David Bowie.

When I got home that night, the air was thick with tension. I knew the silence between us had become a weight, and it wasn’t easy to bear. I walked into the living room, and there she was, on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand. The dim lighting highlighted her worried expression, and for a moment, all I wanted to do was reach out and kiss that worry away. But as I moved closer, her hand rose, stopping me.—“We need to talk, Bowie,” she said, her voice firm though a little shaky. She wasn’t looking at me, but I could feel the strength of her resolve. A chill ran down my spine. I’d seen her go through so much, endure the shadows of my world. It had never been easy to keep our relationship a secret, but there were reasons—reasons I believed would protect her. The pain in her voice, however, made me question that decision. How selfish had I been to put my career and my image above what really mattered?*