Once the door slammed Tilda got up, Weston going into hiding was a typical reaction.

Who wouldn’t do the same if they found themselves sleeping next to a celebrity?

Tilda sat up only to fall back down on his mattress. No, she couldn’t fall back asleep. The woman stood up and walked to Weston’s drawers. Tidy as always; the T-shirts posed stacked on one another arranged bu Color making a Palette.

Amazing, Tilda thought, but everything about Weston happened to be this way. Weston’s programmed his life like a metronome, which Tilda’s presence messed up.

Tilda fitted Weston’s T-shirt and walked to the living room; if she had no better knowledge of the man’s lifestyle, she would have sworn a woman lived in the house.

Spotless, everything stood in place except the desk, to which she strode to find scattered prints and piled Dictionaries, Weston worked hard. Tilda sat on his chair and spun around wishing he had not run away; she yearned to hear his voice reverberating in the cavities of her body she wanted to rub her nose against his freshly shaved skin and whiff his natural perfume.

Where was he in his manuscript?

Tilda clicked on the screen, ah this difficult passage; you’ll get through this Weston, you are talented.

Tilda got up and let her hands glide on the surfaces they encountered; this was his home, their haven.

“Weston.”

Tilda walked to the tidy and functional kitchen, with no dirty dishes in sight, not even a single cup of coffee to wash up. Gray cupboards, Gray towels, and silver cutlery, Weston was too conservative. The absolute opposite of the singer-actress who lived in hotel rooms.

Tilda smiled seeing the one mug he possessed, are you counting on spending your life alone, Weston?

She made coffee, Weston would need to it to kill the stress; she needed a cup as well the situation also stirred her.

Facing Weston was delicate; he would be awkward, intimidated, embarrassed, and so would she.

Those words would pend, those words she refrained and repressed. The woman sighed at her weakness and self-resignation, as she apprehended what awaited.

The lonely journey, her heart broke, but that’s how it worked in the cobweb, imprisoning them. Constant heartbreak, again and again, till—.

Till what?

Tilda didn’t know, and she had no curiosity, only the present counted; what mattered was Weston.

She went to the bathroom and sat down to pee without placing no tissues on the seat, immaculate, and white Tilda could certify the place was bacteria-free.

Weston, how can you be so perfect?

The man’s perfection wasn’t a random feature; his balanced personality was nourished from birth. A loving mother, father, and older brother, Weston Edmond’s life, had no winding roads or dead ends.

Still, he was hard on himself since no one else pressured him. Weston prompted his excellence in establishing his standards, making him the man Tilda met at this premiere.

A man whose shy smile swept her away with one stare, Weston Edmonds, was the one you wait for all your life when you wonder about your soul mate.

What was evident for Tilda was yet to be accepted by the writer, who played Clark Kent hiding behind a banal life.

“Hurry Weston, I haven’t got all day,” Tilda murmured as she pulled the flush, washed her hands before returning to the living room where she turned on the TV to see the entertainment bulletin.

With no surprise, almost every channel mentioned the premiere and Tilda’s participation.

“I’ll never wear something this see-through again, stupid stylists, oh, there you are, babe,” Tilda mumbled.

Tilda spotted Weston walking past behind her as she a reporter interviewed her. What a pity you’re the one who should be the one in the spotlight, but no one knew who he was. For the journalists, Weston was like the red carpet, an ornament amongst the people decorating it. No one acknowledged the discreet man who wrote the book behind the movie.

No one had ever seen Lone Horizon’s author, who people imagined old and living in total seclusion on a little island with a lighthouse. People would faint in horror to discover he was a 29-year-old man who animated social media accounts for a mass media group. In life, Weston wasn’t awkward; he was reliable and appreciated by those who met him.

Time to drink your coffee, not too strong Weston doesn’t like that.

“Perfect,” she said as she took a sip, “3,2,1.”

The door opened, ruffled hair, bagged eyed with glasses Weston gazed at Tilda as if it was the first time they met.

Tilda felt naked under his hungry gaze.

“Good morning,” Tilda said.

This conversation was the problematic part, the moment where you want to crawl, hide under a rock, or be buried alive. The air was unbreathable, Tilda did her best not to let her gaze betray her.

“Sorry Weston, I borrowed one of your t-shirts my red carpet see-through dress seemed inadequate for breakfast.”

“Oh,—em, it’s okay. You-you know my name?” Weston asked.

“Sure, why?” I could never forget you.

“Well, em—.”

“Do you remember mine?” Stupid Tilda, couldn’t you come up with something else?

“Of course, yeah, who doesn’t?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sure what did you expect Tilda?—Em, Weston, I just want to let you know this isn’t a habit, it’s a first. It’s because it’s you; it’s always because it’s you.

Tilda wanted it to be precise; she was a celebrity, but not a player.

Relationships she had them before being a celebrity, almost all her ex-lovers sold her stories to tabloids. Since then, Tilda avoided being associated with any dating rumor, which would tarnish her image.

Weston was unaware of this, for him, Tilda Brentwood was a singer-songwriter who signed a few songs on the movie.

“I better be leaving,” Tilda said turning to go to his room, “—eh, Weston can I borrow a pair of shorts or something because my dress, it’s daytime and I don’t want to call my agent or PA and expose you to privacy invasion.”

“Oh, I understand, wait a minute,” Weston said, going to fetch something for her.

Like a stalker, Tilda wanted something which belonged to him, which would cradle her to sleep when the pain became persistent.

“I’ll take you to the door.”

“Okay.”

Weston’s eyes darted from side to side, “—Em, I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what. It must have been a shock finding yourself here with a guy like me.”

Kiss me, Weston.

“—Em, it wasn’t baㅡem-Weston Iㅡi’ll-bring back your clothes.”

Kiss me, Weston.

“No, worries you can keep them,” Weston replied.

Kiss me, Weston.

A few awkward seconds stood between them, Weston; please, I know you want to kiss me. The woman’s internal plea remained unheard, soul mates they were, but they didn’t share the gift of telepathy.

Who said subliminal messages worked?

“Goodbye, Ms. Brentwood.”

“Goodbye, Weston.”

The slamming door hit Tilda like a speeding truck; she hurried to lower her head on the street to avoid passers-by. She walked a few blocks away before hollering a black cab once inside she let her head fall to her knees as the menacing tears leaked out in a massive flood.

“Weston,” she cried under the bewildered gaze of the cab driver who could not put the finger on the woman’s face.