In Her Words

chapter 2

Adele's POV :

I've always been passionate about my

career. From the moment I stepped into

the spotlight, music has been my

everything-my love, my escape, my

identity. It consumed me, and I let it

because it was easier to be wrapped up

in the demands of my work than to

confront the empty spaces in my life.

Those spaces where love should be,

where connection should grow. I've

never allowed myself the luxury of

falling in love. There was always a tour,

an album, something that kept me

moving, kept me distant.

But lately, I've felt it more-this hollow

ache, a yearning for something I've

never fully known. I'd catch myself

staring at couples in the street or

listening to the lyrics of my own songs

with a longing I hadn't noticed before.

Love, for all its messiness and beauty,

had always been something I sang about,

not something I lived. And the absence of

it, the absence of someone who could see

me, truly see me beyond the stage lights,

was beginning to weigh on me.

Then, a few months ago, something

unexpected happened. I started

receiving these... stories. At first, they

came in plain envelopes, the kind fan

mail often arrives in. But when I opened

the first one, I realized this was

something different. These stories-each

one a new chapter every week-weren't

like the usual letters I received. They

were about me. But not the me everyone

sees. The me that exists behind closed

doors, in quiet moments when no one is

watching. The version of myself that I

thought only I knew.

It was strange at first. Who could write

about me with such insight, such

understanding? The stories captured

thoughts and feelings I had never shared

with anyone. They described my inner

world with an accuracy that was both

thrilling and terrifying. It was as if the

writer had a window into my soul, one

that I wasn't sure I wanted open. But I

couldn't help myself-I kept reading.

And with each new chapter, I found

myself looking forward to the next one,

eager to see what this mysterious writer

would reveal about me, or rather, about

the version of me they had created.

The letters never had a name, no

signature, nothing to tell me who this

person was. But there was something in

the way they wrote, something that made

me feel certain it was a woman. The

tenderness, the depth of understanding

-it all felt distinctly feminine. It was

unsettling at first, but soon enough, that

unease transformed into curiosity. Who

was she? How did she know me so well?

Weeks passed, and with every story, my

curiosity grew. It wasn't long before I

became obsessed with finding out who

this woman was. I needed to know her,

to understand why she saw me the way

she did. And, for the first time in my life,

I found myself deeply interested in

someone-not because of what they

could do for me, but because of what

they made me feel.

So, I did what I had to do. I reached out

to my team, my connections, to anyone

who could help me track down this

mysterious writer. The stories were too

personal, too intimate, to be ignored. It

didn't take long before a name surfaced

-Leo. He had been the one sending the

stories. But when I contacted him

through my agent, he confessed that he

wasn't the author. He was merely the

messenger, passing along stories written

by his friend, without her permission.

That revelation both frustrated and

intrigued me. Who was this friend? Why

was she hiding? Leo wouldn't give up her

name, but he didn't need to. I had

enough resources at my disposal to dig

deeper. And eventually, the truth came

out. The writer of these deeply personal,

achingly beautiful stories was none other

than Alice Anderson.

Alice Anderson-one of my favorite

authors. I had read her books for years,

admired her way with words, her ability

to capture the complexities of life and

love. It made sense, now that I thought

about it. Her writing style was familiar,

even in the letters I had received, but I

never allowed myself to believe that

Alice Anderson could be the one writing

them.

But now that I knew, there was only one

thing left to do. I had to meet her. I

couldn't let her know I'd been searching

for her-it had to be organic, an

accident. So, I made a plan. A way to

cross paths with her naturally, without

raising suspicion. It was time to meet the

woman who seemed to know me better

than I knew myself.