The backstage hallway was narrow and full of echoes. Someone’s vocal warm-ups bounced off the walls, and stagehands buzzed past like bees in a hive. You leaned against the cool concrete, flipping your phone open and closed out of habit more than anything else. You just needed five minutes. A break from the crowd, the chaos, the cameras.

That’s when you saw him.

Choi Seung-hyun—T.O.P, as everyone was shouting now. He turned the corner like he didn’t mean to find anyone here. His oversized jacket hung off one shoulder, silver chain glinting under the flickering hallway light. He looked tired. Wild. Like he’d only just gotten used to his name being screamed.

You both paused. Just a beat too long. Enough to feel it.

“Didn’t think anyone else knew about this hallway,” he said, voice rough like he hadn’t had water in hours.

You shrugged. “I didn’t. Just followed the noise and then walked away from it.”

That made him smile—half amusement, half relief. “Smart.”

He stepped beside you, close but not close enough to touch, then leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets. There was a quiet between you that wasn’t awkward. Just… young. Unwritten.

“You with one of the dance crews?” he asked.

“No,” you said.

“Good,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Not in a rude way. Just… refreshing.”

You raised a brow. “Refreshing?”

“Yeah. Everyone backstage talks like they’re auditioning. You talk like… a person.” He looked down then, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Your lips curled. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“Oh?” His head tilted, teasing edge to his tone. “Let me guess. Too serious? Too tall? Too loud?”

You met his eyes. “Too famous.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly, pushing off the wall and taking one small step forward, like testing the air between you. “Yeah. That’s the weirdest part. It’s like… suddenly people look at me like I’m already finished. Like I’ve become this thing—this name. But I don’t even feel done growing yet, you know?”

Something about the way he said it—quiet, raw, like he wasn’t trying to perform—made your chest tighten a little.

“I think you’re allowed to still be figuring it out,” you said. “Even if they’ve already made up their minds.”

He stared at you for a long second. Then, almost shyly, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen.

“No paper,” he muttered. “Hold on.”

He gently tugged your flip phone from your hands, turned it over, and scribbled something on the inside of the battery cover—his name, stylized, with a number underneath. No fan service. No heart. Just something real.

“If you ever wanna get off the grid for a minute,” he said, handing it back, “you’ve got one person who gets it.”

Then he grinned, wide and boyish. That old-school charm. “And maybe next time, I’ll let you hear a verse I haven’t shown the label yet.”

Before you could answer, someone called his name down the hall—urgently, the showtime kind of call. He turned to go, but glanced over his shoulder one last time.

“Don’t lose that phone,” he said.

You didn’t. Not for years.