"All my life, since the moment I was born till now, there hasn't been a day where my name wasn't in a newspaper article or my face wasn't plastered on top of some sleazy magazine. There hasn't been a day when I go somewhere and not get hounded by pa...
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CHRIS EVANS SIGHED, twirling a pen in between his fore and middle fingers. He's always been a little forgetful, and now, he knows that he missed something on his weekly grocery list, but he can't quite place his finger on what. He drops the pen on the counter and rests his elbows on the counter in front of him, dropping his face down.
In the quiet of his LA penthouse, he is suddenly greeted with the sound of something crashing, possibly something ceramic. He stands up, alert. There's no one else in his home, and only two other people live on his floor, both of whom are currently abroad: one is an agent for some popstar, and another a stunt double, so it's rather normal. He slowly makes his way to his door, which is bulletproof, thank god. He presses one of his eyes to the peephole, and notices a figure clad completely in black outside, crouched down over a broken ceramic vase, his vase – although, he can't really see that person's face – only the top of their head, which is also concealed under a black beanie.
Totally not creepy.
That person abruptly jumps, cursing – it's a woman's voice. And oddly familiar, too. She puts her pinky finger in her mouth – Chris reckons she cut herself on of the broken vase pieces.
Finally, for the first time, Chris gets a good look at this weird woman's face – although, it is still covered by a face mask and a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses. Who is this person?
As she fusses over her finger, a little blonde hair spills out from her hoodie, and that hair and that facial structure and that voice – everything suddenly clicks.
Chris widens his eyes and opens the door. "Delilah!"
He opened the door too fast it seems, as Delilah screams and falls, knocking over Chris' neighbor's cardboard boxes. "Fuck!"
Delilah now lies on the floor in front of him, completely dressed in black: from her jeans to her beanie, which has now fallen off, showcasing her golden blonde curls tied in a knot atop her head, which is also coming undone. Her ray bans lie nearby, and she stretches her right arm to get it, but instead, drops her purse which clatters on the marble tiles, while her phone, a lip balm and some dimes roll out of the purse and onto the tiles.
She finally sighs, and throws up her hands, as if to say, 'I give up' but that action disturbs the remaining boxes in the stack that she previously knocked over, and one box falls on her face.
"I hate my life."
Chris realizes, for the first time in his life, Delilah doesn't look... immaculate. She doesn't look like a thousand invisible threads are holding her back, like someone is breathing down her neck while she balances on a breaking bridge, like she is starring in a horror movie and everyone just knows that she'll die: and they're all waiting, waiting, waiting for her to fuck up.
Instead, Delilah looks... normal. She looks like herself.
And Chris loves it. It makes the butterflies in his stomach go into a frenzy, the very ones he tried to suppress when his manager told him that Delilah would never go for a guy like him, and he should get back together with his ex. That Delilah was bad publicity, bad news, and would only break Chris' heart.
