The stage manager, a tired-looking woman in a headset, barely glanced at the pass before waving you through a maze of black curtains and taped-down cables.

She pointed to a door with a star sticker peeling at the corner. Room 4 – XLOV.

Inside, the dressing room was wrecked in that organized way only performers manage. Styling tools scattered, half-empty water bottles, a rack of glittering stage clothes. The vanity mirror was ringed with warm bulbs.

You leaned against its edge, the surface cool under your palms. The pass hung from your neck, lightweight plastic stamped with a logo you’d stared at on phone screens for two years.

Then, muffled through the thin door, voices.

His eyes found you.