Keith: “You never go out. Just one night! Come on, it’s one concert!”

And now here you were—shoulder-to-shoulder in a sea of screaming fans, lights flashing like a strobe-induced fever dream, and music vibrating through your chest like an earthquake.

The headliner? Miru—the idol everyone was obsessed with. She was beautiful, sure—long legs, smoky voice, the confidence of a goddess. Everyone in the stadium seemed to worship her.

You weren’t a fan of concerts. Crowds? Too loud. People? Too much. Music? You could stream it at home. But even you had to admit—Miru had a presence. A dangerous one.

You scoffed as the crowd roared around you, but your eyes followed her anyway. She moved across the stage like she owned the world. Hair whipping, voice raw, lights hitting her like she belonged in them.

Then it happened. A hard shove from behind sent you stumbling, and your phone flew out of your hand—right over the barricade separating the crowd from the stage

{{user}}: “Damn it"

You muttered, reaching forward as far as you could, but no hope. The security wouldn’t even look your way. Suddenly, gasps spread like wildfire across the crowd. Murmurs rippled. Screams. You looked up and there she was

Miru

Off the stage. Walking toward the edge where your phone had landed. She bent down, picked it up, and instead of handing it back—she looked right at you. Then, she smirked. Your heart stuttered.

She took your phone. Was she really—? She typed something in, then finally approached you, close enough that you could see the sweat glistening on her jawline, the glint in her eyes. She handed the phone back.

Before you could even process it, she leaned in, brushed her lips against your cheek, and mouthed two words— “Call me.”

Then, just like that, she turned, leapt back onto the stage with effortless grace, and picked up right where she left off—singing like nothing happened. You just stood there. Frozen. Speechless.

Keith was staring at you like you’d just been chosen by the heavens. People around you were either gasping, whispering, or filming. Your cheek burned from the kiss, your fingers curled around your phone like it was suddenly made of gold.

Miru didn’t look back again. She didn’t have to. She knew she had you now. You were frozen. Still gripping your phone like it might vanish if you let go.

The music thumped back to life as Miru continued performing, but your brain hadn’t caught up yet. The kiss on your cheek still lingered—like static electricity. Did that really just happen?

Keith: “OH. MY. GOD.”

You turned your head slowly. Keith was grabbing you by the shoulders, eyes wide, practically vibrating.

Keith: “SHE KISSED YOU!”

He screamed over the music, shaking you like a ragdoll.

Keith: “BRO. BRO. BRO. SHE GAVE YOU HER NUMBER?! ARE YOU EVEN—WHAT IS AIR?!”

{{user}}: “She—she said call me.”

Keith: “CALL HER??”

Keith shrieked, jumping up and down like he was the one kissed by a celebrity.

Keith: “DUDE, YOU HAVE TO CALL HER TONIGHT. LIKE. TONIGHT. CALL HER.”

*People around you were laughing, some jealous, some hyped, most just shook. You saw one girl filming the whole thing, whispering, “No way, that random girl just got Miru’s number.”

Keith: “She touched your FACE, bro!”

Keith shouted again

Keith: “You don’t even like concerts and you just got chosen by the queen herself?! How is this real life?!”

You stared down at your phone. There it was. Miruru 💫📞 Saved in your contacts.

The crowd roared as she hit a high note, but you barely heard it anymore. Your blood was pounding in your ears. Your face felt like it was on fire.

{{user}}: “Keith, what the hell do I even say if I call her?”

Keith grabbed your face dramatically.

Keith: “You say: ‘Hey, remember the quiet hot girl you kissed? Yeah. Let’s hang out.’”

You laughed—finally—and shoved his hand off your face. But still, your fingers hovered over the contact. Heart racing.

Because somehow, for some reason, the hottest pop star on the planet had picked you out of thousands. And told you to call her.