Chris’ POV


They’ve always been there. With her. Constantly following her. Reporting on her. Trashing her. I’ve never in my life seen anything like it. Their fascination. Obsession. Infatuation. She’s like their drug. Their addiction. They can’t get enough. So they are hell bent on reporting anything and everything about her . . . .true or not . . . . embellished or not. And she takes it. Over and over again.


She took it. Their analysis, their speculation of the authenticity of her body. She sat there, on that tour bus, her eyes glued to the magazine lying in her lap. Tears laced her eyes as her hands trembled. But she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. They had attacked her body, but they could not touch her heart. She would say it was a lie, that their words did not warrant merit, but no one would listen. No one would ever listen.

And so I held her.


She took it. The hushed whispers, the questioning stares. They had uncovered her secret. Her love. She knew they would scorn her but she could not hide her heart, though she tried valiantly. She would sneak into the hotel in the wee hours of the morning, glasses and a hat covering her innocent face. And she did it for him. Just to spend a few hours listening to his jokes or feeling his kisses. She was falling. No one could stop her. No one wanted to stop her. But them. They did. So they poked and probed. They said words they shouldn’t have, called names no one ever should have. But she didn’t cry.
She would continue the façade, to protect her, to protect him. But they would never listen.

And so I held her.

She took it. The hateful words, the degrading remarks. She would look at me, her eyes glistening. Janet did it. Madonna did it. But no one cared until she did it. Because she’s Britney Spears. She’s the imposter. The faker. The lip-syncer. She’s not the performer. The artist. The star. They didn’t see the cheers from the crowds. They didn’t see her push her body to the brink. They didn’t see it. They never would. Because they are blind to her. They only see what is wrong. They never see what is right. But she didn’t cry. She would go out there and she would give her soul to those who loved her. And they would never listen.

And so I held her.

She took it. The disgusted looks, the surprised words. They called her a bad role model. A sex goddess in a virginal disguise. One show, one change. The world stood still then. She was naked. A disgrace. She would look at me, confusion on her face. What did I do wrong? But they couldn’t tell her. Because she had really done no wrong. Because they knew she wasn’t naked. Because they knew she wasn’t a disgrace. But they wanted to make sure that everyone else knew she was. But she didn’t cry. And she wouldn’t defend herself. Because they would never listen.

And so I held her.

She took it. The news story that would stop her heart. The fears of her family, the cries of her friends. They said she was dead. They said her love was almost gone. The world would stand still once again. This time to mourn her though she was still here. They did it as a joke. They would hurt her heart and those around her. Just for laughs. She ran to him then. Straight into his arms. Kissing his face to make sure he was real. And I watched. My heart breaking under the thought of losing him. But also of losing her. And for the first time, she would cry. This wasn’t her anymore. This was him. And even they began to listen.

And so I held her.

And she took it. The finger pointing, the name calling. They said she was breaking us. That she wanted him by himself. And this time, they would name me. I didn’t like her. I resented her. But they didn’t see us. They never would. They didn’t see her at our shows. Standing backstage cheering us on. They didn’t feel her support. Know her encouragement. And they certainly didn’t know how much I adored her. And she would come to me, her head lowered slightly. She knew it wasn’t true. But she knew it could be true. And she cried. Not for her, but for me. For the man she would forever call her friend. Her brother. But they wouldn’t listen.

And this time, she held me.

She’s taking it. The relentless speculation. The magnifying glass on her life. Marcus. Wade. Anson. Everyone. She is pregnant. She is devastated. He is careless. She listens to them say he is cheating. Screwing everything he can find. They don’t know. They will never know. So they’re on a break. That doesn’t mean they are over. They don’t see the love in his eyes. They don’t see the same in hers. They don’t realize that it is them who is doing this. That it is them that puts that pressure on. They can’t have a fight. They can’t have a normal relationship. So they are doing what everyone has always wanted them to do. They are finding themselves. But they will find each other. I’m sure of it. They are sure of it. True love never fails. Even when others want it to. So I watch her as she watches him. Asleep, oblivious to her presence. She just wanted to see him. But don’t bother him. Tell him hello. She’ll see him later. And she loves him. She cries. For them.

And so I hold her.

And she will continue to take it. She will walk out the door. Out of my life. Out of his. Momentarily. And they will continue to speculate, analyze, harass. They still call her names, point their fingers, tell her secrets, tell their lies. They will say she doesn’t love him. He doesn’t love her. But they will be wrong. As they have all so often been. And this time, it is his eyes I see as he wakes up, looking around as if he felt her. He is crying. Inside. But I know that he is holding her. They don’t. But I do.

And I know that he will always hold her.

And I will always hold her.

And they will always hold her.

Because really, she is all of our fascination.

All of our addiction.

All of our love.

And maybe one day, we will all listen.

But until then . . . . . . she will take it.