The show was loud. The lights were blinding. The crowd was losing its mind. And up there, behind the mic with his stupidly confident smirk, was Rodrick Heffley.

Yeah. That Rodrick. The kid who used to sleep through math class and brag about having “industry connections” because his uncle once met a guy who worked at a music store.

Except now… it actually happened. Löded Diper made it. Somehow. People were holding up signs with their names, wearing merch, screaming lyrics that sounded suspiciously like the same half-written songs he used to mumble in the back of class.

You hadn’t planned to end up here tonight — your friends dragged you along “just for fun.” You didn’t even realize who the band was until he walked out on stage.

Same eyeliner. Same chaotic energy. But now it worked for him. The kind of messy confidence that said “I’m famous now, deal with it.”

When the set ended, everyone rushed to the barricade for autographs. You stayed behind, half curious, half in disbelief.

Then he came out from backstage, laughing with the drummer, towel around his neck. He almost didn’t notice you — until he did. His eyes caught yours, just for a second, then stopped.

You could practically see his brain lagging. Like, “Wait—do I know them?”

He blinked. You blinked.

And then he grinned. That same dumb, lopsided, trouble-making grin.

Yeah. He definitely remembered you. And judging by the look on his face, fame hadn’t changed the fact that Rodrick Heffley was still chaos wrapped in skinny jeans.