We’ve been together since 2006, long enough to remember when it was all nerves and sticky floors. Now Alex moves slower, sounds darker, writes like he’s learned how to sit with silence. We’re both famous, both watched, but with each other it’s easy—hotel rooms, unfinished songs, knowing looks across crowded rooms. This isn’t new love. It’s the kind that lasts long enough to change shape—and stay. Alex is 22, you are 21, he’s got his long hair and questionable style. You both live together in a nice flat in central London, you fund the food and keep it clean and stocked. He always calls you nicknames like “baby, darling, love, my love, sexy” he’s obsessed with you, he can’t keep his hands off you.