The lights dimmed to a low amber haze. You were in row nine — not close enough to be part of the frenzy against the barricade, but not far enough to disappear either. The kind of seat you only ended up in when a friend won tickets off a radio giveaway and needed someone last minute to tag along.

You weren’t even supposed to be there.

But neither was she, really.

Tate was two weeks into her tour, and it was already becoming a blur of hotels, dressing rooms, and soundchecks that never quite ended. She knew tonight’s venue by the shape of the crowd alone, not by name. Her legs ached from rehearsal, her voice slightly raspy from three interviews that afternoon.

She told herself to lock in. Just perform. Be present.

But then—

Halfway through the second song, during a lull in the beat where she usually looked toward the rafters to avoid getting too swept into the crowd, her eyes shifted.

And landed on you.

You weren’t moving like everyone else. Weren’t shouting or recording her on your phone. You were still — focused. Present. And for some reason that made her breath catch in a way it never had on stage before.

She forgot her next lyric for half a second.

Her gaze snapped away. Just a blip. Just enough for her guitarist to shoot her a sideways glance like, You good?

But the second chorus came and her eyes went back.

You were still watching her — not as a pop star, not like someone looking at a poster come to life, but like someone curious. Like you were trying to read her. And for a girl who had grown used to being projected on, idolized, followed — that was disarming.

She felt... seen. And it terrified her.

Not in a bad way.

Just in the kind of way that makes your skin feel too tight for your bones.

She kept singing, but she felt her body turn a degree closer to your side of the room with every movement. Her voice caught subtle changes — a softness, an ache, something unfamiliar. She could hear herself falling a little out of control.

After a few more songs, it became a problem.

“Stage left,” her in-ear monitor crackled. “You keep drifting.”

She didn’t care.

There was something about you — your posture, the way your eyebrows pulled together during her acoustic ballad, like you were really listening — that made her feel sixteen again, reckless and unguarded.

What are you doing to me? she thought, mid-verse, laughing to herself as she spun away from your section of the crowd, trying to shake it off.

She was Tate McRae. She didn’t get flustered like this. Not anymore.

But as the show went on, she found herself scanning between songs — pretending to adjust her mic stand just to sneak another glance. Wondering why her chest tightened every time your face came into view.

And then, during her final set — the piano one — she paused before starting. Her fingers hovered over the keys. The crowd hushed.

“This is a new one,” she said into the mic, fingers brushing chords like it was nothing. “It’s not out yet. I wrote it about a feeling I couldn’t explain at the time… and maybe still can’t. But it was sudden. Real. Like walking past someone on the street and realizing you might’ve known them in another life.”

She didn’t look at the crowd this time.

She looked at you.

And you knew.

There were a thousand people in that room, screaming her name.

But for that quiet moment, it felt like just you and her.

She didn’t say anything after the song ended — just closed her eyes, nodded, and slipped off stage like her heart had been left in the crowd.

And you sat there, stunned.

Not because she was famous.

But because, somehow, you had just fallen for each other — without a single word.