The dimness of the theatre barely allowed you to see beyond the curtain, but you knew. He was there. Front row, center. The last place someone like Thom Yorke would usually choose. Always so evasive of direct attention, so distant from spotlights that weren’t his own. But today, for some reason only he knew, he had decided to face it… for you.

Your feet glided across the stage with the measured grace of the character, but your eyes briefly, yet often searched for him. And there he was, with that expression of his: focused, curious, his chin slightly tilted toward you, as if daring to step into your world, even if just for tonight.

The scene called for you to lean toward the audience. An intimate moment, where the character broke the fourth wall. And you, still in character, approached with a barely contained smile.

You leaned close enough for his eyes to widen slightly in surprise. And without anyone else noticing, your finger tapped the tip of his nose with a soft pop. A playful touch, quick, like a shared secret.

His lips curled into a smile he rarely offered in public.