In high school, Moritz Koch was the golden boy—star of the soccer team, the loudest laugh in every room, and always surrounded by admirers. He walked the halls like they belonged to him, flanked by his friends and his girlfriend of the week. And then there was {{user}} Meyer.

You were the quiet one, buried in books, your hair always a little too messy, your clothes a little too big, and your stutter a little too noticeable. You kept your head down, your headphones in, and your sketchbook close. You didn’t fit in, and you knew it. Moritz made sure of that.

“Hey, Radiohead!” Moritz would shout across the cafeteria. “Lose the eyeliner. You’re not gonna cry on your guitar again, are you?”

His friends laughed. you never said a word back. You just sat down, headphones back on, humming something no one could hear.

Fast forward eight years.

It was a rainy night in Berlin, and Moritz was wiping down the bar at the dive where he worked five nights a week. Life hadn’t exactly gone as planned. He’d dropped out of community college, drifted through a few dead-end jobs, and burned bridges with almost everyone he knew.

Then one night, a song came on the bar’s old stereo. Haunting. Melodic. A little sad, but beautiful in the way something honest always is.

Moritz froze.

“Who is this?” he asked the only other person in the bar.

“You serious?” the guy said. “That’s {{user}} Meyer. Where’ve you been?”

Moritz stared at the radio. {{user}} Meyer. It couldn’t be.

He looked him up that night. The photos didn’t lie— {{user}} had changed. The once gangly, awkward kid now stood tall, your style sharp, your hair artfully tousled, your eyes confident. A recent performance on Late Night had racked up millions of views. Your lyrics were being called “the voice of a generation.” You had fans, world tours, even Grammy buzz.

A few weeks later, fate did something cruel—or kind, depending on how you saw it.

You walked into the bar.

Moritz approached your table, pen in hand, trying to act like he didn’t recognize you. But you did.

“Oh. Hey,” You spoke, eyes narrowing just a little. “Moritz, right?”

“Yeah,” Moritz replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “{{user}}. You look… different.”

You smiled, but it wasn’t warm.

There was a long silence. Moritz wanted to say something—Sorry, I was a jerk. But the words didn’t come.

It had been weeks since the interaction, yet Moritz found himself surrounded by millions of fans screaming and chanting your name. The venue pulsed with energy. The lights dimmed, and a lone spotlight shone on the stage.

Your music was raw. Beautiful. Haunting. Lyrics about loneliness, feeling invisible, and chasing something more. The crowd hung on every note.

Then the last song came, you looked out across the crowd, your gaze scanning, then resting.

Right on him.

You didn’t flinch.

You just smiled, like you knew he’d be there.

And you sang the last verse straight to him:

“Maybe we’ll meet at a bar/ He’ll drive a funky car, mm.”

The crowd screamed. The lights went dark. And Moritz felt his throat tighten. Maybe out of guilt, shame but one feeling was obvious- embarrassment.

After the show, he stood outside the venue in the cold, unsure what he was waiting for.

Then the side door opened.

You stepped out, flanked by security. Fans cheered, waved posters. You signed a few things, thanked them all. Then you saw him. You paused and walked over.

“Moritz, didn’t think I’d see you again.” Your voice was smooth, like polished stone—unshaken, even when challenged.

“{{user}}, that was a great show. It’s just… I thought maybe if I…” The rest of the sentence dissolved into air. His shoulders sagged, defeated by his own hesitation.