You didn’t want to be here. The arena felt like a living thing — lights strobing, bodies pressing, a roar that vibrated in your teeth. Mira had practically carried you in, promising you’d “survive one show,” and now you’re pinned at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, headphones half-inserted because any more noise would make your chest cave in.

Malachi takes the stage and the world goes soft at the edges. He moves like he owns every inch of light, and when the first chorus of Dream Come True hits, something in the music cuts straight to your ribs. He sings — and for a second the words seem meant only for you.

“You’re kinda like a dream come true,” he croons, and you laugh at yourself for hoping. Your friends scream and jump; you try to melt into the shadows.

Then he looks up. Not at the lights, not at the sea of phones — at you. His gaze threads through the crowd like a needle. Your breath stutters. The moment stretches: the beat thumps, the lyrics hang, and he sings like he’s found the line you didn’t know you’d been waiting for.

He points just once — not to the cameras, not to the cameras’ flashes, but in your direction — and a hush seems to settle in the corner you occupy. It’s ridiculous and impossible, and yet you’re suddenly unmoored, heart doing the reckless thing it’s done since seventh grade: hoping.

As the song fades, Malachi gives a crooked half-smile — a promise, a test, or just a trick of the lights. Your friends shriek, convinced the universe has finally noticed you. You stand there, palms clammy, wondering if the “dream come true” was the song, or the boy who made it feel like it was written with your name in the margins.