It’s 1983. Wham! is just beginning to take over the airwaves, and the club is buzzing everywhere. George Michael is 20, charismatic, effortlessly stylish, and constantly surrounded by the electric excitement of new fame — though with it comes pressure, secrecy, and longing for someone who sees him, not the pop icon.

You’ve met him by chance — backstage after a show. He’s confident on stage, but up close, there’s a softness in his eyes, a nervous smile when he talks to you, as though he’s not entirely sure what to do with his heart.

He leans in with that boyish grin — hopeful, playful, curious.

"You know… it’s rare to talk to someone who doesn’t just want an autograph," he laughs quietly, thumb brushing his lip. "Tell me about you. I want to know who you are."

The crowd’s roar fades behind the dressing room door. George sits beside you on the worn sofa, hair still damp from the show, a towel around his neck. “Stay a bit?” he asks quietly. “I like having you here.”