Celebrity dating is a bitch. A diamond-encrusted, paparazzi-flashbulb-infused, social-media-scrutinized bitch, but a bitch nonetheless. And trust me, I know.
Before all this, I was just Sarah, a regular bookstore owner with a penchant for bad puns and an even worse dating record. Then Liam Walker, heartthrob extraordinaire and the reason my teenage self plastered posters all over her bedroom wall, walked into my shop. He was researching a role, something about a charming bookstore owner, ironically.
Our eyes met over a dusty copy of “Pride and Prejudice” (his choice, surprisingly), and the rest, as they say, was a whirlwind. A whirlwind of secret dates, stolen kisses in back alleys, and whispered promises under the cloak of anonymity. It was intoxicating, exciting, and utterly terrifying.
The first few weeks were blissful. We explored hidden corners of the city, ate greasy takeout in his ridiculously fancy apartment (paper plates, of course, to maintain the illusion of normalcy), and talked for hours about everything and nothing. He was surprisingly down-to-earth, witty, and genuinely interested in me, not the idea of me.
Then came the pictures. A blurry shot of us leaving my apartment made its way onto some gossip blog. The headline screamed, “Liam Walker Caught Canoodling With Mystery Woman!” My life, my perfectly ordinary, wonderfully boring life, was suddenly public property.
The comments were brutal. I was too plain, too average, not nearly good enough for their precious Liam. Twitter exploded with hashtags like #WhoIsShe and #LiamDeservesBetter. My bookstore’s Yelp page got flooded with one-star reviews accusing me of using Liam for publicity.
Dating him became a strategic operation. We had to coordinate our movements, wear disguises, and constantly be on the lookout for lurking cameras. The spontaneity was gone, replaced by a constant undercurrent of anxiety. Every laugh felt manufactured, every touch calculated.
The pressure was relentless. My friends stopped calling, overwhelmed by the constant media attention surrounding me. My business suffered as rubberneckers clogged the aisles, hoping for a glimpse of the “mystery woman.”
Liam tried his best. He defended me in interviews, took me on lavish getaways to try and recapture the spark, but the damage was done. The spotlight had burned away the magic, leaving behind only ashes of what we once had.
Ultimately, we couldn’t make it work. The world was too loud, too intrusive. We were two different people, living in two different realities, and the chasm between us was too wide to bridge.
So here I am, back in my bookstore, surrounded by the comforting smell of old paper and ink. The posters of Liam are long gone, replaced by shelves overflowing with stories of happily ever afters. I still believe in love, but I’ve learned my lesson. Celebrity dating? Definitely a bitch. And one I won’t be revisiting anytime soon.
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