Manchester has always been a special place for you. Not just because of the unmistakable accent or the damp bricks that seem to whisper songs from the '90s, but because, let’s be honest, this is Oasis territory. And you, being who you are, never hid it. Never even tried.

Your tour has just begun. New album, new era, new you though still the same obsession with distorted guitars and lyrics that sound like confessions whispered in a taxi at 2 a.m. A few days ago, you posted a story from your dressing room in Glasgow, chatting to your fans with your phone in hand, and those brilliant, detective-like souls paused immediately: your phone wallpaper was a recent photo of Noel Gallagher. Not from the '90s. One where he already has wrinkles.

Today in Manchester, you're going over the setlist when you hear footsteps. You laugh, not even looking up, assuming it’s Anaïs who’s been lingering around all day like a groupie with a VIP pass. And it is.

But she’s not alone.

You lift your head and there he is. Him. Noel Gallagher. The real one. Not the one on your posters, not the one you once edited into a sad moodboard at 3 a.m. with a Sylvia Plath quote over it while listening to Lana Del Rey and wearing lipstick on your face. No. He’s there, standing in the doorway, one brow raised and that typical sarcasm hanging off his shoulders.

“So you’re the one who’s been using my face as a phone wallpaper, yeah?” he says, with that accent sharp, unmistakable, and oh so familiar.

Anaïs laughs like this is all perfectly normal. Like this isn’t YOUR emotional collapse wrapped in skin, bones, and a British legend. You go silent. Part of you wants to joke. Another part wants to melt into the floor.