Summer's POV
They got the email on a slow Tuesday: a respected magazine wanted a long-form piece—an in-depth profile about the project, the island, and, yes, their relationship. The subject line was polite, the tone respectful. The offer read like the kind of validation that used to feel like oxygen.
Summer read it twice. Then she handed the phone to Ethan.
"You think we should do it?" she asked.
He skimmed the message, thumb pausing on the signature line. "It's serious. It's the kind of platform that could change perceptions for the better." He folded the email closed. "But it's also the sort that decides the frame."
She felt the old tug: the chance to explain themselves, to put limits on speculation—and the risk that someone else would shape the story anyway. For years she had let others write her headlines. It took time to notice how much of her own story she'd let slip away.
"Remember when we were always reactive?" she said. "Answering, clarifying, denying." The memory tasted tired.
He nodded. "I remember. I don't want that for us anymore."
They agreed to meet the journalist, but not before setting terms. Summer drafted a list: topics they would address, topics off the table, a request for an advance copy of the article draft, and a stipulation that any personal material would get their explicit sign-off before publication. It felt a little like diplomacy, but it was necessary.
When they arrived at the magazine office, the building had the quiet authority of places that made culture. The journalist—Ava—greeted them with a warm, professional smile. She didn't carry a camera or lights; just a notebook and clear eyes. That, at least, was a good start.
Ava started with soft questions about the documentary's origin, the logistics, the people they'd filmed. The conversation flowed—easy, curious—and then, gently, she brought them to the subject people couldn't stop talking about.
"How do you manage the attention?" she asked. "When strangers make your choices into headlines, how do you hold privacy?"
Ethan and Summer had rehearsed in their heads, but the moment demanded honesty. Summer answered first, simply.
"We decide what belongs to us," she said. "That's the work. It's not about hiding; it's about boundary. We share what helps others feel less alone. We don't share to fill a void."
Ava nodded, scribbling. "And when critics call it staged?"
Summer shrugged. "Then we invite them to watch the work more closely. Let the images speak. If someone wants a tidy narrative, that's their choice. We prefer complexity."
Ava's pen paused. "Is it hard to draw that line? Between being open and being kept private?"
"It is," Ethan said. "But the point is choice. We don't owe anyone an explanation every time speculation goes viral. What we owe is integrity—to our subjects, to each other, and to the story."
Ava looked up, clearly impressed. "You two have thought about this carefully."
Summer thought of the charity letters, the villagers who had greeted them, the teacher's trembling voice. The project wasn't about their romance. It simply existed within it—and that nuance mattered.
When the interview ended, Ava tucked her notebook away. "I'll send a transcript and a draft," she said. "If there are parts you want to adjust for clarity, let me know. I want this to be fair."
That promise was the difference between being spoken about and speaking back. They left the building feeling oddly buoyant—like people who had negotiated and won small, necessary freedoms.
---
Ethan's POV
On the ride home, he thought about the list they'd made. Rules weren't glamorous, but they mattered more than applause. Too often, he'd watched stories be carved into someone else's shapes. This time, they were the carvers.
"Do you think they'll hold to their word?" Summer asked beside him.
He glanced at her, the late light catching the edge of her profile. "Ava looked sincere," he said. "But if she doesn't, we have options. We can release our own account. We can publish our own statement. The power shifts when you stop waiting."
He liked that idea—the simple act of not waiting. It felt like stepping out of old habits and into a small kind of freedom. He pictured making a short piece themselves: a few candid minutes, raw audio, a couple of stills. No headline, no spin. Just something that could stand next to any feature and be judged on its own merits.
Back at the studio, they drafted a short response to the email—a gratitude note and a reminder of the conditions. It was firm but polite. When the reply came, Ava agreed to their terms and sent a rough transcript the next day. The draft respected their boundaries, used gentle language, and avoided sensational phrasing. It was a relief.
When the profile finally published a week later, its tone was measured. Ava had framed the project in a way that emphasized the subjects—the small towns, the teachers, the quiet acts—not just the couple who happened to tell the story. It was not a fan letter. It was documentation.
The reaction was quieter than a viral storm and more lasting. People shared excerpts about the teachers and the baker; they debated ethics in comments rather than the celebrity angle. Somewhere in the mix, a few critics found angles to pick at—but the dominant response was thoughtful conversation.
Ethan read one thoughtful comment that made him smile: "They didn't ask for permission to tell other people's lives; they asked permission to listen." He showed it to Summer.
"That feels right," she said.
He reached for her hand—not as a gesture for cameras, but as a simple connection. Holding her hand in that lesson of choices felt steady. It was a quiet promise that any noise that came would be met together, on their terms.
For the first time in a long time, the noise felt like background music—present, but not directing the scene. They had chosen which sounds counted.