June Marlowe didn't check her email obsessively. Not anymore.
There had been a time when she waited for acceptance letters from literary magazines, internship rejections from publishers, or messages from her father—especially toward the end, when he forgot more and more how to use his phone. But now, email was mostly bills, coupons she never used, and random newsletters she didn't remember signing up for.
Which was why the subject line almost didn't register:
"Congratulations, June—You've Won a Backstage Pass to Meet Rhett Calloway!"
She blinked at it. Then blinked again.
Her first instinct was spam.
She hovered her cursor over the sender. It wasn't some sketchy address—it was from Acoustic Soul Sessions, the verified promotions team for the tour. She clicked.
The email opened with virtual confetti and neat serif text:
You've been randomly selected from thousands of entries for an exclusive meet-and-greet with Rhett Calloway following the final acoustic show of the Bleeding Static tour. Please confirm attendance by Friday at 5:00 p.m.
June stared.
She didn't even remember submitting anything. But then it came back to her—the hazy night after the show, the streetlamp flickering above her as she'd typed a note into the contest form on a whim. She hadn't expected anything. She'd written her truth because it felt good to put it somewhere.
She hadn't expected it to matter.
And now she had until Friday to respond.
She should've felt thrilled. Giddy. Teenage-girl-screaming-into-a-pillow levels of excitement.
Instead, all she felt was panic.
By Thursday evening, her nerves had spiraled into full-fledged anxiety.
"Breathe," her best friend Iris said over FaceTime. "This is a good thing."
June shook her head, pacing her small apartment, still in her pajama pants and Rhett's tour hoodie from two years ago. "I don't even know what I'd say to him. Like—'Hey, your music got me through the worst time of my life, and also I think you're devastatingly beautiful but emotionally closed off in a way that makes me want to write poetry about you'?"
Iris snorted. "Yeah, maybe don't open with that."
June groaned and flopped onto her couch. "I don't want to sound like every other fan."
"You are a fan."
"Right. But I don't want to be just a fan." She paused. "I want to say something real. Something that… sticks."
"You already did," Iris said, gently now. "You wrote that letter, remember? That was real. That was you."
June glanced at the copy she'd saved in her journal. It still felt true, even days later.
"But now I'll have to say it out loud," she muttered. "To him. In person. With his stupidly perfect face right there."
"Okay, you've officially crossed into crush territory," Iris teased.
June buried her face in a pillow. "Shut up."
But she knew it was true. It wasn't just admiration anymore. There was something about Rhett Calloway—how he looked like he was unraveling slowly on stage, how his lyrics didn't try to sound smart, just honest. There was vulnerability there. And sadness. And maybe something else. Something unnamed and aching.
She'd seen it when he performed "Ghost in My Bedroom." A fracture behind his eyes. Like someone still trying to feel something deeply.
Just like her.
Friday came faster than expected.
She stood in front of her closet, her floor littered with rejected outfits. Casual? Too casual? Dressy? Would he care?
In the end, she wore her favorite brown corduroy skirt, a soft rust-colored sweater, and the old boots her dad once patched up for her. Her hair she left down, barely tamed, and she added the locket her father gave her before he passed. Not for Rhett. For herself.
The venue was already buzzing with post-show energy when she arrived. Security led her past a line of eager fans still waiting by the back doors, holding posters and sharpies. She tried not to make eye contact. It felt weird to be led inside while others were left out.
Inside, the hallway was dim and quiet. A woman with a clipboard greeted her with a practiced smile.
"Hi, June. You're our last meet-and-greet for the night. Rhett's just finishing up with the crew. You'll have a few minutes with him alone."
June nodded. Her stomach churned.
The woman gestured to a bench. "You can wait here. He'll be right out."
So she waited.
The walls were covered in framed posters from previous tours. Rhett's face stared back at her from each one, frozen in time. Younger. Smiling more. Less weary.
She ran her thumb along the edge of her locket and whispered, "Okay. You can do this. He's just a person."
When the door finally opened, she nearly forgot how to breathe.
Rhett Calloway walked in wearing the same black T-shirt from the stage, a towel slung around his neck. His hair was still damp. He looked tired. Not in a bad way—just… real. Not curated for cameras.
And then he smiled. Soft. Curious. A little shy, even.
"You must be June."
She stood up quickly, fumbling for words. "Hi—yes—I mean, yeah. That's me."
"Thanks for coming back here," he said, like she'd done him the favor.
She blinked. "Thanks for… everything."
He tilted his head, like he was used to gratitude but not sure how to receive it.
June reached into her bag and pulled out the folded letter. "I wrote something after the last show. I didn't think anyone would read it, but… I wanted to give it to you in person."
He accepted the note carefully, like it might fall apart. He read it right there in front of her, eyes scanning slowly.
When he finished, he looked up. Something shifted in his face—not quite a smile, not quite tears. Just that same fracture. Open. Honest.
"This," he said softly, tapping the letter, "is why I keep doing it. Even when I forget how to love it."
June didn't know what to say. Her throat tightened.
He stepped closer. "You write like someone who sees through noise."
She laughed nervously. "I try. Sometimes the noise wins."
He chuckled. "Same."
There was a silence. Not awkward. Just full.
And then, surprising herself, June said, "Can I ask you something kind of… personal?"
Rhett raised a brow but nodded.
"When you sing about ghosts and silence and memory… are you trying to remember something you lost, or are you trying to feel something you never got to feel in the moment?"
His jaw tensed. He didn't answer right away.
Finally, he said, "Both. Some feelings come late. And some… never really finish."
June met his eyes. "I know what that's like."
And for the first time, she felt like they weren't a fan and a star.
Just two people. Talking.