𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗋
in which a hopeless romantic songwriter living in borrowed apartments receives a response from the rich girl who has the world on her fingertips.
pairing: indie singer!chris x delilah!reader wc: 2.7k notes: highly inspired by hey there delilah by the plain white t's and @/yoleendadong's response to the song!! writing one-shots is so fun to me tehehe divider thanks to @redroud1 :D
Being an independent singer and songwriter was never easy. But for Chris, whose hands never left his first ever acoustic guitar, a wheat-coloured Fender CD-60S, courtesy of his father for his 10th birthday— the callouses on his fingertips and the constant neck and shoulder pain he endured was just another hindering obstacle that he had to live through to make his dreams come true. Growing up, his father’s vinyl records and cassette tapes blasted gritty and gravelly tunes in the dark living room of their house, Chris looking out the window which frequently rattled every time a train passed by as his head was filled with a hundred rhyming phrases and random words to go along with the song.
He was 12 when he finally finished his first song, a musical love letter that he was too shy to send out, dedicated to a girl who sat a row in front of him during a combined English class who he apparently never knew the name of. But the scent of her floral shampoo muffled the boring words of their teacher, the gears in his head shifting when she turned her head back to meet his blue eyes. She had not only the scent, but the overall presence that lingered even after she walked away from the hall with a profound smile given to Chris.
At 15, he started posting snippets of himself playing the guitar on his Instagram account— never shy from showing his face and bloopers when playing, to full-on publishing 4-minute song covers on YouTube. Nearing the summer holidays, his school would conduct open days in which he would perform some covers and original numbers. His hands would sometimes freeze, but the talent he possessed would always make the public pause, his vocals and melodious strumming accompanying the words he had written previously on paper and typed out on his Notes app.
It was not until he was 18 that he received his big break. All thanks to a stranger’s tweet of him, more precisely a grainy, 480p clip of him in downtown Boston with fingers dancing over the chipped fretboard of his guitar and strap held together by duct tape. The video went viral overnight, with netizens retweeting and reposting them with questions onto who “that boy whose voice sounds like a heartbreak” was.
A manager had reached out, followed by a few other indie record labels, leading to Chris, who now goes fully by Christopher Sturniolo, signing a record deal with a heavy backpack and his guitar flown off to the City of Angels. Chris started off with small gigs in bars, receiving just enough to pay for the rent in his cramped apartment where he only slept on the couch. Soon after, he got recruited to write jingles for talk shows on TV, but he was a hardworking and determined man, pulling off double shifts at a nearby record store just for the nostalgia of his father's own vinyls. His lonely nights at the studio apartment were usually welcomed with a hot Chinese takeout and a raw, messy and hopelessly romantic diary entry carolled alongside the gentle strumming of his new guitar.
His success was certainly tumultuous, ups and downs evident when his songs seemed to not hit the charts, but there was one particular fan DM that he had stored within the billions of screenshots he had in his gallery that he always goes back to whenever he doubted himself.
your songs feel like someone’s unsent drafts. rock on chris. i luv luv LUV you <3 <3 <3
Then came the gig in Brooklyn, New York.
The Hall of Americana, an intimate, 250-capacity show room which allowed him to connect closer with his fans with excellent sound quality. A quite chic interior with flashy strobe lights.
His manager told him that it was just a small venue in a big city, but one small show would not exactly change his life.
Chris did not believe her, not because of the small crowd, but because she was in the building.
She bore the same scent she had almost 10 years ago— flowery, the lavender and ylang ylang all mixed in with woody notes of patchouli like the clean summer air, standing across Chris and his manager with a clipboard in hand just a few meters away. He thought she looked familiar, the gold vintage watch too big for her wrist as she continued managing the logistics of the venue, clearly not made to chase the spotlight but instead to run it and make sure Chris’ gig goes as planned.
The backstage area smelled of wood polish and citrus, the liquid electricity seeping through the multiple crumpled tins of Mountain Dew which further added on to the buzzing adrenaline in the building. Chris was set to perform in a half hour, his fingers trembling just enough to mess with the tuning of his guitar.
He sat on a hard folding chair, his manager running through his setlist like a sergeant drill and reminding him to take sips of his water after each finished song, but he was too mesmerised by the scent that his hunched posture just could not balance the guitar in his lap. When she finally went up to the both of them, her velvet lanyard hung around her neck with authority, she stretched her right hand out to meet theirs for a handshake, the gold charm of her bracelet catching the stage light like a stray celestial body that forgot that it was not supposed to gleam indoors.
“Christopher, right?” she asked, eyes flicking up briefly from her clipboard.
He blinked, wiping the sweat of his clammy hands on his jeans, “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Cool. Just had to make sure that you’re alive. Soundcheck guy was panicking when he couldn’t find you,” she answered, lips held together tight without a smile. Not just yet.
“I’m very much alive,” Chris chuckled, “Just tuning my guitar. And my nerves.”
“Well, your nerves sound very sharp,” she finally smirked, but her eyes glinted with concern and tenderness, “Music joke, by the way.”
“You know music?”
She tilted her head at his amusement, “My dad owns this place. Raised with drumsticks in hand and isolation headphones over my head. It was either I learn music or just pretend I understood everything my dad’s coworkers were talking about when it comes to instruments.”
“Sounds like fate,” he joked.
“Fate?”
Chris set his guitar down carefully and stood up to meet her eyes, “Like maybe I wrote all my sad little songs just to end up performing in front of the boss’ daughter.”
Her little smirk transformed into a smile, the corners itching to show more of her astonishment, “That line ever worked on anyone, Chris?”
“Never tried it before,” he guffawed, “Maybe it would when I finally know your name.”
“Just call me Dee. And your set starts soon,” she cleared her voice, trying her best to regain her professionalism, “Encore only if the crowd begs. You’ve got two hours to impress them.”
Chris bit his tongue, fighting his urge to declare that he would stay the whole night if it meant that she would watch. But he knew that was reckless and way too soon. Why would he freak her out at such an early stage?
Scratching the dialogue out, he opted for a safer one, “Will you be out there?”
“Maybe,” she shrugged, “I don’t usually stick around but you seem to be decent. Considering the full house.”
“Just decent?”
“Fine. Sentimental. Charming. Not really my thing, but I am intrigued.”
But before he could come up with another witty reply, a booming voice asking for a “Miss Dee” had called out from the team of lighting technicians, interrupting their short exchange.
“Guess that’s my cue to leave. Break a leg out there!”
And then she was gone, leaving behind a wafting trail of her lavender-scented hair and the sound of her sneakers squeaking against the wooden floorboards as Chris’ heartbeat filled the room like a bass drum.
An hour and a half had passed as Chris performed seven of his hits to the crowd, their cheers deafening but enough to make the smile etched on his lips carve permanently. He scanned the crowd, appreciating each and every face that had help him make things possible. Leaning against the far wall with arms crossed over her yellow blouse, he finally spotted her from the stage, her phone tucked somewhere in her jeans as she intently watched his performance.
Listening to his charming sentiments throughout the whole performance.
He tried to find her again after the show, but to no avail.
And in similar hopeless-romantic-songwriter manner, Chris could not fall asleep in his hotel room that night. His hair was still slightly wet from the shower he took immediately upon reaching his hotel, but his mind wandered throughout the three letters of her name, something about it clutching at his heart like a punch of nostalgia to his chest.
Chris laid on his back, trying to savour the plush mattress of the hotel’s bed as he knew that this privilege would be lost the moment he returns back to Los Angeles the next day. However, despite the city’s quietness, he was still restless. His hands itched to grab onto his guitar as if it was the only thing that understood what he was feeling when his fingertips meet the steel-plated strings.
“Dee… Diana, Daisy, Destiny, Dahlia,” he muttered, the pencil that was previously on his ear now in his grip, crossing out name after name that he seemed to be unsatisfied with to fit in his new song.
His apartment was quiet, the soft buzz of his fridge and the occasional hum from the incandescent light of the living room making the world feel paused. Additionally, the place was a mess too. Chris’ travel bag still unpacked with New York memorabilia and a pile of laundry ignored as he was still attached to let the small show go, him feeling as if he was stuck in a loop ever since her scent came back to haunt the inner 12-year old boy he was.
“Delilah,” he whispered to no one, “Sounds poetic enough.”
Chris balanced the guitar across his lap and looked around his room before settling on the notebook by his side, scribbling out the other names he had chosen prior and finally filling in the blanks between his metaphors with the verse-like name.
He started picking at the strings, the chords harmonising together with his voice as satisfaction slowly brewed within him which warmed his whole body. Chris finally found the perfect pattern, his thumb with the bass notes on the lower strings while his other fingers reached above to pluck on the higher strings.
D—F#m—D—F#m—Bm—G—A—Bm—F.
His fingers naturally continued their picking over and over again before his mind had caught up with the right tempo to match the words on his notebook.
“Hey there, Delilah. What’s it like in New York City…” Chris paused, looking out from his apartment windows where the Hollywood sign greets him. He knew she was out there in the industry, but she was still out of his reach. No goodbyes shared, only leaving him behind with a knowing smirk and the half-joke about his music being too sentimental.
He finally continued, “I’m a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty—”
He visibly cringed. That felt a bit too much, but it was honest. He proceeded to lean into the melody and the lyrics until it finally clicked to him. The song was not made to impress her, but it was about talking to her as if she were seated across from him, with a straw in her mouth sipping on apple juice as she rolled her eyes at the parts where Chris got too earnest. Too sentimental.
His heart started to race as he continued to scribble faster, the pages of his notebook now filled with half-scribbled lines, scratched-out metaphors and arrows pointing to nowhere when the song started to make sense. And by the time his masterpiece was done, the chords marked out carefully above each verse where the note changes, the sun had already started to rise as Chris tapped the pencil repeatedly on his chin, trying to think of a title for the song.
Until he had decided to scrawl a quick ‘Hey There Delilah’ followed by the date of his Brooklyn gig.
It was half past one when she found the song through an Instagram reel shared to her by her interns.
is this about you???!!!! cos ur name!!! AND the date of the show back in brooklyn!!!!
Curiosity fogged her mind, sighing as she tapped on her notification and expecting something dumb to play. Instead, she heard a soft, familiar voice introducing a new track to be released the very soonest.
She froze mid-sip of her chamomile tea upon reading the caption, coincidentally when Chris started the first verse of the song.
Hey There Delilah, wrote this the night of 06/02/2025. Releasing soon. Enjoy.
Her chest tightened, staring at his eyebags and dark circles prominent against the acoustic setup of his studio apartment. The video was dimly lit, casting an unavoidable focus on Chris’ tired appearance but his jet blue eyes which stared occasionally at the camera seemed to be sending her a message. Her name and her city resonating close to her as the guitar-picking continued to latch on her senses.
She shut the app almost immediately as her heart could not stop palpitating. Her chamomile tea was long ignored as she found the typically calming white walls of her room suddenly dingy, the night lamp feeling a bit too yellow for her liking while continuing to pace around her bedroom in her pink bunny slippers.
“Fine,” she hushed, cracking her knuckles before opening her closet door, “You wanna write me songs? I’ll definitely write back.”
She did not even bother turning on her lamp— it was just her guitar that was slightly dusty from being hidden in her wardrobe, her night lamp and the moon as her fingers strummed away to the song’s similar chords. She started to sing, words honest and careful before she reached out for her journal to write out the proper lyrics for her response.
Hey there, Christopher. How’s your night after the concert? It’s so late in NYC, but boy, you make me lose my senses, Because you’re you. Put you next on the billboard because you’re just you. I swear it’s true. Hey there, Christopher, do you miss me or this city? I’m right here feeling lonely, so guess I’m writing you this letter, As a song, listen to my voice and tell me why, I wanna cry.
By 04:04, she was finally done with recording. The pen’s cap thrown away somewhere within her room as she did not bother to edit the video to make herself look the slightest bit better. Her hair covered most of her face where it was bare and glossy after her skincare routine, but the raw honesty of it depicted the perfect response where it escorted just her and her chalky Martin D-28, alongside the ghosts of every unspoken word between them.
She lounged for a bit in her lavish snug couch, something that Chris clearly would replace his tattered sofa-bed with, finger hesitant to press ‘share’. Shaking her head, she thought to herself, “Nope, not yet. This isn’t the right time.”
Exiting Instagram, she opened her email app instead, scrolling through the numerous pending work emails before finally settling on a shared Google document from weeks ago, concerning the greenroom schedule of her father’s concert venue that was shared to Chris’ management.
She typed Chris’ work email address on the recipient box straight away, alongside the video of her singing in the attachments. But she knew better than to send him an empty email that could risk getting flagged as spam again, so her fingers hovered over the subject and body, until finally settling on an honest, but succinct description, hoping that the music had spoken enough for her.
Recipient: [email protected] Subject: My little harmonious take to your melody Hey there, Christopher. Hope I’m still in tune. - Dee (aka Delilah). P/S: How’d you even figure out my real name. Attachment: delilah_response.mp4
