It's often said that celebrity is expensive.
That's not true.
Celebrity costs nothing.
It is the mistakes that are expensive.
And when you become famous, mistakes simply have more witnesses.
Mickael Tosh was already a legend when I met him. His albums were selling in millions. His tours filled stadiums. His name alone was enough to start a career. Mine was just beginning to weigh something in the industry.
At first, he was just a producer. Then a mentor. Then a friend. And finally something much more complicated.
I knew he was married. I knew he had kids. I also knew everything a woman was supposed to do in such a situation: leave, refuse, set limits.
I didn't. Not because I was naive. Not because he manipulated me. Just because I loved him.
A sometimes embarrassing truth. Still hard to defend. Especially when one spends one's life denouncing the relationships of domination and hypocrisy of the world.
I knew the contradictions. I saw them. But that didn't change what I felt.
Then our relationship remained hidden. For months. Maybe more.
In this profession, secrets rarely survive for long. Yet this one had held.
Until this evening.
Victory night.
The night it all started to fall apart.
I remember the moment perfectly. I was still behind the scenes. My trophy placed on a table. Hands trembling. Exhausted.
Mickael had joined me for a few minutes. No one was supposed to be here. No one.
We talked. Everything and nothing. Music. From the ceremony. From my grandmother.
Then he took me in his arms.
And I kissed him.
Just.
Like two human beings who forget the rest of the world for a moment.
Unfortunately, the world had not forgotten anything.
Someone took a picture.
Just one.
That was enough.
The next morning, the Internet was on fire. I woke up with hundreds of notifications. Then thousands. Then more. My phone looked like a crazy machine. Messages. Articles. Alerts. Mentions. Insults. Questions. Screenshots.
I understand immediately.
The photo was already circulating everywhere.
Me.
In Mickael Tosh's arms.
Kissing her.
A few hours later, the titles bloomed.
"The Unknown Unmasked. »
"The feminist who breaks a marriage. »
"The idol of young women caught in flagrante delicto of hypocrisy. »
Then I discovered something strange. People forgive a woman a lot. Except some. They forgive success. They forgive arrogance. They sometimes forgive even addictions. But they never easily forgive love stories. Even less when a married man is involved.
I wasn't an artist anymore. I was no longer an author. I wasn't a singer anymore.
I had become a business.
A scandal.
A subject of debate.
Social networks split immediately. Some of them were defending me. Others were calling for my disappearance. But even the supporters had something violent. No one really talked to me. Everyone was talking about me. Like I've already become a character. A collective fiction. A doll on which everyone projected their convictions.
The worst was probably the accusations of hypocrisy. Because they were touching me. Because part of me understood their origin. I spent my life defending women. To denounce certain male behaviors. Talk about respect. Equal. Emancipation.
And now I'm associated with the image of a mistress.
I could explain the nuances. Feelings. The reality.
Nobody wanted to hear them.
Scandals hate nuances.
A few days later, Mickael disappeared. Not physically. Mediatically. Professionally. Temporary. His press officers had taken control. His lawyers, too. His entourage managed the crisis.
I understood.
At least I was trying.
He had a family. An immense career. Responsibilities.
Yet, despite all my understanding, something would break. Because by the time I needed him most, he was gone. Not completely. Not really.
His messages were rarer. Her calls, too.
Every silence became a doubt.
Every doubt became an injury.
And meanwhile, the journalists continued. The networks, too. Comments were accumulating. The insults too.
I used to consume more.
To sleep.
To hold.
To forget.
Not to think.
But the products have a limit.
They anaesthetize pain.
Never loneliness.
One night, after spending hours reading horrible things about me, I finally turned off my phone. Then the computer. Then all the lights in the apartment.
And I remained alone in the darkness.
For the first time since Milenca died, I realized something.
I had no one left.
My mother was dead.
My grandmother, too.
Mickael was moving away.
And suddenly, the silence around me became more frightening than all the cries in the world.