Rewriting Our Stars Chapter 2

Ashton had bought this little apartment before he struck it rich. I had saved up a decent chunk of change from my writing royalties, and together with Ashton’s savings, we scraped together a down payment. Two bedrooms, one bath. We each had our own little space. Later, when he exploded in popularity, living here wasn't feasible anymore. The area was too busy, and it was too easy for paparazzi to follow him. His manager strictly forbade any talk of him "cohabitating" with anyone during his rising career. I helped him explain over and over that we were just family, but I knew there was no way around it.

For a very brief moment, I had held a burning star in my hands. But I was painfully aware that he never belonged to me.

He moved into a highly secure luxury complex. His schedule became fuller by the day. He still called me, telling me about new scripts, new choreography he was learning, but he was just too busy. Eventually, when I called him, he was always at an event, filming, or preparing for a show. He’d call back exhausted when it was all over. I couldn't stand seeing him so tired, so I stopped calling.

I didn't have many friends here. After working at the publishing house, I'd come home and write. When I wrote The Queen’s Champion, I had written a specific line for the young general. He would ride back through a massive snowstorm, the great Royal City and thousands of soldiers behind him. He would leap from his horse, dropping to one knee in the deep snow before the young Queen: "I am your sharpest sword. For my Sovereign, I conquer worlds."

I was thinking of Ashton when I wrote that. I, too, wanted to be his sword and his shield. But I could do nothing. All I could ever offer him was a hug.

According to the patterns of these stories, Ashton and Seraphina were supposed to meet during an audition at his agency. Reconnection. The descriptions in my head were vivid: "They met, but he remained outwardly composed. Tall and straight, he brushed past the delicate Seraphina, appearing like strangers. But secretly, he secured the best contract terms for her and personally ensured this destined-to-be-blockbuster script was placed in her hands. The usually arrogant man was so cautious, letting Seraphina believe her achievements were solely due to her own hard work, letting her be happy and proud."

The press conference was just the beginning of their slow-burn romance.

I had stayed with him all those years, waiting for her to finally appear.

I finished making all the necessary handovers for my work from the little apartment. Then I dragged my suitcase to the door. Just as I opened it, I realized it was raining. A heavy downpour, beating against my heart with a dull ache.

As I was about to close the door to grab an umbrella, a force shoved against it. A pale, long-fingered hand gripped the doorframe, a knuckle adorned with a stylish silver ring.

I opened the door fully, my heart pounding rapidly.

Ashton was leaning against the doorframe. It was pouring outside, and he was soaked. Wet hair fell across his beautiful brow, dampening the brilliance that usually radiated from his eyes. There was a faint trace of red in them now. He was still wearing his ancient, elaborate costume from the set, the wide sleeves hurriedly tied up. Rain dripped down the high bridge of his nose, looking almost like tears. He must have rushed here; he was still slightly out of breath, his thin lips pressed tight and pale, wearing a look of sheer panic that was entirely different from his usual cold detachment. He looked like a child terrified of being abandoned.

He looked down, his voice slightly raw. He said my name. "Elara.

"Where could you possibly go?"

Water rolled down his jawline and neck, disappearing into the half-wet collar of his costume.

I paused before asking, "Did you run off from the set?"

He interrupted me, leaning slightly closer to look me in the eye. "Where could you possibly go?"

"I'm going back to Monterey. It’s too loud here; I’m not cut out for this life. I want to watch fireworks on the beach at night in Monterey, and eat the old-school cherry pie from the diner down the street."

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the doorframe. He asked softly, "What about me?"

I noticed people moving around in the hallway. Given how incredibly famous he was, I worried about him being recognized by paparazzi or neighbors. Letting out a sigh, I stepped aside and signaled him to come in.

Even though he hadn't lived here in a long, long time, his room and closet were untouched. I urged him to go take a hot shower. He looked back at me several times, hesitating. I was both amused and annoyed. I said, "I'm not going to run away while you're in the shower."

Only then did he let out a faint, "Oh."

He had left his phone on silent, but missed calls and texts were blowing it up. Ashton clicked his tongue in annoyance, flipped the phone facedown on the coffee table, grabbed some dry clothes, and shut himself in the bathroom.

I answered a call from his assistant. The poor guy was in a panic, asking if Ashton was with me. I gave a quiet "mm-hmm," and told him not to worry, that Ashton would be back later. The assistant breathed a sigh of relief. Then I called his manager, telling her to handle any potential leaks about him being seen on the road.

Handling all this only took a moment. I found myself in a rare daze. Ashton was actually incredibly hardworking; stories of stars being divas on set never applied to him. He never did that.

I inadvertently clicked on one of Ashton’s new songs. His voice from the phone was uncharacteristically gentle, like a confession from across the stars:

"You're at the center of my world / Yet I never felt anything was different."

"My full glory is for your coronation / Who could know this love that asks for nothing in return?"

My heart burned as I listened. But the comment ticker rolled across the screen: "Seraphina is going to win awards with this kind of backing. Ashton definitely pulled strings." "This kind of hidden, patient love is the most heartbreaking!" I thought about my brief moment of self-importance and felt incredibly embarrassed. But according to the original narrative, this is how it was supposed to go.

He wrote songs for her, paved the way for her, placing the best things in her hands without her ever knowing.

If his high school love was as scorching as the midday sun, then now, having weathered tragedies, that love was heavier, hidden, like moonlight reflecting on a rippling ocean.

But anyone falling for Ashton was just inevitable, because he was truly a wonderful person.

The song was slow and gentle, like him singing right into my ear. I was lost in it.

Hearing the bathroom door open, I snapped out of it and hurriedly paused the song, like I was trying to hide a guilty secret.

Ashton had changed into a white T-shirt, his collarbone slightly visible. His hair was towel-dried. The hot shower had seemingly eased his tension; his innate nonchalance was back. Hearing the familiar melody, he paused, a smile playing at the corner of his eye. "Listening to my new song?"

I nodded. "It’s very good."

He didn't reply, but a trace of red climbed onto his ears as he gave an indifferent "mm-hmm."

The atmosphere suddenly plunged into a heavy silence. Neither of us knew what to say. There were only a few hours left before I had to catch the cross-country train. I had to say goodbye.

"Next time, don't just run off without a word. You had them all worried."

Ashton hated being lectured, but now he just sat there quietly, listening.

"My ticket is bought. It's raining, so you can't walk me out. If... if you ever think of me, come find me for a beer when you're near Monterey."

As it turned out, parting wasn't about drama and crying. It was about very restrainedly maintaining the politeness of friends.

He was silent for a long time. I sighed, getting up to head for the door. But as I passed him, he grabbed my wrist.

"I won't come find you for a beer. I won't just happen to be near Monterey."

He raised his eyes, looking at me with absolute stubbornness, the corners faintly red. For an instant, I truly thought he was going to cry. Through all these years, through so much suffering, he had only ever cried like that once, the afternoon his parents died, holding me without a sound.

I patiently leaned down slightly. "Ashton, have you ever considered that you're just used to having me around?

"Back then, anyone who held you, you would have accepted them."

He froze, his face going pale as if he had been insulted. He looked straight at me, practically spitting the words through clenched teeth. "Elara, do you have a heart? It could only be you. It was only ever you."

Just as things were at a standoff, my phone rang. Somehow, the ringtone had changed to Ashton’s new song, hitting right at the climax: "My full glory is for your coronation / Who could know this love that asks for nothing in return."

It was incredibly awkward. Ashton was still gripping my wrist, so I used my other hand to answer. It was the production team for The Queen’s Champion. They had recently finalized the casting and held the press conference, and were now about a portion of the way into filming. They wanted me to join the crew on set to oversee the script, working with the screenwriters to refine the story and dialogue.

I hesitated. If I joined the crew, I’d be seeing a lot of Ashton and Seraphina. I was literally just about to leave.

The person on the phone was very polite. "We truly hope to present your work to the audience in its best possible form, so we would be honored if you could join us."

Ultimately, I nodded.

Suddenly, I remembered that Ashton didn't know I wrote the novel. I looked down, only to see the thin lips that had been pressed tight a moment ago now quirked up in a smile. He leaned back slightly, relaxing completely, his beautiful eyes sparkling. He showed no surprise whatsoever. I raised my voice. "You knew I wrote The Queen’s Champion?"

He was outwardly calm, lounging on the sofa, his long legs propped up on the coffee table. He said lazily, "Elara, I look forward to working with you."

Just like that summer years ago, when he sat by the window, the trees full of cicadas, his classic bad-boy profile turning towards me. He had quirked his lips then, too, saying, "You're Elara, right? Nice to meet you."

He was always like this, pretending he didn't need my help when he clearly did.