Dua Lipa and the Secret Love

On the Horizon: Sun on London

25th may 2023

Dua called me late, her voice a broken whisper. She had just seen the latest photos of her and the filmmaker, and I could feel the weight of her discomfort even through the phone. "Look at them," she murmured, the sadness in her words undeniable. "It's right there in my face. Can't you see it? The unease, the distance. He's not the man I want. He's not him."

Her voice trailed off, but I knew she didn't need to say the name—M.S. was always there, haunting the spaces between her words. The silence stretched between us before she continued, softer now, like the admission pained her. "Every time I kiss him, it feels like I'm betraying M.S. There's this... disgust, like my body knows it's wrong. It's as if I'm committing the worst kind of infidelity."

She paused, and for a moment, I thought she might break down completely. Her breath hitched, the weight of her emotions palpable. "But what choice do I have when M.S. is out there with... her?" She spat the name with quiet disdain. "Maria. From New York. Every day, I feel him drifting further from me. He's slipping away, and I can't stop it."

Her voice cracked, and I could see her face on the screen—her eyes were distant, full of sorrow. She tried to hold herself together, but I could see it was a losing battle. "Do you know," she said after a moment, "the only time I feel some kind of peace is in the shower?" Her words were fragile but deep with meaning. "When the water hits my skin, it's like he's there with me. It's the only moment where the pain stops, just for a second, and it's like... like M.S. is touching me again. Like he's there."

The vulnerability in her voice was so raw, so exposed. It was like she was standing on the edge, and all I could do was listen as she let everything spill out. She wasn't just talking about the filmmaker—this was about the endless ache in her chest, the way M.S. haunted her every waking moment. She was trapped, torn between the need to move on and the hope that somehow, somewhere, he was still hers.

Her eyes, through the screen, were lost in thought. I could almost hear her wondering if it was time to let go, if it was time to stop waiting. She'd never admit it, not fully, but she was thinking about it—about surrendering. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up," she whispered, almost to herself. "I can't keep pretending like I'm okay. Not when every part of me still aches for him."

But then, just as quickly, the fire returned, the undying hope. "But I won't give up, not yet," she said, her voice wavering but determined. "I'll wait. Even if it breaks me, I'll wait." Her words hung in the air, a bittersweet declaration of love and pain. And I knew, just like her, that no matter how far M.S. seemed, her heart was still his, locked away in a place only he could reach.

21th may 2023

Dua called , the soft crackle of her cigarette audible through the phone as she exhaled into the cool air. I could picture her there, standing on the balcony of her hotel room, the city lights below casting shadows across her face. Her voice was quiet, almost cautious, speaking in riddles and codes, as if afraid to say his name aloud.

"It's like... the sky's been empty for too long," she murmured between drags of her Marlboro. "Like I've been waiting for a storm, but all I get is silence." We both knew what she meant—she wasn't talking about the weather. She was talking about him. About M.S.

I listened closely, letting her pour out the tangled mess of emotions she always tried so hard to keep hidden. But before she could dive any deeper, there was a pause, the shift in her voice sharp, guarded. "He's watching," she whispered, her tone now tense.

The filmmaker had noticed, sensed that something wasn't right. His gaze, she told me, lingered on her too long, suspiciously. "He knows," she said, her words hurried. "He knows I'm talking about someone else." She tried to change the subject, quickly deflecting, smoothing over the tension, her laughter forced and brittle. I could almost hear the filmmaker's curiosity, the unease between them, but she was skilled at distraction. She always had been.