Rosie on holiday

The air smelled like roasted almonds and woodsmoke, a scent so far removed from the sterile hairspray and expensive perfume of backstage life that it made Rosie’s lungs ache in the best way possible. For the first time in three years, she wasn't "Rosé." She wasn't the voice of a generation or the face of a luxury brand. She was just a girl in a slightly itchy reindeer headband, holding a cup of lukewarm cocoa. "You're doing that thing again," her friend whispered, leaning in close under the pretense of checking the selfie they’d just taken. "What thing?" Rosie asked, her breath blooming in a white cloud. "The 'I’m-a-secret-agent' look. Stop scanning the perimeter and just be here. You look like every other festive tourist in this market. I promise, the leather vest is doing a lot of heavy lifting for your secret identity." Rosie laughed, a genuine, bright sound that was lost in the festive hum of the crowd. She looked at the phone screen. The photo was perfect—vibrant, messy, and real. But as her friend’s thumb hovered over the 'Share to Story' button, Rosie felt a familiar jolt of adrenaline. In the background of their photo, just over Rosie's shoulder, a stranger was squinting at her phone, then looking up, her eyes darting toward the blonde girl in the antlers. The "bubble" of normalcy was starting to thin.