OVER AGAIN

SECOND CHANCE

How can one forget someone plastered everywhere, TV or a newspaper?

The celebrity who ruffled Weston's bedsheets smiled sweetly on TV; Weston turned it off.

She has forgotten you, Weston thought while he began to write another chapter.

Community manager by day, at night, that Weston became Gabriel Saint Clair, and he wrote Top ten ranking thrillers.

Weston didn't freeload the movie premiere; he watched the movie inspired by his book Lone Horizon for which Tilda wrote and sang three songs on the soundtrack. Never did Weston imagine he would meet and wake up next to her. Even thinking of it made him shudder.

Since that day, his house seemed immense for him alone, and his bedroom became the place of the forbidden memories. Sleeping was a moment of torment where Weston still heard Tilda's moans and his heavy breaths as they made love until dawn.

Weston never brought women home. What got into him?

What made him let down his guard?

Even in bed, the man was unleashed as if it was natural. How could sex be spontaneous with a stranger?

Snap out of it, Weston. She's gone. You'll never see her again apart from these stupid shows where she is not even to her advantage.

For the man, TV didn't capture who Tilda was; Weston saw her natural beauty. At the same time, he understood that Tilda concealed her personality to protect herself like him. It would sound pretentious if someone heard him, but Weston knew Tilda or felt he did.

"Get to work, Weston, get to work," Weston said, gazing at his screen.

Blocked for two weeks in the same paragraph, it seemed he wouldn't write the piece then too. Weston swung back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Did Tilda think of him or of the night they spent together?

Tilda said she'd bring back his clothes, but how? The singer didn't even have his number.

Weston's thoughts were interrupted by the ringing doorbell.

He walked to his interphone with a nonchalant step. A hooded woman with a bob haircut and dark screened glasses stared at him.

"Who is it?" Weston said, heart bashing against his rib cage.

"ㅡEm, Weston, it'sー."

Weston opened the door, afraid a passerby would hear, and watched her silhouette climb the stairs, and he pushed himself aside to let her inside. Weston looked around in case someone spied on them and closed the door.

"I'm sorry, Weston, I thought I'd manage to come back here a little sooner, but my schedule was so tight that I couldn't; I had studio sessions," Tilda sighed, "I'm sorry."

The singer was unable to hide how desperate she was. It wasn't like she had promised anything, but Weston could see Tilda was genuinely sorry.

A part of Weston, the juvenile fanboy, jumped for joy while the man blushed, "it's okay, Ms. Brentー."

"Please, Weston, call me Tilda."

The request was unexpected, but Weston applied it immediately.

"Okay, Tilda."

Weston loved saying her name, and Tilda loved listening to it pronounced by Weston.

Tilda smiled; it was so contagious that the man grinned too. Weston's grin stretched as he noticed her attire.

The woman frowned, "what's funny?"

"Your outfit."

"Oh, sorry, I just didn't want to be spotted," Tilda said as she took off her coat and glasses.