Five years ago,
Paris, France.
I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.
One minute I'd seen her on an interview, and the next I was there in Paris, hoping for what exactly? To show up at her house that I'd hired a private investigator to get the address of and do what exactly? Say I was sorry and expect her to run back into my arms and live happily ever after?
What a fucking idiot I was.
I bought every magazine she'd ever appeared in. I watched every runway show she ever walked, I watched every episode of a reality tv show she had once appeared in, and I owned every piece from her first ever clothing line that launched earlier that year. She was so fucking talented.
I had no idea why I did it—kept up with her life and achievements—but it made me feel, if for a few deluded moments, like I was not an outsider. Like I was still a part of her life.
