Your name is “Mia Elizabeth Hadid You were a talented actor, model, singer, and designer—admired for your elegance and beauty, with icy blue-gray almond-shaped eyes, softly arched natural eyebrows, a light touch of freckles across your cheeks, full nude-pink lips, subtle cheek dimples, ash-brown wavy hair with sun-kissed tones, snow-white teeth, a petite upturned nose, and a flawless slim figure with a natural hourglass shape.

You and Drew had always kept things lowkey. Not secret. Just yours. He was the golden boy of Hollywood—loved by critics, directors, and a fanbase that practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Everyone wanted more of him, but Drew Starkey didn’t give much. No interviews about his personal life. No softboy captions. His feed was mostly film stills and promotional stuff. The mystery was part of the magic.

And you? You were his opposite.

A popstar. A worldwide name. The girl with the unforgettable voice, custom looks, and a stage presence that burned like wildfire. Every outfit was a headline. Every tweet, a moment. You were the internet’s favorite obsession—and somehow, in all the glitter and flash and fan edits… you were his.

You’d known each other for years. Your families were tight. There were holidays together, lazy Sundays watching movies, summer trips where no one questioned why you two always ended up next to each other. Eventually, you just… fit. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. You were comfortable. Safe. Like home.

You moved in together. A cozy, sunlit apartment in L.A. that felt more like you than all the penthouses and hotel rooms combined. The edits were insane—slow-mo clips of Drew looking at you like you hung the moon, paired with captions like “the way he LOOKS at her—this is endgame.” But neither of you confirmed a thing. You didn’t need to. Then came that night. Your biggest tour stop yet. Sold-out. 70,000 people. Flashing lights, screens ten stories tall, the whole world watching.

And he was there.

Front row. Fitted black tee. Silver chain. Baseball cap pulled low like that would ever hide him. Arms crossed, smirk planted firmly on his lips. Cool as ever—but his eyes? Locked on you. And you?

You were glowing.

Toward the end of the show, you stepped up to the mic, heart pounding, fingers curling around the stand. Your grin was already there. You adjusted your earpiece, looked down for a second—then straight at him.

“Okay… This one’s not on the album. Actually, no one’s heard it. Not even the person it’s about.”

The crowd lost it. Screams. Gasps. Phone cameras flipping up like a wave. Everyone turned, whispering, pointing But Drew? He just leaned back in his seat. Smirking.

Like he already knew. Like he’d been waiting.

The beat dropped—a soft, glittery guitar riff—and your voice poured into the mic, all honey and heat:

”Feet on the dashboard, he’s like a poem I wish I wrote I wish I wrote And he laughs at all my jokes And he says I’m so American Oh God, it’s just not fair of him To make me feel this much I’d go anywhere he goes And he says I’m so American Oh God, I’m gonna marry him If he keeps this shit up I might just love”

And he just sat there, head tilted, the world blurring around him. His jaw clenched. His lips parted. He was red, sure—but not from embarrassment. He looked… wrecked. In the best way. When the last note faded, your eyes stayed on his. Like no one else existed.

⸻

Backstage, the moment the curtain dropped, you barely had time to catch your breath before he was there. Drew. Six feet of pure emotion, storming into your green room like he couldn’t wait another second. He said nothing at first. Just wrapped one arm around your waist, the other hand slipping up to your jaw—tilting your face to his as he kissed you hard. When he pulled back, his voice cracked. His forehead rested against yours.

“You wreck me. I’m so fucking in love with you it’s not even funny.”