That night, we had dinner at Sapphire & Sage, an upscale restaurant with modern architecture and a trendy menu that seemed to scream sophistication. I knew Pam had handpicked it, drawn to the large windows offering a panoramic view of the tables and the romantic ambiance that was supposed to set the perfect tone for the “date.”

  My dress was feminine and delicate, in a soft hue that perfectly matched the atmosphere. I allowed myself to be carried by the flow of sweet smiles and gentle caresses, like a well-trained actress playing her role, knowing exactly when to enter and exit the scene, but never letting herself truly feel. By now, acting in love had become second nature, a part of me that I forced to surface with a smile on my lips.

  While Tom, seated across from me, laughed and talked about something trivial, I found myself staring at the table, trying to ignore the emptiness that seemed to fill everything around me. The smell of the food, the softness of the background music—all of it blended into a feeling of unreality. It was as if I were outside of myself, watching someone who looked a lot like me but felt nothing of what was happening. I smiled at the waiter, smiled at the paparazzi in the distance, and smiled at Tom, who seemed genuinely interested in my words, though I knew it was all a staged performance, a script I had memorized long ago.

  I wondered if this was the price of fame—being so immersed in the image, in the spectacle, that you lose yourself in your own story.

  I wrote my first album based on love stories about boys I’d only glimpsed, fleeting characters who were never truly a part of me but whom I knew how to portray. The lyrics spoke of passion and longing, of intense moments, but all I knew about those things came from books I’d read or movies I’d seen. Loving someone for real was still an unknown experience, but one I longed to learn.

  I looked directly at Tom—his face unbelievably handsome—and, for a brief moment, wondered if it would be possible to fall in love with him. His attentive gaze, as if he genuinely wanted to understand me, momentarily filled the emptiness inside me. For a second, I allowed myself to imagine a genuine relationship—something real, something not manipulated like the image I crafted for the world. I knew I’d later turn this feeling into a beautiful song, but for now, I contented myself with the warmth of his touch, with the sense that he was, in some way, trying to connect with me more sincerely.

  “You know, what happened yesterday was really terrible. I’m sorry they ruined your award night,” he said, his voice carrying a tone of genuine empathy. Again, I felt that spark of sincerity, the same one he’d shown yesterday. I smiled, not just because it was expected, but because perhaps this wasn’t just a role, after all. Maybe he was, in some way, more real than I’d imagined.

  “At least we’ve now got our fifteen minutes of fame, right?” he added, smiling back. For a moment, I found myself reflecting on the irony of it all. Maybe fame was the only thing everyone truly sought, the only thing that, in the end, seemed to matter. But at the same time, I felt strangely detached from it all, as if trapped in a display case, showcasing something that wasn’t truly mine—just an image molded to please. And the worst part? It seemed like the display case only opened when tragedy or drama were part of the scene.

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  “I guess so, but I don’t want a career built on pity. My schedule is packed with morning shows, and I know the drama won’t stop. I just want to be recognized for my talent, you know?” My words came out harsher than I’d intended, and hearing them, I realized how tired I was.

  He nodded, but his eyes—those eyes that always seemed so attentive—couldn’t hide the humor he tried to suppress. I knew what he was thinking—he saw me as just another pop girl, with shallow songs and shiny hair, a product ready to be consumed and discarded when the next scandal surfaced. And somehow, that hurt more than I cared to admit.

  The dinner was winding down, and despite the softness of the music and the calmness of the atmosphere, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. Tom’s conversations were becoming increasingly distant to me, as if everything was just a rehearsed backdrop, lifeless. I looked at him, but it was as if he were miles away, an extra in a play I’d memorized by heart.

  After a silence that stretched for a few minutes, Tom seemed restless, fiddling with the silverware on the table. I could tell he was also trying to find a way to break the monotony of the evening. His words were gentle, but there wasn’t anything truly new being said. It was a dance of smiles and pleasantries, a routine I knew too well.

  I looked at Tom, trying to find something to hold on to in his eyes, but I couldn’t. He was so absorbed, so… present in what he saw in me, that it only made me feel even more distant. I didn’t want to stay there any longer, in a place that offered nothing more than the performance we were fulfilling.

  “So…” I began, attempting to start a conversation but without much hope. Maybe I just wanted to change the course of the evening somehow. “Do you have somewhere in mind for us to go next?” The question sounded more like a request for a change of scenery than genuine curiosity.

  Tom smiled, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to suggest something simple, like a walk. But instead, he gave a mischievous grin, the kind that revealed he knew more than he was willing to share.

  “Actually, I do have a place in mind, but it’s not for just anyone,” he said with an air of mystery.

  I watched him, confused but curious. Without further explanation, he stood and motioned for me to follow. Wordlessly, the idea of escaping felt like the only thing driving me. We left the restaurant, and he led me through streets I didn’t recognize, toward a more secluded neighborhood. The city seemed different at night, with its blurred lights and shadows that swallowed the sidewalks. The city noise gradually faded until it disappeared entirely, replaced only by the sound of our footsteps.

  We stopped in front of an unassuming door, hidden beneath an iron archway. I looked at Tom, surprised, but he simply gestured, assuring me it was fine. The door opened with a soft click, and warm light spilled out, illuminating his eyes with an almost enigmatic glow.

  We entered a small, hidden bar with the scent of aged wood and soft music in the background. There was nothing grand about it, but the almost clandestine atmosphere made me feel like we were stepping into a refuge, where no one expected us, where the outside world couldn’t reach us anymore. I took a deep breath, letting the quietness of the space envelop me, and for the first time that night, I felt a little more… like myself.