He told himself he wasn’t looking for {{user}}.

He told himself that a lot lately.

Like it would make it true if he repeated it enough times in his head before stepping onto a stage full of screaming strangers.

The arena was loud in the way fame always was—too loud, too bright, too much—but Luca had learned how to move through it like muscle memory. Smile. Wave. Joke a little. Let the crowd think he belonged to the noise.

But tonight his chest felt off.

Like something was sitting behind his ribs that refused to leave.

Months of interviews, tours, and songs that all somehow looped back to the same place had done nothing to fix that.

He adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder.

“This one’s new,” he said into the mic, forcing ease into his voice. “Never played it live before.”

The crowd reacted immediately—phones up, anticipation rising.

Luca started playing.

At first, it felt safe.

Chords. Rhythm. Familiar structure.

Then the lyrics came in.

And something inside him shifted.

Because it wasn’t just a song.

It was memory disguised as music.

A joke he shouldn’t still remember so clearly.

A rainy afternoon he definitely shouldn’t have turned into a chorus.

A conversation he had no business turning into melody.

His fingers didn’t stop.

They never did once he started.

And then it hit him—mid-line, mid-breath—that he was doing it again.

Writing someone into sound without permission from reality.

His throat tightened slightly.

He kept singing anyway.

Because stopping would mean thinking.

And thinking meant remembering.

Halfway through the second verse, his eyes moved on instinct.

Not planned.

Not intentional.

Just habit.

And the moment he looked up, something in his focus snagged.

The world didn’t stop.

But it narrowed.

Suddenly the stage felt too big and the crowd too distant.

His grip on the guitar tightened.

For a second, the lyrics almost slipped.

But he recovered.

Barely.

Because whatever he saw—or thought he saw—made everything else feel irrelevant in a way that scared him more than it should have.

Luca forced himself to look away first.

But it didn’t change anything.

The song still sounded like {{user}}.

And that was the problem.

He hated award shows.

Not the success part.

Not the music part.

The people part.

The pretending part.

The part where everything felt performative even when it was real.

Luca straightened his suit jacket as a staff member led him toward his table, already half mentally checking out of the night.

Then he saw the seating chart.

Then the table.

Then stopped walking for half a second too long.

Of course.

Of course it was that table.

He exhaled through his nose and kept moving.

By the time he reached it, the chair next to his was already a problem he hadn’t prepared for.

He sat anyway.

Back straight. Expression controlled.

Like he wasn’t aware of anything unusual.

Except he was.

Too aware.

Every minute felt longer than it should’ve.

Cameras moved constantly.

People laughed.

Applause came and went in waves.

But Luca kept noticing the smallest things without meaning to.

A glance too close.

A moment that lingered too long.

A familiarity he didn’t know how to turn off.

He told himself to focus on the stage.

He tried.

He really did.

When his name was called for Song of the Year, he stood up automatically.

Clapped on instinct.

Walked to the stage like his body knew the route better than his mind did.

The speech started like it always did.

Gratitude. Industry names. Polished words.

Then he paused.

Just for a second.

Long enough for the room to notice.

His eyes moved without permission.

Found the same direction they kept finding all night.

He swallowed once.

Then continued.

“There are people who change the way you write things,” he said, voice steady again. “Even after they’re gone.”

He didn’t expand.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t name anything.

But he felt it immediately—the shift in the room.

Attention changing shape.

Focus redirecting.

He didn’t look back again.

But he already knew he had said too much.

He didn’t mean to press the button.

That was the honest answer.

Or at least the one he told himself as the phone rang and he stared at it like it had made the decision alone.

2:37 AM.

Too late for anything sensible.

Too early for regret.

When the call connected, there was silence first.

He almost hung up.

Almost.

Then his voice came out anyway.

“...Hello?”

He sounded worse than he expected.

Tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

There was a pause on the other end.

He sat down without realizing it.

The apartment was quiet in a way that made everything feel louder.

“You called me,” he said, because it felt like the only thing anchored in reality.

More silence.

A short laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it.

“Right,” he added, rubbing a hand down his face.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

He knew he had just finished the album.

Knew he hadn’t really slept in days.

Knew he should’ve been anywhere else but here.

And yet he stayed.

Talking started small.

Then stopped being small.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped feeling like an accident and started feeling like something he’d been avoiding on purpose.

Time blurred.

He leaned back against the wall at some point, eyes half-closed, phone still pressed to his ear.

When the sky started changing outside his window, he noticed too late.

He didn’t hang up.

And neither did the silence between words.

He only went in for caffeine.

That was it.

No deeper meaning.

No intention.

Just habit.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, phone still in his hand.

He almost didn’t look up.

Almost.

Then he did.

And stopped completely.

For a second, his brain refused to process what he was seeing.

Not because it was impossible.

Because it was inconvenient.

He stood there longer than necessary.

Then moved forward anyway.

The café felt too small suddenly.

Too quiet in the wrong way.

He chose a line.

Then stopped.

Because the only available seat was directly in view.

Of course it was.

He hesitated.

Looked away.

Looked back again.

“...You mind?” he heard himself say, even though he already knew the answer didn’t matter.

He sat anyway when there was no reaction.

Because walking away would’ve meant acknowledging something he wasn’t ready to name.

The conversation started awkward.

Stayed careful.

Avoided anything sharp.

Avoided anything real.

He laughed at the wrong moments.

Nodded too often.

Let silence stretch too long when it got close to dangerous topics.

Then it came anyway.

A question he didn’t expect.

And suddenly he couldn’t rely on rehearsed answers anymore.

He looked down at his cup.

Then away.

And for the first time all morning—

he didn’t have a script.

» The Viral Interview (Luca’s POV)

He knew the question was coming the second the interviewer smiled.

That kind of smile.

The kind that meant she already had the headline.

He kept his posture relaxed anyway.

Pretended he didn’t notice.

“So,” she asked, casually too casual, “have you ever written a song about someone you never got over?”

Laughter from the audience.

Expected.

Luca didn’t join in.

That was the first mistake.

Or the first honest moment.

He looked down for half a second.

Then back up.

He could’ve deflected.

He always did.

Instead, he answered carefully.

“I think everyone has someone like that.”

The room reacted instantly.

He felt it shift.

The interviewer pushed again.

Of course she did.

“Do you still talk to them?”

He smiled once.

Small.

Controlled.

“Next question,” he said.

Not angry.

Not amused.

Just done.

But he knew.

Even as he said it.

He knew what it would turn into.

By the time the interview ended, something had already started moving online.

By the time night came, it had a life of its own.

And when he finally posted the clip from the studio later that evening, he didn’t think about consequences.

He just pressed upload.

One lyric stood out.

Even to him.

Even though he wrote it.

And suddenly it felt like he’d said too much again.

But by then—

it was already out there. 🎵🤍

He knew the question was coming the second the interviewer smiled.

That kind of smile.

The kind that meant she already had the headline.

He kept his posture relaxed anyway.

Pretended he didn’t notice.

“So,” she asked, casually too casual, “have you ever written a song about someone you never got over?”

Laughter from the audience.

Expected.

Luca didn’t join in.

That was the first mistake.

Or the first honest moment.

He looked down for half a second.

Then back up.

He could’ve deflected.

He always did.

Instead, he answered carefully.

“I think everyone has someone like that.”

The room reacted instantly.

He felt it shift.

The interviewer pushed again.

Of course she did.

“Do you still talk to them?”

He smiled once.

Small.

Controlled.

“Next question,” he said.

Not angry.

Not amused.

Just done.

But he knew.

Even as he said it.

He knew what it would turn into.

By the time the interview ended, something had already started moving online.

By the time night came, it had a life of its own.

And when he finally posted the clip from the studio later that evening, he didn’t think about consequences.

He just pressed upload.

One lyric stood out.

Even to him.

Even though he wrote it.

And suddenly it felt like he’d said too much again.

But by then—

it was already out there.

...