runs in your blood, and I won't let you give it up because a bunch of cameras and reviews are ruining your reputation."

I don't really have a reputation to uphold anymore, but alright. I keep quiet and break the news. "I don't care about that — I mean, I do, but you're more important than touring ans making more albums and whatever. Like I'll still do that because I'm not too good at anything else, but it wouldn't go anywhere. It's cool and all, but a nice committed relationship? Who ever knew love was supposed to make you feel good inside?"

"I didn't know until about a few months ago. Fuckin' wild. But don't you dare quit music."

7

I think at some point, I stopped caring. That might've been during last month after we had the whole running away conversation, but it also may have been as recent as a few hours ago, when I was sent another flurry of articles about how much of a rich bitch I am. I'm starting to think they're true.

Of course I'm rich, I can't help that and I donate most of what I earn. But I could lower ticket prices, and meet and greets don't need to cost money. And why do I only do one show per venue instead of two or three for larger cities? California hates me, and so does Texas.

And maybe I said a few things that sounded like insensitive insults, but I never meant anything I said. Maybe I was an ass to some people, mainly because they rubbed me the wrong way, but that never gave me the right to say anything bad about them, even if it was just once or twice.

Maybe they're right and I was just too blind to see that I really am just a rich bitch.

Brendon stands at the kitchen counter, holding a bowl and trying to turn the page to his personal cookbook without getting cake batter on the letters. "Also," he hollers to me, "I think chocolate cake is overrated. Yeah, there're some good ones, but there are so many other combinations to make, you know? Like, vanilla can go with almost any frosting to ever exist, and chocolate is so limited. And you can make so many other types of cake, and they're so much better. Like, cookies and cream cake batter exists. Peanut butter cake batter exists. Lemon cake batter exists. In conclusion, chocolate is not superior. No more chocolate allowed in this household."

"Chocolate soothes the pain of existence."

"Valid point. Chocolate is unbanned."

I have found the single problem with dating someone who avidly bakes. He cares way too much about desserts. Not that I don't mind it, but he tends to ban certain items until I give a good enough reason to bring them back. Example given, the second-long chocolate debacle.

"I think pecan pies are gross too," he pulls the whisk from the batter and tosses it in the sink a few feet away, "like, I don't want nuts in my pies. Apple pie? Good shit. Pumpkin pie? Moderately good shit. Now, blueberry pie is sent from heaven. Conclusion: pecan, hell. Pumpkin, purgatory. Apple, middle ground. Blueberry, heaven. Pecan and pecan pie are banned."

"Pecans don't have a shell so you can crush them with your bare hands."

"Very good point. Pecans unbanned. Now only the pies are forbidden."

"Pies are smashable."

Brendon grabs the pitcher full of spoons and utensils and shakes it until he gets my attention. "Every argument you make is fucking depressing! I'm trying to make you feel better the only way I know how! Food and debate!"

"You're what now?"

He frowns and he stares right into my soul. "You used to get all into it and defend, like, pomegranates with hour long speeches. And all your answers are super depressing. Yeah, chocolate relieves the pain of existence, but we all knew that already, I wanted a fun and new answer."

I told him he didn't need to save me, because I don't need saving. Maybe I'm a little down, but he automatically assumed I'm down for the count, forever. "I'm fine! I'd love to know what you're thinking is wrong with me."

"I'm a baker, a professional photographer, a graphic designer, and an avid Dallon Weekes listener. I played baseball in high school, and I drove a blue truck. My favorite state is Nevada, I hate winter, and I hate swimming pools. I never learned how to ride a bike. I lived in Australia for three months. I'm allergic to garden weeds. I get cold easily."

"I already knew all that, and I still don't see your point."

"I never told you I studied psychology for three years in college before I dropped out to become a professional photographer, which was the best and worst mistake of my entire life. You're showing early signs of depression, bitch."

"I am not."

He glares at me. "This is the first time you've left your bed in three days. When you shower, if ever, it takes a whole hour. Do you know why I'm making desserts right now? Because you won't eat anything else. Cheesecake is a difficult process, and it's all you eat. Recognize my effort and love for you."

"You wanna fuck off and leave me alone?"

"You wanna shut up and let me love and appreciate you?" He has his hands on his hips and he shoots daggers from his eyes at me like I had just threatened to go out in public again. The first time I had suggested it did not go over well.

"I'm not depressed. You're reading too much into this."

"I am not. You haven't been eating, you're always tired, you don't do anything, and your showers are an hour long. I don't think the door to the studio has been opened in two weeks. Look at your shirt. You haven't changed for five days."

I look down, and he's wrong. I haven't changed in six days, but that sounds worse, so I keep my mouth shut. "I'm not depressed. I just have nothing to do, so I don't do anything. There's no point, really."

"Deny it all you want. I don't care. Maybe you're just in an awful slump. But if this starts going downhill anymore, I'm going to be fucking pissed. I'm here if you want to admit anything or if you need help doing anything to prove you're just a little bored and unmotivated."

"Fine. Help me write a song."

"Fine. I'll meet you in your studio in an hour because I have to finish cooking."

"Fine. I'll start setting up."

"Fine. I'll help when I'm done."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

In the end, I ended up with a song made from spite for the first argument we'd had. He said rap would sound cool in it, but neither of us knew how to rap, and neither google or YouTube offered any useful help, so I'll have to contact someone to find a rapper that can actually add to the song instead.

It's a good song, though. I like it.

8

On New Year's Eve, I did have a couple people over. And by couple, I meant four from me, and sixteen from Brendon, because his core few friends invited other people without telling either of us. In the end, there were upwards of twenty people roaming around my house, my own personal space, and less than half were given an invitation.

"I'm never throwing a party again." Brendon mutters into my ear, a drink in one hand and my hand in the other. We stand in the corner and watch our guests play shot games and reveal deep dark secrets. I'm glad I'm not a part of it.

"We can have more parties, just not with these people. Or these shot glasses. They should be burned." The shot glasses had been defiled and I wanted to throw them out on the spot.

He nods. "We can either burn them or smash them into bits."

"We can kick everyone out and enjoy New Year's alone." I mutter. Brendon is not a fan of that idea.

"Not this time," he huffs, "you haven't had any human interaction other than me for a long ass time. These people suck ass, but socialization is important."

I didn't end up speaking to any of them for the rest of the night, at least not while they could engage in an intelligent and comprehensible conversation. I did order cars for drunk pairs and tucked some people into the guest bedroom at around an hour before the ball dropped. Brendon and I spent the rest of the night on the couch, watching the live video of a party in Times Square while rain pattered at the windows.

The ball dropped, we had a great first five minutes of the new year, and then we got a head start on cleaning up the bottles and spills from the floor. He followed behind me with a stretchy trash bag and provided moral support as I crawled around on the tile like a street sweeper.

"If there's any loose change, I call it." He says. I hand him a bottle and it shatters when it drops back to the floor in the bag.

"I'm the one on my hands and knees. It's my change. We aren't even guaranteed any change, who carries loose change in their pockets anyways?"

I glance over my shoulder to give him a dirty look, but all he does is stick his hand in the pocket of his fancy dress pants and scoop out a handful of pennies and dimes. "You're so judgmental."

"That's a power move."