In the picturesque Azores, Athena Diaz and Rick del Río's lives intersect in an unexpected encounter.
Athena, a talented singer and actress, seeks solace from her hectic New York life, while Rick, an aspiring writer, crosses paths with her.
What s...
The Johnson show had always prided itself on breaking away from stereotypes and forging its own path, disregarding the opinions of others and the current trends. It boasted its independence, its disruptive and innovative nature. In the end, it succumbed to the pressure of tabloid trash.
I was at my actress friend's house —the one I had invited myself to, by the way— because I wanted to surprise Rick after his appearance and go out to dinner together. What I never expected was to see Roland enter the studio. If Rick had known who that despicable gentleman was, he wouldn't have even shown up on stage.
"What the hell is that guy doing there?" asked Karla, my friend, as surprised as I was.
"I don't know, but this can't be good."
Roland has always hated me. I don't know why —well, actually, I do know why, because of Gareth. Both of those despicable men got along very well. There were very few times when the journalist treated me with respect. I think he shared the opinion with the other idiot that I was an opportunist when it was the opposite. I never needed anyone to do or achieve anything. Interestingly, Roland speaks highly of Anna.
Every question was an attack on Rick or me. The mention of my supposed drug or alcohol problem —which luckily I didn't have because, despite using with that bastard Gareth, I never got hooked— and that my weight gain could destroy me... I want to cry just remembering it. How can people be so malicious? Can't they imagine that such a situation could cause me some trouble or complex? I can assure you that it's not the case, but it's degrading to be reduced to a body! Don't I have other talents?
"I need to see him," I said and rushed out without even saying goodbye to Karla. I hope she can forgive me!
I drove as fast as I could, as tears and the devilish traffic of downtown L.A. hindered my progress. When I arrived, I threw the keys at the valet who recognized me, leaving him speechless. I entered the elevator, apologizing to the tourists who were exiting, who also looked at me strangely due to my haste and my red, teary eyes. Luckily, they let the doors close without asking me anything.
When I stood in front of his door, I knocked, but he didn't open. I thought he hadn't arrived yet. I wasn't sure if he would come directly to the hotel or go somewhere else to relax.
I made a second attempt, the door opened, and he greeted me with eyes as teary as mine.
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"Why did you do it?" I ask. It's not a reproach, although it may sound like one. "You know that by defending me like that, you've buried any possibility of being published here."
"My dreams won't come true at your expense. I couldn't let him insult you like that. You don't deserve it," he says, breaking down in tears, and I join him.
I step into his room and embrace him. He returns the embrace, and once again, I feel that warmth and protection that I seem to only find in his arms. I want him to feel the same way about me. I want him to trust me, find peace and comfort.
