Ares opened his inbox, a scroll-through-the-chaos kind of late night routine. Most of it was what it always was—screaming fans, industry offers, collab requests, a weird amount of marriage proposals. One promised "If you marry me, I'll let you name our first three cats and one kid", Another said "You play guitar. I play with emotions. Let's ruin each other's lives—romantically", One even said "Marry me, Ares. I make killer lasagna and I don't snore (much)."
But then, there it was Eira.
No sparkle emojis. No selfies. No desperate "notice me" energy.
Just one message.
Ares didn't open her message right away.
He saw it.
Of course he saw it.
He wasn't proud of how often he checked his DMs that week, pretending he wasn't looking for something.
But when it finally appeared—her username, her words—he just stared at it.
> *"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."*
He read it once.
Twice.
Then didn't move for ten full minutes.
His phone stayed lit in his palm, screen glowing quietly in the dark of his apartment, while the words sat heavy in his chest—like a secret he wasn't ready for.
He leaned back against his couch, staring at the ceiling.
And whispered:
"…damn."
Because it wasn't just the message.
It was *her*.
That same username.
The same girl who left the quiet comment on his live—gentle, simple, grounding.
He remembered the way it hit him mid-song, the way his fingers stalled, the way it felt like someone had reached through the screen and touched something real.
And now this.
"She had no idea what she'd done."
He locked his phone. Walked away.
He was Ares—global artist, digital obsession, walking PR minefield. Everything he said, everything he replied to, got screenshotted, speculated on, spread like wildfire.
He'd seen it happen.
One wrong emoji and Twitter burned for days.
And this girl? Eira? She wasn't verified. Wasn't known. Wasn't vetted by anyone.
Don't reply to personal DMs. Don't start something private with someone who can't protect your reputation.
And yet…
He couldn't stop reading her message.
---
By day two, he was pacing his apartment with the screen still lit in his hand.
What if it was a trap?
What if she shared it?
What if people twisted it into something it wasn't?
What if his team found out?
What if he lost all of it?
His fingers hovered over the reply box. Then pulled back.
Then hovered again.
He put the phone down like it was radioactive.
Then picked it up again.
He hated how much space one message from a stranger had taken in his head.
But it wasn't really the message.
It was the way it made him feel.
---
The next morning, he opened her message again.
And again that night.
And again the day after that.
He never replied. Just *sat with it.*
Not because he didn't want to.
But because it scared the hell out of him.
Like what if she thought he was playing some celebrity game—replying for clout, or boredom, or fan service?
He hated how much he cared what she thought.
He barely even *knew* her.
But that was the thing.
It felt like he *did.*
Or maybe just wanted to.
---
By the third night, sleep was a rumor. He sat on the edge of his bed, hoodie still on, guitar leaning forgotten against the wall. The city lights blinked outside his window, but his world felt very, very still.
sometime around 1:43 a.m., he caved. Heart thudding, anxiety gnawing, he opened the message again.
This time, he let himself really feel it.
> *"...someone you can talk to—about anything. Without filters. Without judgment."*
That shouldn't be rare.
But it was.
And God, how he wanted that.
He opened the reply box.
Typed:
> *"You have no idea what that means to me."*
Paused.
Deleted it.
Typed again:
> *"No one's ever said that to me without wanting something back."*
Deleted.
> *"You feel… different."*
Backspaced.
Nothing felt right.
Everything felt like too much—or not enough.
His thumb hovered. His heart ached a little.
He let out a soft, bitter laugh.
"I'm a grown man having an existential crisis over a DM," he muttered to the empty room.
But then he looked at her words again. That quiet honesty. That *human* thing beneath all the noise.
And finally, he just let himself speak back from the same place.
The real place.
The one he didn't show on camera.
He let out a sharp breath.
Then said out loud, to no one but the dark:
"If this ruins everything… at least I'll know I wasn't a coward."
He typed:
> *"What if I told you… I've been waiting for someone like that for a long time?"*
Simple. Truthful.
He hit send before he could second-guess it.
He ran both palms down his face and whispered:
"Please don't screenshot this. Please don't be like the others. Please just…"
He didn't even finish the sentence.
Because some part of him already knew.
She wouldn't.
And maybe that was why his heart had whispered:
"Trust her."
Then locked his phone.
And just sat there, breath shallow, heartbeat thudding like a countdown.
He didn't know what came next.
But something had shifted.
And for the first time in a long time… the silence didn't feel lonely.
It felt like the beginning of something.
*Guitar. Spotlight. Millions of followers.
But one message from a stranger made him feel seen for the first time in years.