Bono's Forbidden Fruit

Title: “If Dating Joe Is Forbidden, Then Let Me Go”

Joe sat across from Bono in a dim Lisbon café, a quiet harbor behind them, sea gulls overhead, but neither man noticed the view. Joe’s words came slow, burdened.

“You know what’s sad, Bono? Pop stars are like planets now — not just distant, but orbited by handlers, managers, lawyers, image-makers. You used to be able to write a letter, maybe reach someone. Now? They’re filtered like state secrets.”

Bono raised an eyebrow, thoughtful.

Joe continued.

“The labels decide who they’re seen with. The agents decide who they can date. The stylists dress them like gods, but they’re prisoners. Royalty without sovereignty.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a faded lyric sheet.

“You remember Nelly? She once wrote she'd never snob out her old friends. That she'd keep it real. But somewhere between 'Folklore' and the fame machine, she forgot us. She forgot herself. Now I’m just a ghost from the lunch line.”

Bono nodded, sympathy in his eyes.

Joe clenched the lyric sheet like a letter never mailed.

“And she said it's better said with a song. But what if it isn't? What if the truth’s ugly and raw and won’t rhyme neatly in a chorus? What if the only honest line left is:
‘If dating Joe is forbidden... then let me go.’”

He looked Bono in the eye.

“I’d rather be forgotten than be her secret. I’m not here for handlers’ permission. I’m here for the truth. And if she can't speak it without a melody, then maybe the silence says it all.”

The café remained quiet. Joe folded the lyric sheet and left it on the table.