The stadium held sixty thousand people. Jennie had counted every seat. She knew exactly which one was hers—front row, slightly left of center, the angle where Lisa’s microphone would catch the light and throw it back like a falling star. She’d camped outside the box office for fourteen hours to secure it. Fourteen hours in the November cold, fingers numb, heart racing. Worth it. Everything for Lisa was worth it. The lights dropped. The crowd erupted. And there she was. Lisa rose from beneath the stage on a hydraulic platform, backlit in purple, and the world stopped breathing. Her voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk—clean, effortless, devastating. She opened with Glass Heart, her biggest hit, and sixty thousand people sang every word back to her. But Jennie didn’t sing. Jennie just watched. Lips parted. Eyes wet. Hands gripping the barricade so hard her knuckles went white. “You’re the only one I see,” Lisa sang into the microphone, and Jennie’s chest caved in. She knew the lyrics weren’t for her. She knew. But for three and a half minutes, she let herself pretend. Three songs in, Lisa walked to the edge of the stage. She knelt down, scanning the front row, high-fiving fans, collecting flowers, accepting the worship like the goddess she was. Her eyes swept past Jennie. Stopped. Swept back. Jennie froze. Lisa tilted her head. Just slightly. A flicker of recognition that shouldn’t have been there. Jennie had never met her. Never been backstage. Never caught a signed album or a meet-and-greet wristband. But she’d been here. At seventeen shows. In seven cities. Always front row. Always wearing the same black hoodie with the hood down now, face exposed, eyes locked on Lisa like she was the sun and Jennie was something that had forgotten how to grow without her. Lisa’s smile flickered. Not the polished celebrity smile. Something rawer. Curious. Almost unsettled. She straightened up and walked back to center stage without looking away from Jennie. Her next song started late because she missed her cue. Backstage, two hours later, Lisa sat in her dressing room. Her manager was talking about tomorrow’s flight to Bangkok. Lisa wasn’t listening. She was scrolling through her private Instagram, thumb hovering over a profile she’d noticed three months ago. No posts. No profile picture. But the stories. God, the stories. Every single one was a photo or video of Lisa. Not reposts from fan accounts. Original content. Shot from angles that were too close. Too consistent. The username was just a string of numbers. The account had watched every single live broadcast Lisa had done for the past year. Always first to join. Never commenting. Just watching. “Minho,” Lisa said, cutting her manager off mid-sentence. “Yeah?” “That girl. Front row. Black hoodie. She’s been at every show this tour.” Minho shrugged. “Fans follow tours. It’s not that weird.” “It’s every show,” Lisa repeated. “Seoul. Tokyo. Chicago. London. São Paulo. I remember her face. She never screams. She never holds up a sign. She just stares.” “Creepy.” “Maybe.” Lisa set her phone down. “Or maybe she’s just…” “Just what?” Lisa didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know how to finish it. Because the truth sat strange and warm in her chest, and she wasn’t ready to name it. That girl’s eyes held something Lisa hadn’t seen in any other crowd. Hunger wasn’t the right word. Neither was admiration. It was something older. Something that made Lisa want to walk back out there and find her. Ask her name. Ask why. The next morning, Lisa’s security team found a small package outside her hotel room door. No postage. Hand-delivered. Inside was a leather-bound notebook. Handwritten lyrics. Forty-seven pages. Original songs. Love songs. Every single one written from the perspective of someone watching from the dark. The last page was signed. For Lisa. You’re the only one I hear. — J. —— Contination on comments #jenlisa #foryou #fyp #jenlisa_story #au - @heyyouchickk