Two years later.

For one year and a half, I've been working as a waiter in a pizzeria called "Pizza Maestro". My looks has changed quite a bit : my hair is longer and I grew myself a goatee. At first, I did that not to be recognized. The first months in England were pretty difficult. I rented a tiny flat in South London, where I'm from. My parents offered me shelter but I couldn't accept. I wanted to handle this shit all by myself. So I got a flat and a job. It wasn't the life I wanted to live but I had to get the best of it. A normal life.

I've made two friends : Henry and Chris. They work with me at the pizzeria. They know who I was and never judge me. I always thank them for that. Sometimes they make jokes about it, but it's never mean. Henry said to me once : "Whatever you did, everyone deserves a second chance." When I heard those words, I couldn't help but wonder : "Did the girl I hit get a second chance ?"

She often pops up in my head. I never sought to know how she was, how bad she was injured. I don't even know her name. It was pronounced several times during my trial but I don't want to remember it. In this other life -- my London life -- it's like it never happened. I never was this drunk driver who hit this poor girl. It was another person, in another life.

I stopped doing drugs. It was hard but I manage to get myself out of this hell. The drinking though... it's another story. I don't drink as much as I used to but I enjoy going to the pub with my mates. Not every night, but from time to time.

I don't have a girlfriend. I'm 23 and I don't want to settle. I'm still young and no girls I've met so far has this spark I'm looking for. Of course, I hook up sometimes with them. I'm a man after all.

I'm getting ready for the lunch service.It's Saturday and we're expecting families. The restaurant is usually full on weekends. Besides, we are well-placed : just besides Westminster Abbey.

When I go down the stairs of my building -- there's no lift -- I stop at the mailbox. When I open it, I find a big brown thick enveloppe. I get it out. My name is written in the center and I notice that the letter comes from the United States. If I recall correctly, I don't have any more friends over there. Who would send me whatever it is in this enveloppe ? I don't have time to open it otherwise I'll be late for work. I put it back in the box and lock it.

It's 3.30 pm. We had almost three services. As I worked overtime, the manager gave my evening off. When I get back home, I don't forget to take the enveloppe I left in the mailbox. During my shift, I thought of it. What could be inside it ?

I'm in my flat. I take off my jacket and throw it on the couch. I sit beside it . Strangely, I'm kind of nervous in front of it. I used to get, back in L.A., tons of this every week. There were always scripts in it. It would be crazy if there's was one in there. I mean, no one wants to work with me.

With hesitation, I take the enveloppe in my hands and tear the top up. I can't believe it : there's actually a script inside. I'm shocked that someone is ready to collaborate with me. Does that person know what I did ? This project will never be a success if my name is attached to it. There's a letter with the script. Handwritten. I wonder if it's worth reading it. I mean, I moved on from this life. Is it really worth hoping that, someday, I could be able to... live as an actor again ?

I should at least read the letter, just to be sure I'm not mislead.  I take the sheet of paper and start reading :

"Dear Hero,

You don't know me but I'm a big fan of your work. My name is Gibson McMillan but everyone calls me Gibbs, like that man in "N.C.I.S."

I'm a young screenwriter and if I send you this script, it's because you inspire me. I saw all your movies and you're such a great actor. It's too bad that such talent goes to waste.

I know you had a rough couple of years but that doesn't mean you can't come back. I don't know in which state of mind you are right now but I do hope you read the copy I sent you. I'm sure we can do a hell of a job together.

If you need more information, you can contact me via my phone number or my e-mail address.

Waiting for your answer,

Gibson McMillan."

I don't really know what to think. This Gibson guy claims he's a screenwriter but when I google him, no corresponding results appear. Is that a joke ?

There's a part of me that wants to believe  it could be possible to act again but there's the other that remains skeptical.

Maybe I should talk to my mates and ask them what they think about it...

******