Another package. Right on time.

Yoga is at 5:30 today. Not the usual 6, if only because that half hour is worth more than what you probably make in a year. It means everything to me, that scrap of 30 minutes. I crave the days when I can go on Facebook and waste time. Although, honestly, I don't remember a single day that I was ever on Facebook. I have people who do that for me. And I have people who cook for me. People who tweet. People who go so far as to iron my clothes and vacuum the cracker crumbs I leave behind on the kitchen counter.

And yet no one has been able to take care of Merle Aubright.

After yoga is breakfast. And during breakfast is when I have a small window in my schedule to read some mail, maybe even write a response back to a few of my lucky fans. Although I have people who do that for me too. I used to have a person who took care of Merle's packages specifically. But, that didn't work out too well. You see, Merle knows everything about me. Everything. Ask him what I was doing on Sunday March 22^nd, 2011. I dare you to ask. He'd tell you exactly what I was up to, blow-by-blow. In fact, he may even remember the day better than I do. You'd think it's pretty flattering if he wasn't completely crazy. How do I know this? From the letters he sends me. So, I put my personal assistant, Desmond, in charge of reading and discarding all of Merle's junk. One day Desmond approaches me. Teary-eyed, he says, "Read this." Then, he hands me a note: Tell Desmond to stop going through my mail or else I'll light his Prius on fire. Those letters and gifts are meant for you. And no one else. Needless to say, Desmond quit on the spot.

I have Marla put all of my fan mail and packages in bags. I read them once a week on a Thursday during breakfast. Usually I can only get through two or three. There are another two bags... those are Merle's messages. He writes two trash bags worth of letters per week. Sometimes he'll send in ten or more at a time. Other days I might get just one small card, usually reserved for holidays.

Today? I receive nothing.

"Marla?"

She scurries in from the kitchen, where she's normally parked. "Yes, Miss?" She asks.

"Where are the extra bags?" I ask her.

Her eyes widen. "We get none of his mail today, Miss," she answers. "Not even a postcard."

I sit back in my seat. "Really? Are you sure?"

Marla insists she hasn't received anything from Merle. "I can check the mailroom again if you like."

Suddenly I start to feel queasy. "Marla, can you bring in his mail from last week?"

Marla left and returns some five minutes later with a simple brown package. She gives it to me, and when she does I can feel it burning in my hand. I open it again, and when I see it I remember instantly why there are no more letters. "He's coming here," I say.

"¿Qué, Miss?" Marla doesn't know what I'm talking about. She hasn't been here long enough to know Merle's pattern. On good days Merle sends tons of packages. But on bad days...

Marla scurries behind me and peers into what's inside the box. "Oh my God," she says. She pulls the necklace out herself and marvels at it. "Merle got this for you?"

I nod, although I'm not too thrilled. But, like me, she's taken up with the romance of the idea. She places the jeweled necklace around my neck, its diamonds clear and sharply cut.

"It looks so beautiful on you." She steps back and squeezes her small fist underneath her chin. "Go look at it in the mirror, Miss."

I ignore her and read the card. It repeats in my mind over and over like one of my songs: Wear this for me during your interview next week. Let them all know how much you mean to me. And when you go on the Lisa Layla Show, say hi to me. Say my name, Merle. If you don't, then I'll be upset. Too upset to write. Too upset to sit still, really.

Too upset to sit still. Boy, I don't like the sound of that.

The weight of the necklace on my chest makes me feel like I need to suffocate. I order Marla to remove it from my neck. "Quickly," I say, at which point she frowns as she stumbles over the clasp. Finally she frees me from it and I can take a deep breath.

After reading the mail, I jog. 7am.

As I dash through the quiet courtyard behind my house, I think back to two years ago. To Shame on Me. It went straight to #1 on Billboard's pop chart and stayed there for weeks. God, what a rush. I was just 18 and barely knew what it meant to be a pop star, let alone a pop icon. That's what they call me now, but I'm in such a bubble that I can't grasp what that means. It doesn't matter anyhow, because I have people who worry about that sort of stuff, who tell the makeup artists and the fashion stylists how to make me look more than a person, like a Goddess... someone who should be idolized. My name, Milena Ryder... that doesn't even belong to me.

The only other person who knows this... Merle.

It doesn't escape me that he could be lurking somewhere out there, ready to make his move as I jog in solitude. My mom warns against it. She keeps saying to me, pleading with me to get more bodyguards. "You never know when this guy is going to strike," she once said. "You need as much protection as you can get." But, it's like I've always told her: If I get more bodyguards, if I get more people to widen the distance between us, then it only goes to show that he's won.

The rest of the day is quiet, at least when it comes to Merle. It's midday and I make it to the studio in one piece. And waiting for me are the cameras, the people smiling and waving as they aim their lenses at me. They don't even bother to look at the images as they shoot them. They could take a million photos in a few seconds. They'll find one that shows my "natural beauty" and use that for tomorrow's "Celebrity Sightings" column. They'll also find one where I look like a total jackass, where I sneeze or wrinkle my nose. They'll catch me in bad lighting, with the red blotches on my face. And they'll use it for the "Celebrity Fail" column. I don't even smile anymore.

The hairstylists all ooh and aw over me. They ask me how I keep my locks so lustrous and frizz-free. I simply giggle and say, "It's because I use your Revitalize treatment..." or something like that. It makes them laugh. Then, we chit chat. I let the nonsense spew from my mouth like I have no gag reflex. A social bulimic. They take pride in it. I don't.

I'm seated in a chair overlooking Venice Beach. I'm on one of the main stages, where I'll be performing later. The air is crisp, the sun unforgivable. I have people to take care of that, to adjust the shade and fix my make-up. Soon, I see Oh Donna bustling up to the stage. Just like her name, she's a little odd. Her hair is fiery blonde, her lips fiery red, her eyeglasses glowing orange under the sun. She comes up and hugs me like we're old friends.

"Dahling," she says as she kisses my cheek. "So good to finally have you on my show."

"It's a pleasure," I reply. Then I pause. "I'm sorry but how should I say your name again.? Is it just Donna?"

"No," she says. "It's Oh Donna."

Before I can take a moment to clarify what I asked, one of the assistant directors tells us that we're on. As he counts down, all of the stylists scurry to put the finishing touches on my make-up. They go to Oh Donna also. She's completely caked in foundation, a shade lighter than the rest of her neck.

The red light on the large camera blinks. Then, she's all smiles as she stares into its lens. "Oh Donna!" She shouts. "We're on the scene for the first ever Venice Beach Music Fest. And one of the main openers is here with us. The lovely Milena Ryder." She turns to me, her face glistening with sweat.

I nod into the cameras, smiling. My publicist tells me to smile during my interviews, but not in my magazine photos. "Don't give your audience all your love," she once said. So I smile now like I'm on a first date. And I bat my eyelashes and say in my demure, Milena Ryder way: "I'm happy to be here on this beautiful day, Oh Donna." We chat more about the weather. Then we talk more about the launch date for my new album. Then, we talk about Brett Mayner, the quarterback for the Eagles. My ex-boyfriend.

"What happened between the two of you?" Oh Donna tries to sound so sympathetic, so concerned for my romantic welfare. But, she's fishing for dirt. She knows nothing about music to ask me any real questions about the songs on my album, the new direction I've headed in with the sound. I wonder who would want watch a show like that. Then I realize that everyone does. For reasons like these. To talk about the most painful moments in my life like's it some big news.

But I smile nonetheless. Only this time it's sullen and not as brightly shone. "We just had some difficulties," I answer carefully. "But, it was a mutual understanding. And we're still amicable." That is as nicely as I can describe it. Amicable. Train wreck would have been more appropriate.

Then she launches into it. "You know," Oh Donna says. "There have been some rumors circulating about a scuffle he had with one of your crazy fans."

Merle. I swallow the knot in my throat. Then, I giggle and shake my head. "Yes," I say. "One of my overzealous fans had delivered flowers to the nightclub where I was scheduled to perform. Brett saw it and became furious."

"TMZ dropped a bombshell of a video three days ago of Brett punching the masked man in the face."

"Yeah." I smile, as if to say Oh men or something stupid. "The guy ducked and fled."

"So why break up with him? He seemed like your knight-in-shining-armor."

I cringe at her question but try not to show it. "Well, the split wasn't about that particular incident. We had been at odds when it came to our schedules and it just wasn't meant to work out right now." Always hint towards a future, my publicist says. "Tell 'em you're still friends, or take a photo together at an opening or charity event. Give your fans hope." That's what she told me. Well, she doesn't know Merle. The last thing he wants is for me to have a boyfriend.

And Oh Donna knows it. "You've actually had a long history of boyfriends clashing with your fans," she says. "As you remember over a year ago you were involved with race car driver, Eli Bowcott."

How could I forget? Eli, the horrible drunk. I smile, making up good memories in my head so it looks like I actually liked him a lot once. "Yes, he's definitely had a run-in with my fans."

Oh Donna winces. "A run-in that ended in flames," she says. "Bowcott filed a report that someone had set his car on fire." I nod again. "Were they ever able to find the guy who did it?"

"We haven't," I answer. "Although we think it might be the same person committing all of these atrocities." Big word, and terribly misused. It's not like Merle has killed anyone. But, when he makes a gesture, he makes it grand.

"You must be in fear for your life," she says.

My head bows down and my eyes water up. "Don't tell 'em how you feel," my acting coach used to say. "Show 'em." Best advice I ever got. When I don't talk, I don't get to hear myself. I only like to hear myself sing; everything else is pointless. Like this interview. And this conversation. Of course I'm not fearful of Merle, not of him killing me or doing me harm. No... if anything, I'm more afraid of how I might feel if I ever do see him.

Oh Donna hands me a tissue. "You're so strong," she says. "We can move on." I thank her as I dab at the dry corners of my eyes. And secretly I laugh and say, I won. Then we move onto something else.