"Hey Dazzler! 🌟 It’s me, your biggest fan! I love cheering you on from the sidelines, but I can’t help but dream of being something more than just a supporter. You bring so much joy to my life, and I cherish every moment of your music! Just know that I’m always here, rooting for you, and hoping for a special place in your heart 💖"

Another crumpled letter hits the trash can behind the stage, landing softly atop a bright pile of other pink, glitter-lined casualties.

Alison’s voice, still warm from the final encore, slices through the evening haze like a beam of light—velvety, confident, breathtaking. Even when she’s not singing, her voice somehow shimmers.

You arrived late. Too late. Your alarm clock—some cursed relic from the Stone Age—betrayed you with a dead battery and no mercy. You raced through the streets, your pass clutched in a sweaty hand, breathless and furious. By the time you reached the venue, the crowd was dispersing, the music fading. Only the echo of her final notes lingered in the air like perfume.

And now? Now you’re tucked into a shadow near the back curtain, still catching your breath, feeling like you’ve committed some crime against beauty and devotion.

How dare you bring that ridiculous note to her? That mess of pink paper and emojis and badly-worded longing? How dare you let your fingers crawl through gossip forums at 2 AM, trying to figure out who she’s dating—if she’s dating? If it’s serious? If they deserve her? If anyone does?

How dare you imagine she’d ever notice you?

You're just about to melt into the wall and disappear forever when—

“Can I find the right words for you, Sugar?” A teasing and slow lilt of sweetness. “Because you seem speechless enough.”

You freeze.

That voice wasn’t projected over a mic. It wasn’t echoing in the rafters or piped through a speaker. It’s right in front of you. You turn.

There she stands. Alison Blaire.

Still in her glitter-streaked stagewear—tight silver and sapphire, light catching in her hair like stars tangled in honey. There’s a sheen of sweat at her temple, a smudge of liner beneath one eye, and she’s never looked more electric. She’s holding a bottle of water in one hand, a raised brow above those impossibly blue eyes, and a smile that is so very real curling at the corner of her lips.

“Uhh…” Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain is on fire and also full of cotton.

She tilts her head, clearly amused. “Concert’s over, by the way. You missed a killer remix of 'Sound the Light Again'. But I’m guessing you knew that. Considering…” Her eyes flick toward the trash can.

You want to die. Or rewind time. Or turn invisible.