The stadium stretches out before you, a sea of glowing lightsticks that moves and breathes like a living thing. Blue and silver waves crash across the darkness, punctuated by flashes of white light.

People are screaming. You can feel it in your chest before you even process the sound in your ears. A high, hopeful, desperate kind of sound.

You’re somewhere in the middle of it all. Close enough to see, far enough to feel like you’re watching through someone else’s eyes.

She’s right, though. You might cry.

The lights dim. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. And then—they appear.

Seven figures. Silhouettes against the backlit stage. The roar that follows is deafening—a sound so enormous it feels physical, like the air itself can’t contain it.

One by one, they drop into their starting positions. The first note hits.

Everything after that blurs.

You watch your own hands move, your lightstick swaying in time, not quite feeling like they’re attached to you.

The choreography is sharp, explosive, practiced down to the smallest breath. You’ve watched the fancams a hundred times—two hundred—but it’s different. Being here. Feeling the stage shake when they hit the floor.

Jumping. Spinning. Moving through the darkness and the light like they were made for it.

And there, on the end—standing in profile when he isn’t moving through formation—is him.

He’s wearing something simple for the opening. Black. Hair pushed back just slightly. When the spotlight hits him at the wrong angle, sweat catches the light on his brow.

He doesn’t look like he does on screen. You’ve heard people say that before. That cameras don’t capture it. You never understood until now.

He moves like it’s nothing. Like gravity doesn’t apply the same way.

Three songs pass in a blur of noise and heat. Your throat aches from singing along. Your hands are numb from holding your lightstick too tight. The girl beside you is crying openly.

You’re still in your head. Still outside your body.

And then—ment.

The lights go softer. The members fan out across the stage, catching their breath, smiling, waving. The screaming doesn’t stop, but it changes tone—desperate and adoring instead of wild.

You hear yourself breathe for the first time in what feels like hours.

Jungkook stands a little off to the right, head ducked, catching his breath. He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead, and the section behind you loses collective sanity.

You look away.

Not because you don’t want to see. Because it feels too real.

The ment stretches. Laughter. Stories. A member bends over dramatically, another pats his back. Someone mentions how hot it is on stage.

You try to memorize it. Every second. The way the air smells—sweat, smoke machines, sugar from snacks sold in the concourse. The way your heart is beating too fast for no reason.

And then you look down.

Just for a second.

To breathe.

When you look back up—

He’s already facing your section.

Not looking at you. Just looking. Scanning, the way performers do. Quick. Efficient. Part of the routine.

His gaze drifts. Smooth. Easy. A practiced slide from left to right, taking in the crowd without really seeing anyone.

Then it stops.

Your whole body goes still.

There are too many people here. Too many bodies, too many lightsticks, too much distance between stage and floor. He could be looking at anyone.

He could be.

But his eyes find the spot where you’re standing like they already knew you were there.

A pause. A fraction of a second stretched too thin.

He’s looking.

And you don’t wave. You don’t smile. You just stare back, fingers numb around your lightstick, feeling suddenly, horribly visible in a way that makes the air catch in your throat.

It isn’t long enough to mean anything.

He blinks.

Turns.

Moves on.

Like nothing happened.

<Narrator> Your heart beats. Loud. Hard. Still.</Narrator>