My Dear Rockstar: A Second Chance of Us

Hello, dear readers! This story is about love, overcoming fears, and rebuilding ourselves even from rock bottom. There will be some steamy moments, but that’s not all the focus of this story, as it wouldn’t align with the character’s traumas. That said, if you are sensitive to topics such as abuse and violence, please read with caution. Stay strong — it’s never too late to rise again!

Welcome, and I wish you a wonderful reading experience! <3

"But love, love will tear us apart, again..." - Joy Division.

Alissa Blake

I wipe the tears from my face as I sit on the restroom lid, hoping the few minutes of peace I’ve carved out for myself will stretch longer and that my phone won’t start buzzing uncontrollably again, as it always does when I disappear for a moment.

I stand up and look in the mirror, taking in the ridiculous sight of my makeup smudged across my face, dripping with the weight of my emotions. I look like a mess, and I need to fix this quickly.

I touch up the essential parts of my makeup, hoping it’s enough to avoid ridicule from the other staff.

When I finally feel ready to face the rest of the day, I hear two knocks on the door. Slow, almost lazy knocks. I already know who it is—he’s always lurking, ready to ruin whatever fragile calm I’ve managed to reclaim.

“What do you want, Fred?” I ask, my tone sharp. I’m at my limit and hate how it makes me feel.

“Two breaks in less than an hour, Alissa! This is coming out of your paycheck if you keep this up.” I roll my eyes at his voice and walk toward the door, my anger loud and deliberate in how my feet slam against the ground, echoing harshly in my ears.

“Give me a break, will you…” I ignore him as he leans against the door frame, staring at me with that ridiculous blond pompadour of his. Fred Lock, my manager. Even his name sounds ridiculous, for God’s sake.

I return to the counter and try to focus on the orders I picked up a few minutes ago. I’m not exactly good at being a waitress, but it’s what pays my rent and chips away at my massive student loan debt, which has been racking up interest since I graduated last year.

After pulling back-to-back shifts, I often forget my own name. But Fred doesn’t care; after all, he’s been acting like a jerk ever since I turned him down for the tenth time.

“Did you forget that I’m your boss, Alissa?” Fred grabs my arm, his fingers gripping so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The force behind his grip is enough to set me off.

I try to remember what my therapist tells me about managing my anger, but seeing him touch me like that only makes me want to shove his face onto the hot griddle.

“If you don’t let go right now,” I murmur as I lean closer to his ear, watching him flinch at the warmth of my breath, “I’ll make you feel like a fucking doll, Fred. Smooth as a Barbie right between your legs.”

I swear to God, I see his pathetic eyes fill with tears as my left hand hovers over the knife sitting on the counter. Coward.

He lets go of me instantly, his chapped lips curling into a strained smile so forced I can see the veins bulging in his neck. I think he’s familiar with my history, after all.

“I’m sure we can work this out amicably, don’t you think?” Fred says, the audacity dripping from every word.

No way in hell.

“I could file a lawsuit against you and this filthy diner, but to avoid more headaches, why don’t you just hand me my resignation with all the benefits included?” I lean my right arm on the counter, raising an eyebrow. My robotic smile doesn’t know whether it’s trying to be friendly or intimidating, but it works. He nods so fast, it’s like his head is about to fall off.

I pull off my red apron and throw it onto the counter. I don’t spare a single glance at the place. Despite the looming unemployment and my endless debt, I hate this place more than anything.

As I step out the door, leaving behind the sound of the entry bell chiming faintly, I’m blinded by a rush of euphoria—and the lingering fury I feel toward Fred. I cross the street without looking twice, and suddenly, the impact hits me.

I feel it before my mind can register what’s happening. My body collides with something hard, and the crushing weight against my abdomen, chest, and head tells me I shouldn’t still be conscious. But somehow, I am.

I roll several times across the asphalt, pain radiating from every part of my body. The stinging of fresh wounds mixes with the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

I can’t move. My senses are fading fast, leaving me teetering on the edge of panic. Turning my head—the only part of me I can still control—I see two men running toward me, stepping out of the car that hit me.

“Don’t try to move, please. We’ve called for an ambulance,” the older man says when I attempt to respond, though I can’t get a word out. My throat burns, and my mouth is full of blood.

My vision blurs even more, and the heaviness in my eyelids urges me to let them close.

“Stay awake, just a little longer. Until they get here,” the older man pleads. Meanwhile, the taller, younger man stands frozen. I can barely see him through the haze, but his mouth opens and closes as if he’s trying to speak words I can’t hear.

Then, just as my eyes begin to close completely, I feel a light touch on my cheek.

I snap my eyes open, startled, and there he is. He’s kneeling beside me, his breathing labored, his face frozen in a look of pure, raw desperation.

Those green eyes—pulling me in with a magnetic intensity—transport me back in time like some kind of machine. Past and present blur into one, as life, cruel and sadistic, plays with us like puppets.

“Alissa?”

I wouldn’t be able to answer even if I could. There isn’t enough time to process seeing him here, in front of me, again.

More people gather around, forming a crowd that feels suffocating. Dozens of phones are pointed at me, snapping pictures and recording without permission. Flash after flash blinds me, but the pain in my body forces me to ignore the humiliation of knowing I’ll be plastered all over the internet in a matter of hours.

But none of that matters—not when Holden Young is standing before me.

The boy—now a man—I thought I’d never see again. At least, not until six months ago, when he’d appeared as the winner of a British reality show, throwing my mind into chaos and stirring up a bittersweet wave of nostalgia.

Now, as he kneels before me, holding my lifeless hand, I can’t tell if this is real. The pain in my body tells me it is, and so does the pounding in my chest. My heart feels like it’s trying to tear through my ribs, the undeniable result of seeing my first love right in front of me.

Holden Young had, for so long, been a beautiful yet painful memory. But now, he’s back in my life.

And I can’t help but wonder if the universe is cruel enough to bring our paths together again—only to ruin whatever love once bound us.