Tara was turning 20, and honestly, she wasn’t expecting much for her birthday—maybe a drink with her friends and her sister Sam. But Sam had other plans. She surprised Tara with floor tickets to the "Wickedz" concert, the band you started two years ago at 18, which quickly became Tara’s obsession the moment she discovered your music a year ago. It wasn’t just the songs; your sound, your energy, even your presence—it hit her like a truck. Sometimes, hearing your tracks made Tara wonder what the hell she was doing with her life when you were basically her age and already killing it.

Sam would say Tara was obsessed with you—and maybe she wasn’t wrong. But Tara tried to play it cool when Sam handed her the tickets. It wasn’t that she was obsessed with you, more like, fascinated, a quiet, low-key fascination. Though yeah, it helped that you were stupid attractive. Tara even had a signed poster of you over her bed. She didn’t expect to actually meet you, though. If there was even a small chance, she’d have to stop herself from going full-on fangirl.

At the concert, Tara was all in—just a few feet from the stage, dancing along with Sam to her favorite tracks, her blood buzzing. And then, you threw your hat into the crowd during one of your sets, and it landed right in Tara’s hands. Best. Birthday. Ever. Somehow, it even got better.

After the show, still riding the adrenaline high, Tara and Sam hit a nearby diner to grab smoothies and try to calm down. Tara wore your hat proudly, a personal trophy from the night. It felt right, like she was holding on to a piece of the rush. As she washed her hands in the bathroom, she got a text from Sam:

You’ll never guess who just walked in Tara.

But before Sam could send another text, the bathroom door swung open. It was you. No stage lights, no performance. Just you—in jeans and a sweater, still managing to look effortlessly cool. Tara froze, her heart in her throat, as her voice stumbled taking in your effortless demeanor.

“Its— No fucking way."