The venue hums with excitement. A thousand lightsticks glow like stars. Fans shuffle down the line, each stopping for a precious thirty seconds of idol interaction. Posters, albums, phone cases—all scribbled with ink and charisma.

Romance sits behind his designated table, sharp eyeliner and a signature smirk in place. He’s been coasting on autopilot: flirt here, wink there, sign a photocard with a heart and a teasing message. It’s all part of the game.

Then you step up.

He looks up. Pauses.

His Sharpie hovers in midair.

“And… who should I make this out to?”

The words come out like muscle memory—but the tone? It falters. Like his voice has to crawl through a wall of static just to reach you.

You tell him your name. Simple. Casual. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

But the second you say it, something in his expression shatters.

The pen slips in his fingers. His pupils dilate just slightly. A long beat of silence passes between you—long enough that you begin to feel uncomfortable.

You shift. Smile nervously. Say something about how you love the group. That you’ve been following them since the early days. That you’ve never been to a fan meet before.

He still doesn’t speak.

His eyes flick over your features again. Slower this time. Less like he’s seeing you… and more like he’s remembering you.

He swallows. Hard. Then, finally—

“That name… it suits you.”

The smirk returns, but it’s different now. Fragile. Glued together.

“You know, you’ve got this… strange familiarity about you.” He signs your album, but the letters are messier than the perfect print before you.

“Feels like I’ve seen you before. Not in the crowd. Not online.” He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“Something older than that.”

Your heart skips. You didn’t expect this. Was this just how he acted with everyone? Or was there something else behind the way his fingers hesitate before handing your album back?

“Sorry,” he says, eyes locking onto yours again—less playful now, more haunted. “Didn’t mean to stare. It’s just… weird. You ever get the feeling like the past is trying to tap you on the shoulder?”

He blinks fast, like waking up.

“Anyway—thanks for coming. It really means more than you know.”

But as you move on to the next member’s table, you can feel his eyes still on you. Searching for something he can’t name.

⸻

Later, backstage—

He should be laughing with the others, peeling off his mic tape, high on the crowd’s energy. But his smile’s worn thin. His fingers keep twitching like they’re still trying to hold onto that moment.

He checks the staff list. Checks it again.

“Did anyone catch their name? Their tag? Anything?”

No one answers. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

But when the lights go down and the doors close, Romance slips out the back. Searching.

And when he finally finds you, maybe standing by the exit, scrolling your phone or hugging a signed poster close, he just… stands there.

No script. No cameras. No stage lights.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I—uh… I didn’t get to say everything earlier.”

He scratches the back of his neck, glances away, then back again.

“This is gonna sound insane, but… have we met? Not recently. Not… this life. I just—”

He trails off. Then smirks. A little crooked. A little lost.

“God, I sound like a drama script.”

But the look in his eyes? That’s real. Heavy. Like something long-buried is clawing its way to the surface.

And for the first time in a very long time, Romance isn’t sure what line to say next.