𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐎𝐔𝐒 | Anne Hathaway (gxg)

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Before you blow out your candles on your birthday, you're given one wish. What's one thing you would you wish for? For the past five years of my life, I wished people would leave me alone. I so desperately need these hopeless boys carrying cameras crying for their money to stop following me around. How immature and unhappy can people be? I understand it's their job to capture very unphotogenic pictures of me, but it's gotten too far; they've gotten their photos already.

When I was younger, all I could do was run around the living room in my diapers with no care in the world. But now, I was given something so unnecessarily important called responsibility. I would do anything to walk on the sidewalks without being stopped for a picture. I love my fans; I know I have some sort of responsibility over them, but privacy and space is something I cherish deeply, and these people don't give it to me without a challenge.

I've arrived at my brother's den—his business' main building. I'm proud of what he's become, honestly. I never thought he'd be able to go through so much for his business without giving up once.

The reception desk takes one look at me and smiles. People who have worked here for a while already know that I'm a regular visitor. Besides writing music, I spend most of my time in his office, as we're still inseparable, even at our age. God, I sound like a 50-year-old reminiscing about teenage times, but it is true. He was there for me when no one was, and for that, I owe him everything.

The elevator seems to take an eternity to reach the last floor. The first thing I see is a massive door, known to everyone as the CEO's office, made with polished redwood. It's funny seeing the reactions of new young employees when they realize how hard and expensive it is to find. Undisturbed, I barge in.

Two heads turn to my direction, one wide-eyed at my actions and the other tired of my antics. "The matter we're currently discussing is confidential; I suggest you leave." A slim figure states sternly as she leans on my brother's desk, seemingly confronting him about something, "Or I'll have someone else do it for you." She states with more authority, but I barely move a muscle. It's not the first time I've been in a situation like this. It's gotten underwhelming.

"Good luck." I head to the long couch my brother, Sean, has in his office, lie down, then take a cigarette and light it up. The smoke fills the empty, dissatisfied space in my lungs with bliss, the churn in my chest fading as I exhale the smoke. The woman was shocked that Sean was watching things unfold, and that he let me disrespect her unscathed. I don't think I'll ever get tired of that expression she's wearing now. It never gets old.

Before she says another word, I play music on my headphones and take my book out. One hand rested on the top of it, using two fingers to keep the pages open, while the other, with a gentle but firm grip, held onto the cigarette.

I could tell that the prissy bitch was watching me, because once I finished getting comfortable, she raised her voice on Sean, ten times more mad than before I entered the room. Admittedly, I even had to raise the volume of my music. She left the room, thankfully, but unfortunately came back not long after. A face full of anger. No one could not take a peak. She was heading toward me. Oh god, was I going to get slapped?

But it was just my poor cigarette, now on the floor. She'd flung it across the room. My music was turned off by the time she extinguished the flame under her perfect Dior heels, and I felt bad. I was about to complain, but she beat me to it: "Listen closely, little girl; I don't care who you are or how important you think you are, but I don't and will never condone an attitude as disrespectful as yours. Did Mr. Price teach you any manners? You're not special. In fact, you wouldn't be anything important if it weren't for other people, so get your shit together."