Message in the inbox 📥

Chapter 2

Some times life play its card in the weirdest way possible..

He stared at the message, his vision slightly blurred from the late hour and the whiskey swirling in his system. His eyes lingered on the name at the top of the screen, and despite himself, a slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The name was playful, almost silly, and in a strange way, it made him feel... normal. For a moment, he was no longer "the actor" or "the public figure." He was just a guy, sitting in the dark, reading a message from someone who seemed to care.
As he reread the words, something tugged at his heart. A slow, unexpected pull, like the warmth of a familiar memory he couldn't quite place. He wasn't sure why, but this message among the hundreds he scrolled through daily stood out. It wasn't flashy or overdone. It didn't scream for his attention or demand anything from him. Instead, it was genuine. Simple. And in that simplicity, he felt something stir inside him, something he hadn't felt in a long time.
It wasn't just about the message itself, but the way it made him feel like a person again. Not the carefully constructed persona everyone expected him to be, but him, in all his flawed, tired, human existence. The message acknowledged him in a way that cut through the layers of celebrity he'd been hiding behind for so long. For just a second, he felt seen not as the man on billboards or the face of a brand but as someone who might be longing for connection, for understanding, just like anyone else.
His fingers hovered over the screen, scrolling backward through the flood of notifications. There were countless messages, all packed into the same few hours replies to his stories, comments on his latest movie announcement, and congratulations for awards he barely remembered receiving. Most of these messages blurred together, but now, with the weight of that one message still hanging in his mind, they felt different. They tugged at something deeper.
He read through a few more, his thumb sliding across the screen, and was surprised by how heartfelt some of them were. People shared little pieces of their lives with him wishing him well on birthdays, anniversaries, or just random days when they felt like reaching out. Some of them wrote about how his movies helped them through tough times. Others simply thanked him for being a part of their lives.
These messages didn't just target the actor in him, the public figure carefully crafted for the spotlight. They spoke to the person buried beneath the fame, the part of him that had been starved of this kind of genuine, unfiltered connection. He felt an odd sense of normality wash over him, as if these people weren't just fans, but real humans reaching out to share something real.
And then there was the longing.
He hadn't realized how deeply he craved this until now the longing for someone to see him beyond the glitz and glamour, to talk to him as if he were just any other guy trying to navigate life. Fame had its perks, sure, but it also came with a crushing isolation. The constant demands for perfection, the expectation to always be "on." It left little room for vulnerability, for realness. But here, in these late-night messages, he found traces of what he had been missing an honest connection, even if it was fleeting, even if it was digital.
He exhaled slowly, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache. It was ridiculous, really getting emotional over a few words on a screen. Yet, something about them had managed to cut through the alcohol-induced haze, leaving him with a sharp sense of longing. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to answer, to have a conversation with someone who didn't care about his fame or his bank account. Just him. The thought was oddly comforting, and at the same time, deeply unsettling.
But then, just as quickly as the warmth had spread through him, it was replaced by a sickening twist in his stomach. The alcohol he'd consumed earlier began to stir unpleasantly, its effects now hitting him in full force. His head spun, and the tug of connection was suddenly overshadowed by a wave of nausea.
Without warning, he bolted upright, his body protesting every movement. The messages slipped from his mind as the pressure in his gut built to an unbearable intensity. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, collapsing in front of the toilet as his body heaved, forcing out the whiskey and regret in harsh, painful waves.
When it was finally over, he stayed there for a long moment, slumped against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. The ache in his chest remained, though now it was mixed with exhaustion and the bitter taste of bile. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the sink for support. His reflection stared back at him pale, disheveled, haunted by a strange combination of loneliness and something deeper he couldn't quite name.
Dragging himself to his bedroom, he collapsed onto the massive bed, barely registering the softness of the sheets. His mind wandered back to the messages as his eyelids grew heavy. Maybe they were nothing. Maybe he was just drunk and emotional. But even as sleep pulled him under, he couldn't shake the feeling that, for just a moment, someone had reached through the distance and touched something real in him. And for the first time in a long while, he realized how much he wanted that.