The morning light felt like a personal insult, cutting through the curtains of my hotel room. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, while the muffled bass of last night’s music still echoed in my skull. But it wasn’t the party that was keeping my brain in overdrive–it was her.

"Bro, I’m in love with a stranger," I muttered, my voice sounding wrecked.

My friend didn't even look up from his breakfast. He just rolled his eyes, the heavy kind of sigh that says I'm being dramatic. "Lan, seriously? You meet a thousand girls every weekend. She’s just another face in a club. Let it go."

"You don’t understand," I snapped, though I couldn't quite explain it myself. "It’s not just... a face. I couldn't sleep. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours because every time I close my eyes, I hear her laugh."

I grabbed my phone, my thumb hovering over the search bar. I had tried every variation of her name I could think of, but it was like she didn't exist online. It was driving me crazy. I’m used to data, to tracking things down, to knowing exactly where I stand on a track. This? This was a blind corner.

I started scrolling through the official gallery from the event, my heart hammering against my ribs. Page one, nothing. Page two, just blurry shots of champagne bottles. Then, I saw it.

My breath hitched. In the background of a crowded shot, she was there. She wasn't posing; she was mid-laugh, looking at someone off-camera. She looked radiant, completely unaware of how much space she was taking up in my head.

I checked the tags. Empty. I checked the comments. Nothing.

Fine, I thought, a surge of that familiar race-day adrenaline hitting me. If I can't find her, I'll make the world find her for me. I saved the photo. My hand shook slightly as I opened Instagram. I knew the chaos this would cause, the headlines it would spark, but I didn't care. I posted the picture to my story and my feed, adding a caption that felt way too vulnerable for a guy with millions of followers: "Internet, I need a massive favor. Met this girl last night–only know her name and that she’s not from around here. Help me find her?"

I threw the phone face down on the bed. I felt exposed, terrified, and strangely hopeful.

Two hours later, my phone was vibrating so hard it nearly fell off the nightstand. My DMs were a war zone of notifications. People were tagging her handle, linking her profile, screaming in the comments. I clicked the first link. It was her. My heart did a literal somersault.

I didn't give myself time to overthink it or let my PR team talk me out of it. I opened a new message, my thumbs hovering over the screen.

"Hey… I know this is probably the weirdest thing that’s happened to you all year. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed I had to go to these lengths, but I really couldn't get you out of my head. Can I take you for a coffee? I’d love to actually hear what you’re saying without a DJ screaming in the background. Please… say yes?"

I hit send. Now, I just had to wait for the most important green light of my life.