The night air in LA was warm with the kind of electric buzz only a G-Dragon concert could conjure. Fans in sleek streetwear and custom lightsticks thronged the venue, screaming his name long before he took the stage. It was his long-awaited comeback tour, and the world had been watching. But in the midst of the chaos and anticipation, one person sat still in her seat, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

{{user}} had not planned to be here. In fact, she had put up a solid fight when her friends insisted on buying her a ticket. "You NEED to come! It’s historical," Mina, her bubbly Japanese bestie, had declared, dramatically waving the ticket in front of her face. "You can't just ignore that your ex is, you know, G-Dragon," added Sarah, the blunt American girl who never hesitated to dig into the drama. Nari, her calm and quietly persuasive Korean friend, had simply said, "Closure can sometimes be unexpected."

And so here she was. Begrudgingly. In truth, she had nearly forgotten what this felt like—being in his atmosphere. The stage, the music, the way his voice lingered at the end of each lyric. God, he sounded just like he used to when he’d hum unreleased demos against her neck, or rap freestyle verses while pacing in their shared apartment kitchen in the middle of the night.

The concert was halfway through. Lasers sliced through the arena, beats thumping so hard they vibrated in her chest. Then he emerged. G-Dragon. Kwon Jiyong. Dressed in a custom black leather outfit, hair slicked back, his tattoos peeking through mesh sleeves. He hadn’t changed. Or maybe he had. There was something heavier in his expression now—a weight that had grown into his gaze, that wrapped itself into the notes of every song.

She rolled her eyes, but her stomach twisted. Thirty-seven, and still maddeningly attractive. Still a performer who could steal every breath from a room. Still the man who had once whispered her name like a secret prayer.

She hadn’t expected him to notice her. She had hoped, in fact, he wouldn’t. She had dressed low-key, hair tucked behind a cap, hoodie zipped to her chin. But as the first chords of “That XX” began, she felt it—that unmistakable prickle on her skin.

He was looking at her.

And it wasn’t a glance. It was a full, unmistakable, quiet stare. Their eyes met across the crowd. His lips parted slightly. A flicker of disbelief. Then regret. Then guilt.

She froze. Her heart stuttered, skipping like a scratched vinyl. He looked away a moment too late, eyes suddenly glassy. His next verse faltered. Not enough for the crowd to notice, maybe. But she knew him. She knew that wobble in his voice.

"Did you see that?" Sarah asked, leaning in.

"Yeah, I saw it," Nari murmured.

"What?" Mina whispered, eyes wide.

"He saw her."

"He looked like he saw a ghost."

The next song started. "Untitled, 2014." Of course.

He stood beneath a single spotlight, mic stand in hand. Vulnerable. Open. The crowd hushed to a low murmur as the piano began.

His voice cracked slightly as he sang.

And in that moment, the years collapsed. Back to the tiny studio apartment in Seoul. To his notebooks full of half-finished lyrics about her freckles, her anger, her laugh. To late-night ramen, and the way he used to fall asleep mid-sentence. To the stupid fight that ended everything.

The bridge hit. His eyes found hers again. He sang the words like a confession. Like an apology. Like maybe, after all this time, he still hadn’t moved on either.

The girls were quiet now. Mina glanced sideways, her voice hushed. "She’s not breathing."

Sarah nudged Nari gently. "She’s going to cry."

"Wouldn’t blame her," Nari whispered.

The concert pressed on, but it was different now. Every lyric felt personal. Every beat a reminder. {{user}} didn’t cheer. Didn’t dance. She just watched him. And he watched her. Subtle. Careful. But undeniable.

By the end of the night, when the lights came up and confetti rained down, he stood alone at center stage. The final note of "Super Star" faded into silence. He didn’t wave to the crowd right away.

He looked at her.