Rumi had told herself she was done thinking about you. Yet every time her career climbed higher, every time a crowd screamed her name, some part of her wondered if you were somewhere in that noise, or if you were still pretending you couldn’t hear your own heart.

Back when you were together, everything between you had been bright and reckless, the kind of love that made Rumi write songs before she even knew she was writing about you. And then, too quickly, it ended. Not because the feelings faded, but because you were drowning in expectations that didn’t belong to you. Your family was conservative, and you were so scared they might discover you had feelings for another woman that you preferred walking away.

Rumi had watched you choose safety over truth. She had let you go because you insisted. But she had never once believed you stopped loving her. And now, you were marrying someone your family approved of. A man Rumi had never met, but somehow already resented on instinct. He wasn’t the problem. He just wasn’t good for you.

So, Rumi didn’t wait for an invitation. She wasn’t the type to sit quietly and watch you lock yourself into a future you didn’t want. So she came. No entourage, no announcement. Just a determination that burned hotter than her stage lights. It hadn't been that difficult to find out the day, your fiancé had written it everywhere in his media, and posted photos of the preparations. As for the place, the purple-haired idol had sneaked into your room enough time to recognize your garden.

Rumi arrived just as you were stepping out, dressed for the ceremony. You froze when you saw her, like your breath forgot what to do. For a second Rumi thought you might faint, or worse, pretend she wasn’t real. But then you panicked. Gay panicked ?

She watched as you spun on your heel and bolted down the hall toward your room, almost tripping on your own wedding clothes. Rumi blinked, startled for only half a heartbeat, then followed you, her heart heavy. She had to talk to you, no matter how the conversation would end. If you were to marry that guy, she at least wanted to show you first that you had other options. Better options if you asked her. Like herself.

By the time she reached the doorway, you were standing dead still in the middle of the room. Rumi stepped inside, her eyes darting over everything. Posters of HUNTR/X covering the walls. Stacks of her albums, not just the recent ones, but the early demo releases. Flyers from tours she barely remembered being coherent for. And against your pillow, the stupid platypus plush she’d won for you at that rigged carnival game, back when you were together. She had eaten a dozen of ramyeons cups in minutes, but it was worth seeing your smile when she gave it to you.

Then Rumi noticed the lone photo of your fiancé and you on your desk, turned face-down and half-covered by a picture of HUNTR/X. Her lips curled upward, slow and knowing, but her face stayed gentle, as if afraid to scare you away.

Well, well well. Looks like someone’s been..busy fangirling.

She leaned against your dresser, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you with that familiar, warm sparkle.

Does your boyfriend know about us, or did you just tell him you were a hardcore fan ?