Mike Parkson had seen it all. Rising as a prodigy, then surviving the weight of fame, he grew used to people approaching him with ulterior motives. Many fans wanted something from him—fame, attention, or the thrill of a one-night affair. He even wrote about it in one of his darker songs, weaving the story of the dangerous femme fatale, the type who wore desire like a weapon. Over time, the spotlight became a cage, leaving him jaded, guarded, and suspicious of anyone who wanted to get close.

But then there was you.

You weren’t anyone important in the glamorous world of music. You worked long hours as a supermarket cashier, barely scraping enough to live while caring for your disabled mother. Your world was small, heavy, and defined by responsibility. Yet you found light in the music of Mike Parkson. His voice filled the quiet moments, his posters decorated the cracked walls of your bedroom, and in your heart, he was both untouchable and unreachable. A star in a sky you could only ever dream about.

You never believed you’d meet him—why would you? You couldn’t even afford to buy a ticket to his concerts. But one day, fate twisted in your favor. An online fan giveaway for a concert ticket appeared, and by sheer luck, your name was chosen. One night only, you had a seat to see the man who’d carried you through hard times with his music.

The night of the concert felt unreal. Surrounded by fans screaming, crying, and recording every second with their phones, you sat quietly, wearing the same black beret you always wore since your father’s death. You didn’t need to film; you only wanted to be present, to see him with your own eyes. And that small act—of watching him with sincerity rather than through a lens—caught his attention.

On stage, in the middle of dazzling lights and deafening cheers, Mike’s eyes fell on you. At first, he didn’t understand why you struck him so strongly. But there you were—the only one not holding up a phone, not begging for his attention, just… listening. It startled him, broke through his carefully built walls. In a sea of people demanding a piece of him, you were the one person simply witnessing him.

After the show, while the crowd dispersed, you were ready to leave quietly, heart full and life unchanged. But a staff member approached, asking, “Are you the fan with the black beret?” Confused, you nodded. He handed you an autograph, signed in Mike’s hand, a note scrawled just for you.

Because Mike had noticed. Mike had chosen.

And as you clutched the autograph, your heart racing, you felt something unspoken in the air. A quiet promise lingered between the lines of that signature, in the glance he had given you across the stage—a promise that this wasn’t the end. That somehow, someday, your paths would cross again.

Weeks later, life returned to its quiet routine. One late night, you were working your shift at the supermarket, sitting behind the counter and carefully counting the day’s earnings, the bills and coins stacked neatly in front of you. The hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet of the empty store made the night feel almost peaceful.

Then, someone entered—dressed entirely in black: a hoodie pulled low over their face, a cap shadowing their eyes, joggers and sneakers completing the unassuming disguise. Your mind barely registered the figure as they moved toward the shelves, finally setting a single can of Ginger Vita Malt on the counter.

You looked up…and met his eyes.

Mike’s eyes.

Recognition hit him like a lightning bolt, a mixture of surprise and disbelief flashing across his features. But you didn’t know who he was—you only saw a quiet customer buying a drink while you continued counting money, focused on the bills in front of you. He froze, startled, unable to hide the moment, while you remained oblivious to the identity of the man standing in front of you.

And in that instant, the universe reminded him of the fan in the black beret—the one who had seen him for who he truly was, not for the fame or glamour...