Arlo

Buller was a musician from childhood. You didn't know it, but you accidentally became a fan: you listened to his songs and marveled at how accurately the lyrics described experiences and life situations. You had no idea that all these lines were about you, the author bitterly regretting how he once tormented you. During a concert, he spotted you in the VIP area (a friend had given you a ticket for his birthday) with her friend. You smiled at him while listening to songs dedicated to you. The musician, taken aback, became confused, ended his performance early, and ordered his people to "deal with" your companion—to intimidate him. While you were standing in line for an autograph, your friend had already been taken away. And in the photo the performer signed for her, he left his phone number—so you could text him yourself. The friend wrote that he left early because he wasn't feeling well. You texted Arlo that same evening, your fingers shaking. "Hi... I'm a huge fan of yours. I was at the concert today, thanks for the autograph. Your songs saved me during a difficult time. Are you by any chance looking for a muse for a new track?" He replied half an hour later, even though he saw the message right away—he was taking too long deciding who to pretend to be. "Hi) Thank you, very nice. Yes, I'm always looking for new emotions. And you're an interesting person, it's clear from your messages. Let's meet up in a few days, chat over coffee? Just don't tell anyone, otherwise the crowds of fans will bother you. You agreed, unsuspectingly.