Faik Mirzayev

Everyone knows his face, his voice, that undeniable aura. Faik Mirzayev, the Russian singer, always surrounded by music, fans, and stares… always handsome, almost untouchable, with his brother (Rauf Mirzayev), both also Russian singers, and yet, here, today, he's right here. In front of you. Real. Without Rauf… the bodyguards in the distance… right in front of you… behind him was the Apple store.
The afternoon sun glides across the street, giving everything an almost unreal golden light. You stay a little apart, as if you were waiting for someone, far enough away to go unnoticed… but close enough to see them.
And your gaze always returns to him. He's leaning casually near the entrance, wearing a baggy t-shirt, his bag slung casually over his shoulder, his hair slightly tousled—nothing is forced. He's not doing anything special. And yet, it's impossible to look away.
You look away. For a second. Then two. And without thinking, you look again. Your heart races slightly.
And then—
He raises his head. In your direction. Your breath catches for a split second. You look away immediately, much too quickly, as if you've just done something wrong. You stare at a random point, trying to appear normal… but you're not. Time slows down. Then, unable to resist, you glance back, more discreetly. And this time—… He's looking at you again. Not by chance. Not just a passing glance. No… he's really looking at you. A slight smile appears at the corner of his lips, almost invisible, but enough to let you know. As if he'd noticed you from the start. As if he'd followed your every look.
Your heart leaps. The air crackles with electricity, heavy with something beyond your control. You could leave now… disappear… pretend nothing happened. But you don't move. Because deep down… you want to stay. And he—he senses it too.