"He used to chase her light. Now, the world was chasing his."
The years that followed were a blur of rehearsals, interviews, and stages that finally didn't feel too small.
SOLIS — once a basement dream — had become the phenomenon no one expected.
Their song "Eclipse" broke streaming charts.
Their sold-out world tour had headlines calling them "the new definition of persistence."
And in every encore, as the lights painted the stage gold, Rian Lee smiled not because of the fame — but because, somewhere in the crowd of millions, he wondered if she was watching.
---
Meanwhile, on another continent, Lira Faith Sandoval was living the dream everyone expected of her.
Her girl group, LUNARIA, was the most celebrated act in the industry — elegance, power, grace.
Every performance was perfection; every smile rehearsed, but genuine enough to warm millions.
Yet sometimes, in the quiet of her dressing room after the applause faded, she'd find herself staring at the reflection in the mirror — and the reflection stared back, tired and unsure.
"Are you happy?" her leader once asked gently.
Lira smiled. "Of course. I've worked for this."
But deep down, something inside her whispered — it's just that why does it still feel like something's missing?
---
The two worlds finally collided again — at the Seoul Music Excellence Awards.
The crowd screamed, cameras flashing like a thousand suns.
SOLIS and LUNARIA — the top groups of their generation — seated just a few rows apart.
When Rian entered the venue, his breath caught. There she was. Lira.
Draped in white, her hair tucked behind one ear, elegance radiating like she carried light itself.
He froze — not because of the fame, but because for a second, he saw the girl who once handed him a water bottle and told him to keep going.
Years had passed, but the kindness in her eyes hadn't changed.
---
During the night's final segment, the temperature inside the hall dropped sharply.
Lira shivered slightly, brushing her hands over her bare arms — her dress too thin for the cold.
Without thinking, Rian slipped off his jacket and passed it discreetly to the staff nearby.
Minutes later, the jacket found its way to her seat.
She blinked in surprise, then glanced around — catching a brief glimpse of him, eyes down, pretending to fix his microphone.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met.
No words. Just warmth — quiet, familiar, and gentle.
---
When SOLIS was announced as Artist of the Year, the members stood and hugged each other tightly, tears streaming.
Rian clapped like everyone else, but his gaze drifted toward her again.
She was smiling, clapping sincerely — that same smile that once told him he wasn't defeated.
And in that moment, under the roar of cheers and blinding confetti, Rian realized something:
He didn't want to reach her light anymore.
He wanted to stand beside it.
---
Later that night, outside the venue, Lira stepped out for a breath of air.
Snow had begun to fall — soft, almost shy.
She noticed someone ahead, standing quietly near the edge of the parking lot.
Rian turned at the same time.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then he smiled, a little awkwardly.
"Long time no see," he said softly.
Lira blinked — the voice, the warmth — a flicker of memory.
"Wait… you're—"
"The trainee who cried over bad choreography," he teased gently.
Lira laughed — the sound carried in the cold air like music.
And Rian thought, maybe this was how fate whispered — not through grand moments, but through quiet ones that feel like home.
---
They talked until their managers called them back — about music, exhaustion, and the years that vanished too fast.
No confessions. No promises. Just two stars finally orbiting close again.
When they parted, she said with a grin,
> "I watched your stage. You shined tonight."
He smiled back, heart steady.
> "That's because you taught me how."
---
And as the night closed in around them —
for the first time in forever, they weren't chasing light.
They were standing in it.