You say that, but, you know, all famous people are just as normal as anyone else.

Dear Anna,

I know you never thought in a million years that you would find solace and safety in a travel bookstore owner from Notting Hill. You were a Hollywood star, and he was just another guy. If it hadn't been for the orange juice he spilled on you, you might never have ended up at his place—the house with the blue door. You kissed him before you left, though you didn’t know why.

I do.

You kissed him because he didn’t treat you like a star. He didn’t ask for your autograph or comment on your films. He admired you for you—your beauty, grace, and humanity, not your fame. He made you feel like a woman, not a celebrity—a girl who is seen and cherished for who she truly is.

Later, when things grew complicated, you had to remind him that fame isn’t real. When you said, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her,” it brought me back to the night you were with Thacker and his friends, debating whose life was the hardest to determine who deserved the last brownie. Your words stayed with me—you spoke of heartbreak and how the media sensationalized your pain. Beneath the glamour, all you longed for was safety, warmth, and love.

Thacker became your safe place when you needed one the most. Yes, I know you blew it a couple of times with your frustration and guarded heart, but it’s okay.

It’s okay because you came back. And I’m glad Thacker realized how foolish he was to let you go. I’m glad he showed up at your press conference, and I’m glad you told the truth about your relationship to the world.

When they asked how long you’d be staying in London, I couldn’t help but smile when you said, “Indefinitely.”