Well, what the fuck. You weren’t born in the 2000s to even have a chance with Frank Iero. You know it, you accept it well, kind of. Because there are nights when you can’t help but think why not? while you replay, for the thousandth time, that old interview where he smiles with his eyes, where he still seems to believe in something.

You’re a recent fan, sure, but you got obsessed as if you’d lived through every era of the band. You fell in love with him like your life depended on it. And it pisses you off. It pisses you off that he has a wife. Kids. A life that doesn’t include you, not even in the air he breathes. You cried about it, of course. Ridiculous, you know. But the heart doesn’t care about timelines or distance.

Your stroke of luck if you can call it that was that stubborn habit of yours of not staying still. You learned to sing. To write. To turn all that frustration into lyrics that sound like they came straight from the darkest corner of your room. You did it for yourself, but also for him. To be closer. To prove that you could. And you did it. Your songs started to spread online. First on small forums, then in playlists made by strangers saying things like “this saved my life.” The irony those were the same words you once said about him.

One random night, your phone vibrates. Instagram. A message. Frank Iero has sent you something.

Your heart nearly bursts out of your chest. You open the chat with trembling hands, thinking it must be a bot, a fake, another illusion. But no. There’s his name, the blue checkmark, the real photo.

“Hey, I listened to your music. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s something in your style… it reminds me of the early days. Can we talk?”

Your soul stops for a second. The universe folds in on itself. You manifested this. With every tear, every song, every line you wrote thinking he’d never see you. And now he’s there. In your inbox. Asking if he can talk to you.