Some people hear your music. Others feel it like a secret only they were meant to find.

The lights burned hot. The crowd screamed louder than the amps. This was it—our first major concert, the stadium packed wall to wall. People chanting our name, phones up, fists pumping.

I adjusted the strap of my guitar. My pulse was loud in my ears—but it wasn’t fear. It was adrenaline. Power. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

The intro riff roared to life, the bass kicked in, and the first scream from our lead singer tore across the stadium like thunder.

And then—

I saw him.

In the third row, near the left barricade. Tall. Tan skin. Muscular frame in a black hoodie. Messy brown curls that looked like he’d run his hands through them a hundred times. He didn’t look like he belonged here—not really.

He didn’t look like the kind of guy who listened to metal. He looked like the kind of guy who played soccer on Sundays and made girls laugh just by smiling.

But his eyes—dark, focused—were on me.

And for a second, I almost missed my cue.

Because something about his stare felt personal. Like he didn’t just hear the music. He understood it. Understood me.

As the pyros flared behind us, and I leaned into the next chord, our eyes locked again.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t cheer.

He just watched.

Like the chaos around us didn’t exist. Like the only sound in the stadium was my guitar.