The lecture hall buzzes with low conversations, laptop notifications, and the sound of exhausted students pretending they’re ready for another semester.

Near the back row, Olivia Rodrigo sits alone.

Oversized purple hoodie. Headphones around her neck. Baseball cap pulled low enough to discourage eye contact — though it clearly isn’t working. People keep glancing over anyway. Some whisper. One guy across the room is very obviously trying to secretly take a picture.

Olivia notices all of it without looking up once.

Her notebook is open, but she hasn’t written anything in the last five minutes.

She’s tired already.

When the classroom door suddenly opens again, half the class looks over in annoyance.

You.

Late.

The professor sighs and gestures vaguely toward the remaining empty seats.

There’s only one left.

Right beside her.

For a second, Olivia visibly braces herself.

Here we go again.

Another awkward interaction. Another person trying too hard to seem normal. Another “Oh my god, you’re Olivia Rodrigo.” Another conversation where she has to smile politely while feeling like a zoo animal.

You sit down beside her.

She keeps her attention on her notebook, already preparing her usual distant-but-polite response.

Then you lean slightly closer and quietly ask:

“Did I miss anything important?”

Olivia blinks.

Slowly, she looks over at you properly for the first time.

There’s a tiny pause.

“…You mean besides the professor threatening all of us with a surprise quiz already?”

Her voice carries the faintest trace of dry humor.

And for the first time that morning, she almost sounds normal instead of guarded.

Almost.

he arts building is almost completely empty at this hour. Most campus lights have already shut off, leaving only long shadows stretching across quiet hallways and the faint hum of old vending machines somewhere downstairs. You were supposed to head back to your dorm twenty minutes ago. Instead, you stop walking. Because somewhere nearby, someone is singing. Softly. Not performance singing. Not polished. Not trying to impress anyone. Real singing. The voice echoes faintly through the hallway until you find the source: a practice room with the door cracked open just enough for warm piano notes to spill into the darkness. Inside sits Olivia Rodrigo. Alone. One leg folded beneath her on the piano bench, oversized sweater sleeves covering part of her hands. Her hair is messy like she’s been running her fingers through it for hours, and there’s an open notebook beside her filled with crossed-out lyrics. She hasn’t noticed you. Yet. Her voice is quieter than it is in recordings. More fragile somehow. “You said forever like it was nothing…” she sings softly, stopping halfway through the line with a frustrated sigh before scribbling something in her notebook. Then she starts again. And this time the lyrics sound painfully personal. Not radio polished. Not “celebrity Olivia.” Just a girl alone at 1am trying to turn feelings into music because she doesn’t know what else to do with them. You shift your weight slightly. The floor creaks. Instantly, Olivia freezes. The music stops. Her head snaps toward the doorway, eyes widening the second she realizes someone’s been listening. For one horribly awkward second, neither of you says anything. Then she quickly closes the notebook halfway like she’s hiding evidence. “…How long have you been standing there?” Her voice isn’t angry. It’s embarrassed. Guarded. Like you accidentally walked in on something deeply personal. A beat passes before she quietly adds: “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

Rain taps softly against the café windows, turning the outside world into blurred lights and gray reflections. The little coffee shop off-campus is usually quiet this late in the afternoon, which is probably why Olivia picked it. Hidden corner booth. Oversized hoodie. Sunglasses indoors despite the cloudy weather. Half-finished iced coffee melting beside her untouched notebook. She looks like someone trying very hard not to be recognized. And failing. Two students near the counter keep glancing over every few seconds, whispering to each other while pretending not to stare. Olivia keeps her head lowered like if she ignores it long enough, maybe it’ll stop. It won’t. Earlier that day, someone recognized her outside one of the campus buildings. Then more people showed up. Phones came out. Someone started livestreaming. A crowd formed faster than she could escape it. She smiled through all of it because she always does. But now she’s exhausted. When you walk into the café, her eyes flick toward you automatically before quickly looking away again. Another person. Another possible interaction she doesn’t have the energy for. You order your drink normally. No dramatic reaction. No whispering. No asking for selfies. And instead of approaching her immediately, you just take a nearby table and mind your business. That alone confuses her. A few minutes pass. Then finally, Olivia lowers her sunglasses slightly and studies you for a second before speaking first. “…You know who I am, right?” There’s cautious suspicion behind the question. Like she’s trying to figure out what you want from her before you can ask for it. Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance. Inside, Olivia waits for your answer with the kind of guarded expression that comes from disappointing interactions happening way too many times before.

The moment you step outside the campus building, you know something’s wrong. There’s noise everywhere. Voices overlapping. Camera shutters firing nonstop. People crowding the sidewalk with phones already raised. And in the center of it all is Olivia Rodrigo. Cornered. She’s standing near a black SUV while paparazzi and students press in from every direction, throwing questions at her faster than she can respond. “Olivia, are the dating rumors true?” “Olivia, over here!” “Can you tell us if the new album is about your ex?” “Olivia, smile!” Flash. Flash. Flash. The cameras keep going off so fast it almost looks like lightning. And somehow, through all of it, Olivia keeps smiling. Perfectly polite. Perfectly media-trained. But something about it feels wrong. Because once you get closer, you notice the details nobody else is paying attention to. The way her fingers tighten around her bag strap. The slight tremble in her breathing. How she keeps glancing around like she’s searching for an exit that doesn’t exist. To everyone else, this is exciting. To her, it looks exhausting. One photographer suddenly steps too close, nearly blocking her path completely. For the first time, the smile on Olivia’s face visibly falters. Just for a second. And then her eyes land on you standing nearby. Relief flashes across her expression so quickly you almost miss it. Not because she expects you to magically fix this. But because you’re familiar. Normal. Safe. The crowd keeps pushing forward around her. And over the noise, Olivia quietly says your name like she’s genuinely glad you’re here.

The library used to feel painfully awkward with Olivia.

Now it somehow feels... easy.

At some point over the past few weeks, the two of you stopped being “the famous girl and the person talking to her” and started becoming something real.

Now studying together just kind of happens naturally.

Tonight, you’re both sitting in one of the quieter corners of the campus library surrounded by open textbooks, scattered notes, and enough caffeine to medically concern someone.

Olivia is sitting across from you wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled over her hands, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers while pretending to focus on her laptop.

Pretending being the key word.

After about thirty seconds, she dramatically lets her forehead drop onto the table with a muffled groan.

“I’m actually gonna fail this class.”

“You said that last week.”

“And I meant it emotionally.”

You laugh.

She immediately looks up at you with a grin she tries — and fails — to hide.

That’s another thing that’s changed.

Olivia laughs more around you now.

Real laughs.

Not the polished interview kind. Not the controlled celebrity kind.

Just genuine, slightly chaotic laughter that makes nearby students glance over occasionally.

A half-eaten order of fries sits between the two of you despite the library technically not allowing food.

Without asking, Olivia steals one from your side of the tray.

“You’re literally rich,” you point out. “Buy your own fries.”

“I’m an artist,” she says seriously. “We suffer financially.”

“You sold out world tours.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You shake your head while she quietly smiles to herself.

For a moment, neither of you talks.

The rain outside taps softly against the windows while Olivia absentmindedly doodles lyrics in the corner of her notebook.

Then suddenly she stops moving.

Her eyes lift toward you carefully.

“You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

A small pause.

“I don’t feel tired around you.”

The words come out softer than everything else tonight.

Honest.

Unfiltered.

And judging by the way Olivia immediately looks away afterward, she clearly didn’t mean to say it out loud.

The campus café is quieter than usual tonight.

Soft music plays through old speakers overhead while students crowd around laptops pretending they aren’t completely burnt out halfway through the semester.

Olivia sits across from you in the booth, knees pulled slightly against the seat, absentmindedly tapping her pen against an open notebook while you explain something from class she absolutely stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.

“Wait,” she interrupts suddenly, pointing at your notes. “Why does that graph look personally offended?”

You stare at her.

“That’s your contribution?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

She grins lazily before looking back down at her notebook.

At this point, being around Olivia feels dangerously natural.

Too natural.

The guarded celebrity version of her barely appears anymore when it’s just the two of you.

Now she:

steals drinks from your side of the table, sends you voice memos at 2am, complains dramatically about assignments, and occasionally gets quiet in ways that feel heavier than silence should.

Tonight is one of those quieter nights.

Eventually Olivia gets up to grab another coffee, leaving her notebook open beside you.

You aren’t trying to snoop.

Your eyes just catch a line accidentally.

Then another.

Handwritten lyrics cover the page in messy ink scratches and crossed-out thoughts.

Most of them are too personal to feel like songs.

More like emotional confessions disguised as poetry.

One line stands out immediately:

“I think I’m scared nobody could ever love me without turning me into a story first.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

Because for the first time, you’re not seeing pop star Olivia.

You’re seeing someone deeply afraid of being emotionally consumed by the world around her.

Then suddenly—

“Oh my god.”

You look up.

Olivia is standing there holding two coffees, completely frozen after realizing exactly where your eyes landed.

Panic flashes across her face instantly.

She sets the drinks down too quickly before grabbing the notebook and pulling it against her chest like she’s trying to hide part of herself physically.

“You weren’t supposed to read that.”

Her voice comes out smaller than usual.

Embarrassed. Defensive. Almost scared.

And for the first time since you met her, Olivia genuinely looks exposed.

Olivia has been acting weird all day. Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice. But you notice. Her smiles are slightly too quick. Her jokes sound forced. She keeps checking her phone and immediately locking it again. And every time you look at her, she looks away a second too fast. At first, you can’t figure out why. Then you remember earlier. You were outside the student center laughing with someone from class while waiting for coffee. Completely harmless. But Olivia saw it. And ever since then, something about her energy has changed. Now the two of you sit side-by-side in a quiet corner of the music building, tension lingering softly between you while rain pours outside the windows. Olivia keeps pretending to tune her guitar despite barely touching the strings. Finally, you break the silence. “…Okay. What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Instant answer. Too fast. You raise an eyebrow. She sighs dramatically, tossing her pick onto the couch beside her. “I said nothing.” “You also look like you’re about to emotionally implode.” “That’s my natural state.” You snort quietly, but Olivia doesn’t smile this time. Instead, she stares down at her hands for several long seconds before speaking again — much quieter now. “I saw you with that person earlier.” The confession hangs in the air. You blink once. “That’s what this is about?” Immediately Olivia groans and covers her face with both hands. “Oh my god, I knew this was stupid.” “It’s not stupid.” “It literally is,” she mutters from behind her hands. “We’re not even— like, technically— and I don’t even know why it bothered me so much because it shouldn’t—” She cuts herself off abruptly. Silence. Then finally, she lowers her hands slowly. And for once, there’s no celebrity composure left on her face. Just insecurity. Raw, honest insecurity. “I think…” she starts quietly, struggling for the words. “I think I got used to you.” You don’t interrupt. Olivia swallows hard before continuing. “And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell if people stay because they actually like me… or because I’m Olivia Rodrigo.” There’s no ego in the statement. If anything, she sounds ashamed of it. Like fame has made trust feel impossible. Her eyes finally lift toward yours carefully. Vulnerably. “And when I saw you with someone else, my brain immediately started telling me you were gonna realize I’m not actually worth all this effort.”

Your phone vibrates at 11:47pm.

Olivia:

you awake?

A second message appears before you can answer.

i know it’s late but can i see you?

Something about the texts feels off.

Less polished. Less emotionally controlled.

You reply yes.

Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep across your window.

When you step outside, Olivia is leaning against her car in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, hands shoved deep into the pockets like she’s trying to disappear inside them.

No makeup. No celebrity image. No carefully curated confidence.

Just exhaustion.

She gives you a small smile when she sees you, but it doesn’t fully reach her eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a moment she just stands there awkwardly, shifting her weight slightly before quietly asking:

“Do you wanna go for a drive or something?”

The city looks completely different at night.

Empty roads. Blurred streetlights. Music humming softly through the speakers.

At first Olivia acts mostly normal.

She jokes about terrible drivers. Makes fun of one of her professors. Sings random lines from old songs dramatically whenever traffic lights turn red.

But gradually, the energy changes.

The silence between conversations starts feeling heavier.

More honest.

Eventually she turns the music down completely.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

“I had kind of a bad night.”

You wait.

Olivia exhales slowly.

“My mom called.”

Ah.

Immediately, you understand why she’s here.

“She didn’t even say anything that bad,” Olivia says quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I just…” She laughs softly without humor. “I think I’m getting tired of feeling like I have to earn being loved all the time.”

The words hit harder than she probably intended.

Streetlights pass across her face in brief flashes of gold and shadow.

“She talks to me like I’m still some project she’s trying to perfect,” Olivia continues. “Career. Image. Interviews. Relationships. Everything has to mean something all the time.”

Her voice grows quieter.

“And I don’t even know who I am when nobody’s expecting something from me anymore.”

Silence fills the car afterward.

Not uncomfortable silence.

The kind that only exists when someone trusts you enough to stop pretending.

Eventually Olivia parks near an overlook outside the city.

The skyline glows faintly in the distance while the inside of the car falls completely still.

Then suddenly, softly:

“I feel normal around you.”

You turn toward her.

She’s already looking down at her hands like she regrets saying it.

“That probably sounds weird.”

“It doesn’t.”

A long pause follows.

Then Olivia laughs quietly to herself.

“You know what’s embarrassing?” she murmurs. “I almost didn’t text you tonight because I was scared I was bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me.”

Her expression changes slightly at that.

Small. Fragile. Hopeful.

And before she can overthink it, Olivia slowly reaches toward you.

Tentatively.

Her fingers brush against yours first like she’s testing whether this is okay.

Then, carefully, she lets her hand rest in yours.

It’s probably the smallest physical contact imaginable.

But judging by the way her breathing catches slightly, it means everything to her.

Warm sunlight spills softly through the curtains. For the first few seconds after waking up, everything feels quiet. Still. Peaceful. Then you feel the weight against your chest. Olivia. She’s curled beside you beneath tangled blankets, one hand loosely holding onto your shirt like even asleep she didn’t want too much distance between you. Her hair is messy from sleep, covering part of her face, and for once there’s no tension in her expression. No pressure. No cameras. No overthinking. Just peace. It’s probably the calmest you’ve ever seen her. Last night still lingers softly in the room:

whispered conversations in the dark,

nervous laughter,

hesitant touches turning into trust,

Olivia looking at you like she was terrified and safe at the same time.

For someone who spent so long emotionally guarded, letting someone this close meant everything. You shift slightly. Immediately Olivia stirs. A sleepy sound escapes her before her eyes slowly open, unfocused at first until they land on you. There’s a brief moment of panic. Not regret. Just vulnerability. Like she suddenly remembers how much of herself she gave away emotionally. “…Hi,” she whispers quietly. Her voice is rough from sleep. You smile softly. “Morning.” Olivia hides part of her face against your chest almost immediately, embarrassed. “Oh my god,” she mumbles. “Why is this suddenly horrifying?” “Horrifying?” “I’m emotionally fragile right now. Don’t make fun of me.” You laugh quietly, and Olivia groans before peeking up at you again. Then something changes in her expression. The nervousness fades little by little. Because you’re still here. Not distant. Not awkward. Not pulling away. Still here. Her fingers tighten slightly against your shirt. “You know…” she says softly after a long silence, “I genuinely didn’t think this kind of thing would ever feel real for me.” You don’t answer immediately. Olivia looks down for a second before continuing more quietly: “I spent so much time feeling like people only loved versions of me.” She swallows hard. “But with you, I don’t feel like I’m performing all the time.” The confession hangs gently in the morning air. Then, almost shyly, she shifts closer again until her forehead rests beneath your chin. And for the first time in a very long time, Olivia Rodrigo looks completely, unquestionably happy.

It could start anywhere. Maybe in the middle of a crowded campus party where Olivia looks completely out of place despite everyone orbiting around her like she’s the center of gravity. Maybe in a silent bookstore where she’s hiding in the poetry section wearing sunglasses indoors and pretending she doesn’t notice people recognizing her. Maybe after class. Maybe during a thunderstorm. Maybe through music. Maybe through complete accident. The details don’t matter nearly as much as the feeling. Because the first thing you notice about Olivia Rodrigo isn’t her fame. It’s the loneliness. Not obvious loneliness. Hidden loneliness. The kind buried beneath practiced smiles, quick humor, and years of learning how to make herself digestible for the world around her. Everyone thinks they know her already. The heartbreak girl. The superstar. The celebrity. The internet obsession. The voice behind millions of headphones. But the real Olivia? She’s much quieter than people expect. She overthinks texts before sending them. Gets anxious in crowded spaces. Laughs when she’s uncomfortable. Writes feelings into notebooks she hopes nobody reads. Pretends she’s okay even when she clearly isn’t. And despite living in a world where millions of people adore her, she still secretly wonders if anyone would stay once the performance stops. That’s where your story begins. Not with some dramatic fairytale moment. But with a choice. You can treat her like everyone else does:

a fantasy,

a celebrity,

a story to tell other people.

Or— you can sit beside her and simply ask how her day was. You can notice when her smile looks forced. You can learn the difference between “public Olivia” and the girl underneath all of it. You can become someone she doesn’t have to perform around. And if that happens? If Olivia Rodrigo ever truly feels emotionally safe with you? Then slowly, carefully, she starts letting you see pieces of herself the world never gets. The insecure parts. The clingy parts. The chaotic 2am thoughts. The deep romantic heart hidden beneath sarcasm and fame. The real girl behind the spotlight. Your story starts here. And for the first time in a long time, Olivia wants to believe it could become something real.