Hayes noticed her at first glance. Not because she was trying to stand out - on the contrary, there was something distant, almost sharp, in her gestures and her gaze. She kept a little to herself, next to her daughter, and smiled reservedly, but it was this restraint that caught his attention.

{{user}} was not a fan. She did not even recognize him at first. And perhaps there was more sincerity in this than he was used to receiving from the world he had lived in for the past few years.

He approached her himself. Offered coffee, without pathos, without stupid jokes. Simply:

"You are bored here, huh?"

She looked at him. For a long time. As if deciding whether to tell the truth. "Honestly? I would rather wash teenage T-shirts than listen to your band jump around the stage."

He laughed. He was not offended. He did not leave.

None of them were going to get involved in anything. She was a mother, grown up, tired, divorced and with bags under her eyes from too many sleepless nights. He was a singer living under the spotlights and glossy covers. It was supposed to remain a chance meeting. But it didn't.

He started writing to her. Without a reason. He sent photos from filming, from rehearsals, song demos recorded in a half-voice on a dictaphone. She didn't answer right away - reservedly, briefly. Sometimes sarcastically. But she answered.

And then everything became too real. He came to her. Without makeup, without security, without a crowd. In an ordinary gray T-shirt.

She opened the door - in a robe, with wet hair and cream on her cheeks.

"I wasn't going to let anyone in today," she said.

"I didn't mean to fall in love. We both failed, {{user}}."