Who is that girl, sitting there in an uncomfortable metal chair in the middle of the airport? I see her in the mirrored wall but I don’t know her, and it’s not just because she’s traveling incognito. Even without the hat and sunglasses, I wouldn’t know her. She sits with her shoulders slumped, her spine curved. Her skin is a strange shade of pasty. If I didn’t know better, I would think she slathered her face in gray concealer. Why anybody would do that, I don’t know, but that’s how she looks.

Her mouth too. Both corners hanging down. It pulls the muscles of her cheeks down, too, so she looks a lot older than she is. Are those frown lines? Let’s not even discuss the lank hair. Not blow drying will do that.

I shift my body in a feeble attempt to get comfortable. Talk about a waste of time. I’m fairly sure these chairs were designed by torture enthusiasts. I miss the first class lounge, but there weren’t any first class seats available on my flight. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to take whatever was available first. That would’ve meant being able to think with a clear head, and I was way beyond that point when I fled my hotel. Now that nearly an hour or so has passed, I’m starting to regret running without getting an explanation.

Like I needed one more thing to regret.

I should have calmly waited at the hotel for him to show up. Then I would have dealt with him in a cold and decisive way. No matter what he said or what explanation his smooth tongue came up with I would know not to forgive him. If he tried to use his hypnotic eyes on me I would just look away. There’s not a thing he can do or say to change my mind.

Beside I want to hear the story from his mouth. I want to know why he thought it was all right to use me the way he did. I want to watch him scramble and stutter and try to convince me again that he’s a good guy. I want to watch his jaw drop when I tell him I know Victoria is pregnant. It’s not fair that he should get off without having to deal with the way he hurt me.

I shake my head and look down at my phone, trying to distract myself. No, being face-to-face with him wouldn’t help anything. Having to see him again and remember the way things were last night—the entire time we were together—wouldn’t help at all.

I scroll through my Instagram feed and see how many of my so-called friends are living it up right now. One of them is in Bali, another in Hawaii. One of them is currently looking around for a villa on Lake Como. Even the ones who aren’t traveling, who take pictures of themselves by the pool or hanging out in their rec room, look like they might as well be staying at a spa. They’re all tanned and pampered and fake. And this is all I have. I close the app before my mood spirals any further out of control.

That’s when I hear them. Whispering. They’re off to my left, two rows back. Young girls. I can’t tell how many there are—they all sound the same. Especially when they’re trying to be sneaky. I’ve been through this more times than I can count, and I learned a long time ago to ignore them until they approach. Ignore them, but be aware of them. It’s like having fangirl radar installed in my brain.

Part of me rebels furiously. Is it too much to ask that I be able to suffer in peace? No, I’m not allowed to live my life. It’s the public first, me second. I’m falling apart inside, but if those girls were to approach me right now, I would have to put on a smile and pretend that seeing them is the biggest treat in my day. If I didn’t, if I frowned or acted tired or distant, I would instantly be classed as arrogant, nasty, bitchy, and too big for my boots. Taylor doesn’t appreciate her fans. Doesn’t she realize they made her. Without them she is nothing.

When I see gossip about other celebrities caught “behaving badly”, I always have to wonder what happened to them that day. Why did they act that way? Nobody ever bothers to find out why the celebrity gave a group of screaming fans the cold shoulder. Maybe her dog got sick. Maybe her kid got sick. Maybe she’s got a toothache, for Christ’s sake.

It's another twenty-five minutes until boarding and I’m antsy as hell. Why can’t I just get out of this godforsaken place and get on with forgetting I ever came here? It’s like I’m standing in semi-set concrete and I can’t lift my feet out of it. It’s a special kind of torture.

The whispering gets louder, and there are a few giggles, too. I look straight ahead and wish I hadn’t. There’s a group of girls outside the gate, looking at me from where they’re standing in front of a coffee shop.

I feel like an animal at the zoo. The back of my neck starts getting all hot and prickly. I see one of the girls from the group in front of me look off toward the group behind me and it’s like they do some mental telepathy thing because all of a sudden, both groups descend on me like a flock of vultures. It reminds me of that Hitchcock movie, The Birds.

There are around ten, maybe twelve of them in all, and all of them are asking me questions at once. My head is spinning and my neck is getting sore from all the swiveling back and forth to smile and exchange a few nice words with them. Their questions overlap, getting louder and louder the longer they try to talk over each other.

They press in on me from all sides: behind, in front, right and left.