Summary: AU. Set 5 years in the future in a fast-lane L.A. where Chloe has made it to the top, her name frequently appearing in US Weekly and Rolling Stone magazines. Meanwhile, Beca's dreams have gone down the drain. Struggling to make ends meet, to keep off the streets and mostly, to look forward to the future. So when they reconnect after all this time, what are they exactly expecting from one another?

A/N: This was originally going to be TSTRF's epilogue but I figured they didn't need more drama... in that world anyway! I'm just trying out this new idea and depending on the feedback I get, I'll see about the rest. So leave me comments if you want it continued or not! Cheers aca-people Xx

[Part 1]

The day breaks through her blinds, hot and disorienting. The sun's warmth tickles her cheek so Beca rolls on the side, trying to ignore the fact that she has to get out of bed someday. What time is it, midday? One? Does it really matter?

Probably not. It feels like 10 minutes have passed since she's come home to crash. She didn't even bother pulling the covers on top of her, being way too exhausted by last night's gig. Like every Friday night, the underground club "The Katacomb" was jam-packed; full of underage sluts, tanned douches, old pervs and stoned assholes. And she was spinning for them, stringing tracks after tracks in hopes of quickening their bloodstream and screwing up their senses. Beca was a pro at that; screwing up that is.

She flips on her back, staring at the beige ceiling where paint has started to peel in the corners. She cannot sleep anymore. Besides, it's actually fucking four o'clock. Reluctantly, she rolls out of bed and drags herself slowly across her "spacious" two-room apartment to the entrance door.

The journal lies at her feet on her tiny doormat half-eaten by rats or whatnot. She distractedly picks it up and flings it in on the kitchen table without taking a look. She craves some coffee but doesn't feel like waiting for it to brew so she warms up some of the day before instead. It's stale and fucking revolting so she empties it in the sink and lights up a cigarette instead, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet on top of the table.

She doesn't want to open the goddamn paper. She already knows what she's going to find and the prospect makes her almost as sick as her sour coffee.

But they say curiosity killed the cat.

She flips through the sections and lands on the first page of the Arts segment. The main title catches her eye and she takes a long drag out of her cigarette to calm her nerves.

"DJ Presto's explosive debut album Stone-hard: Interview with his manager Chloe Beale of the Beale Records"

The girl's face is as radiant as ever, Beca muses as her thumb strokes the inked photograph. She's wearing a classy black blazer over a blouse of an vivid turquoise that makes her eyes sparkle even brighter while Ginger locks fall graciously down her shoulders. To be honest, she looks like she's just come out of a Prada fashion catalogue.

It's been five years. Five long years with the occasional facebook update, a hurried coffee date in-between two meetings, and a whole lot of calls going straight to voicemail. For the first few years anyway. Now, the only way she knows what the redhead is up to is through the internet articles and magazine interviews. She's got a pile of US Weekly stashed under her bed to prove that she hasn't forgotten Chloe Beale. Her first love.

They stopped communicating when Chloe got her first big contract. Beca had become too ashamed, too hateful and bitter. She could not untangle her feelings and forgive Chloe—admitting that there was even need for forgiveness—both for walking away and for making it big. Because she'd found happiness without her. And because even after five years, Chloe's face is the first thing she thinks of in the morning.

And just look at her. Beca "Loser" Mitchell.

She's missed the mark completely. Giving two-hours long sets in crumby clubs to make ends meet, going to her joke of an apartment to make herself some boiled pasta for dinner and crashing in front of bad TV show re-runs at 3:00 am.

This is what it has come to. The great promises. Bullshit. Everybody doesn't make it and anyone saying otherwise is lying. You have all of these ambitious people who ace college and expect to be as successful in life. Some of them do. But let's face it, some burn halfway to the stars, and some don't even get off the ground. And some die inside when they realize that they built their dreams on pillars of sand.

She squishes her stub in the ashtray and looks through her window. The sun is shining outside. It's her day off; she could do whatever she wants. But she chooses to take it slow and be absolutely not productive. Color me surprised.

Right there, a crazy and utterly outlandish idea strikes her. She wants to text Chloe. Out of the blue, just like that. For the hell of it.

She lights up a new smoke, sits up straight and starts typing a message on her cellphone.

What's up Chloe? It's Beca :)

The smiley face is tacky. Erase.

Chloe! Heyyy it's been so long!

Now that just sounds phony as fuck. Erase.

Hey Chloe! How's it going?

Beca is anxiously thumbing her phone, her finger hovering above the "send" button. She's about to send it when she figures that text messages have a knack to get lost in inboxes, especially famous people's ones. What the hell!

She deletes her draft and instead slowly dials Chloe's number on the pad even though it's in her contact list because somehow, dialling it digit by digit gives her a rush, pathetically so.

It rings two times and already, Beca wishes she hadn't called. At the fourth ring, she is met with muffled noises and a voice slightly out of breath.

"Hello?"

"Hey Chloe! It's me... Beca."

The second of silence makes Beca nervous. Does she even remember who she is?!

"Hey! Sorry, I can't hear you well, I'm at this party... Hang on, I'll just—"

A party at four in the afternoon?! How fucking bourgeois.

Beca presses the phone against her ear, but only rustling and static noises come out. She briefly wonders if she hung up on her.

"Okay," she finally says, "Now it should be fine. How are you!"

Her voice has barely changed in five years. It's still got this clear, pure and innocent quality to it. If she could afford it, she would feel a little nostalgic over it.

"I'm... fine! Listen, I don't even know why I called. I—I read that article in the paper this morning and I just figured, why not!"

"Oh yeah! Things are crazy right now! I never expected my client to do so well! Who would've thought that a kid mixing tracks in his basement could get this far?!"

Silence.

"Uh anyway, how are you doing?" she proceeds to say to clear up the awkwardness. "Last time we spoke, you were signing a contract with a new club."

"The Katacomb? Yeah, I'm still there. It's been two years and a half now..."

"Really?! Oh my god, time flies so fast!"

Beca clears her throat. Amazingly enough, Chloe hasn't changed a tad. She's still this same little bundle of joy, full of energy, full of everything Beca has always been lacking of. Suddenly, she wants to hang up so bad. Trying to contact her was a bad fucking idea. She shuts her eyes and silently curses at herself for having committed yet another mistake.

"Beca?" Chloe asks when confronted to the girl's silence.

"Yeah, I'm here. Listen, I need to go. I—I promised some friends I'd meet them and besides, you have a party to get back to! So uh, yeah... Bye!" She hates that her voice quivers on the last word.

Chloe sounds puzzled at the other end of the phone. "Oh, okay. Well it was very nice talking to you! It's been such a long time..."

"Sure. You too. Bye."

Fucking. Finally. Beca releases a heavy sigh, leaning back in her seat. That was a terrible idea because now, not only is she bored and exhausted but she's also fucking depressed. The only thing worse than rekindling with an old acquaintance who is also your ex is when they made it big while you didn't and you can just hear their pity for you in their voice. Beca doesn't need Chloe's pity, she's drowning in her own already. She wants another cigarette but she figures that she's exaggerating with that new chain-smoking habit she picked up. She's seen people die of lung cancer and it wasn't pretty. Starting to smoke was definitely a mistake because once you're addicted, you spend a little fortune on these damn things. The only good thing is that it steadies the nerves and it kills time. But she's trying to stop. Or so has she been telling herself for the past year.

She checks her phone to find a new text message. It's her boss informing her that her gig tonight is cancelled. The one she counted on to pay her rent. She lets out a loud curse, uncrossing her legs under the table and dropping her head in her hands. It's not a secret that she is no Rockefeller. In fact, she's more like your average college student. The roof over her head counts as one of her greatest blessings, her fridge is occupied by cans of beer and fast-food leftovers and with time, she has mastered countless techniques to avoid the landlord or get an extension to pay the rent. So with this night's pay being annulled, she'll have to be frugal as shit. Again.

"Fuck it."

She lights up another smoke.