Jared Leto had been furious lately, and the anger only grew heavier with each passing day.
Since the big fight with Cameron last week, he'd assumed it was just another lovers' spat.
Cameron had a fiery streak, and he was no tame kitten; they'd had a few skirmishes over the past months. Usually they cooled off for a day or two, one of them offered an olive branch, and they made up.
This time, something was off.
An entire week passed in silence from Cameron's side.
No calls, no texts, not even her assistant dropping the usual "by-the-way" reminders about Cameron's schedule.
At first Jared held out, sure he was in the right and that Cameron would be the one to apologize.
But after three days he grew restless; by the fifth, unease gnawed at him.
Jared had met Cameron through Daniel Jones, a friend from the band Thrash.
He still remembered the first time he saw her: at a private party, fresh off signing Charlie's Angels and red-hot from There's Something About Mary, one of America most sought-after comic actresses, the media's new "americas sweetheart."
When she walked in, the whole room seemed to brighten.
Jared didn't feel outclassed; he had his own pride.
As a high-end extreme-sports junkie and avid rock-climber, he was supremely confident in his sculpted body and iron will.
He was a respected actor, cameoing as the "angel face" in David Fincher's Fight Club.
Music was his true obsession—he and his brother Shannon were forming Thirty Seconds to Mars, and he wrote all the songs.
He believed he and Cameron were the same breed: restless, hungry for the edge.
Cameron seemed drawn to that very quality.
The first months were hectic—Cameron grinding through brutal Charlie's Angels training and shoots, Jared buried in songwriting and booking tiny gigs—but every rare meeting or call sparked a tacit understanding between them.
They talked about art, about loathing mediocrity, about the boundaries they still wanted to shatter.
To Jared, the relationship was long-distance in miles yet intimate in spirit.
Until last week's blow-up.
The fuse was tiny: Jared griped that Cameron had canceled their rare date again.
Months of pent-up disappointment detonated.
Worse, after months together their intimacy had gone no further than hand-holding and the occasional kiss; Cameron always seemed exhausted, once mentioning her caution about rushing physical closeness.
Jared respected that—but a hot-blooded young man starved too long becomes a live explosive.
In the fight he hurled words about "big-star arrogance" and "fake closeness."
Cameron went white, slammed the door, and left.
Next day the tabloids ran photos of them stalking off in foul moods: "Sweetheart Split? Diaz & Leto on the Rocks!"
Jared nearly smashed his favorite guitar when he saw the papers; Shannon had to wrestle it away.
"Chill, Jared—media loves to spin garbage," Shannon said.
But Jared knew this time the garbage was true.
The week-long cold war chilled and cracked something inside him.
He hooked up with an adoring female fan, a hollow fling meant to drown the frustration; it only left him edgier, craving the unreachable light that surrounded Cameron.
A week passed.
Staring at his phone, Jared finally dropped the ridiculous pride.
Maybe buy a gift, make the call, say sorry—Cameron was worth the bow.
He rehearsed the words, even pictured her bright, slightly smug smile when they made up.
Right then the phone rang.
The screen flashed Cameron.
His heart lurched, a grin tugging at his mouth. See, she can't take it anymore, probably rehearsing her apology. He answered, forcing a light, cheerful tone: "Hey, Cameron! I was a jerk last week—"
"Jared, listen." Her voice cut in, calm, devoid of the emotion he expected.
His heart sank an inch.
"I've thought it through this week," she said evenly. "We… don't fit. Really, we don't."
Jared opened his mouth, throat dry, no sound came.
"Let's break up," she went on. "I'll have my publicist release a statement. That's it."
"Hey? Cameron—wait!" he blurted.
A short dial tone—she'd hung up.
He stood frozen, phone in hand.
A buzz filled his ears; his mind went blank.
Broken up? Just like that? One call, three sentences, months of history over?
No chance to explain, to fix it, even to ask why?
Seconds of silence, then a violent rage erupted.
"F***!"
He hurled the phone at the wall; plastic and glass exploded across the apartment.
Like a berserk animal he swept the table—letters, scores, empty beer cans, ashtray—everything crashed to the floor.
"F***! F***! A**hole! Two-faced b****!"
He roared, cursing, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot.
He paced the wrecked room, panting.
Images of Cameron flashed—her smile, her animated talk, then the icy calm of that final call.
Why? Was it just the fight? Had she grown tired? Or… was there someone else?
The last thought slithered in like a viper, doubling his agony.
On the other end, Cameron lowered the phone and sat quietly for a moment.
No sadness, no longing, scarcely a ripple of emotion.
Instead a strange lightness spread through her, as though a long-carried burden had slipped off her shoulders.
She walked to the wide window and gazed over Los Angeles lighting up for the night.
The fierce quarrel with Jared a week ago already felt hazy, distant, like something that had happened to strangers.
The anger and disappointment had faded to almost nothing.
Why?
Her thoughts drifted to the community track that morning—and to the young man with the striking, chiseled features and clear eyes: Landon Williams.