That night, after the live ended so abruptly, Eira stared at the screen long after it went dark.
He'd seen her comment.
She *knew* he had. She saw the way his fingers stilled on the guitar. The way he looked at the screen—*really* looked. She even caught the slight smile, that tiny curl of lips that wasn't for the crowd or the performance, but felt… different. Unrehearsed.
For a full thirty minutes, Eira just lay there in her blanket cocoon, heart thudding softly, warmth blooming in her chest.
But he didn't reply.
Not in the chat. Not in the comments. Nothing.
And the smile, as real as it felt, started to blur under the weight of her own doubts.
"Maybe I imagined it," she whispered to the ceiling. "Maybe it wasn't even my comment. I mean... there were hundreds. Thousands."
She let out a long sigh, then groaned into her pillow dramatically. "Of course he didn't reply. Why would he? He's *him*—Ares freaking Official. And I'm just…"
She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek.
"...just a girl with a blanket obsession and no self-control."
She turned her phone face-down.
Then turned it back up.
Then opened his profile.
*Just checking. Not stalking. Not simping. Totally not desperate.*
Her thumb hovered over the message icon.
"No. Don't. Don't be That Fan," she muttered. "You are cool. Collected. Chill."
Her finger moved anyway.
She stared at the message box. Her thumbs twitched.
She typed something vague.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
"Ughhh, why am I like this? What am I even trying to say? That I like him? That I care? That his voice makes my bones feel like soft butter on warm toast? Get a grip, Eira."
But still, her fingers moved, as if her heart had taken over the muscle memory.
And finally, with a deep inhale like she was about to jump into ice water, she wrote:
"I don't want to be another fan who worships you. I just want to be someone you can talk to—about anything. Without filters. Without judgment. Even if that's selfish of me."
She reread it five times.
She *felt* how real it sounded.
Too real.
Her thumb hovered.
"This is insane," she whispered. "He's a celebrity. You're a nobody."
But she hit send.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my god. I sent it."
The screen stared back, blank and unbothered. No typing. No dots. No response.
She threw the phone across her bed like it had personally betrayed her.
"I am dumb.
This is dumb.
I need sleep,"
she muttered, curling away from the screen like it was a ticking time bomb.
But sleep didn't come easy.
Her brain was too loud. Her heart too hopeful.
**Three days passed.**
Nothing.
No "seen."
No reply.
The world kept turning, but Eira's heart stayed in limbo. She didn't stalk his profile. She didn't rewatch the live.
…Okay, she rewatched it twice. Or maybe five times.
But that was just for research.
She told herself it was fine. She wasn't owed a reply. People like him didn't message people like her.
She tried to believe it.
Tried to move on.
Tried.
*Not every love story begins in the spotlight—some start in silence, with a single message.