Awkward Introductions
1973 Words
A warm breeze swept across the pavement, stirring dust and a stray gum wrapper as Alize Carter groaned softly, her vision blurry and spinning. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could still hear the faint screech of tires, a sharp gasp—maybe her own—and now, the low purr of a luxury engine idling nearby.
Her back ached. Her elbow throbbed. Her pride? Shattered.
As her eyes fluttered open, sunlight kissed her face, and a tall shadow blocked out the rest. At first, it was just that—a figure, hazy and golden-edged in the light. But as her focus adjusted, so did her reality.
No way.
Standing over her, dressed in a black designer jacket slung lazily off one shoulder, perfectly tousled jet-black hair falling across his brow, was Astin Gray—the lead singer of J.U.N.O, the alt-rock K-pop sensation currently dominating global charts and her secret daydreams.
She blinked. Then blinked again.
Nope. Still there. And unfortunately, still staring.
Her eyes widened as she realized something far worse than being run over by a limo. From his angle, he could definitely see down her shirt.
Her face ignited with heat. "Oh my God."
She snapped upright—too fast. The world tilted. Her vision flashed white.
"Easy," he said, voice low and unimpressed. His hands didn’t reach to help her, but he stood nearby like he would maybe try to catch her if she face-planted again. Maybe.
"You good?" he asked flatly, as if assessing whether she was more hazard than human.
She nodded, touching her temple. "I think so. Maybe. My head—ow." She winced, wobbled slightly.
"Then maybe don’t throw yourself in front of moving vehicles next time?" he said smoothly, tone laced with just enough sarcasm to make her jaw clench.
Alize’s lips parted in disbelief. "I did not throw myself in front of your limo."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Looked like a dive to me."
If her cheeks were red before, now she was a whole tomato. The worst part? He was gorgeous, and she hated him for it.
Those infamous emerald green eyes were somehow even more unreal in person—sharp, glowing like candlelight on sea glass, but with a loneliness buried deep inside that no fan cam could capture. His face was flawlessly symmetrical: a chiseled jawline, pouty lips that didn’t need to smirk to be lethal, and smooth pale skin kissed by stage lights and designer skincare.
He was magnetic and untouchable. Her age, maybe, but carved like myth.
And then he ruined it all by opening his mouth again.
"So, are you gonna move? Or is this where you live now?"
Alize blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
"You’re in the middle of the road," he said, already walking back toward the open limo door. "Just wondering if you planned to stay."
She scrambled to her feet, brushing gravel off her skirt and muttering, "Jerk," under her breath.
He didn’t respond, just glanced over his shoulder like he’d heard and didn’t care. She hated how her heart still thudded.
"Need a ride to Magnetic Prep?" he asked, half-turned.
That stopped her in her tracks. "Wait—how do you know I go there?"
He shrugged. "Only one school in this area with uniforms that ugly."
She looked down. Ugh. The navy blazer. The pinched pleats. Her knee-highs were slightly crooked, and she probably looked like she rolled out of an anime fan con.
He jerked his head toward the limo. "You coming or not?"
She hesitated. Riding with Astin Gray felt like violating a sacred boundary—like fanfiction bleeding into real life. But her ankle twinged and her options were limited.
“…Fine,” she muttered, limping toward the door.
The interior of the limo was plush black velvet with LED starlights embedded into the ceiling like a galaxy. It smelled like cedarwood and expensive cologne.
Alize perched awkwardly across from him, trying not to gape.
As the car began to roll, her bag tipped over on the seat beside her. Papers spilled across the floor like confetti—mostly poems, song lyrics, and doodles of boys with silver hair and swords. She gasped and lunged for them.
Too late.
Astin picked up a pink sheet decorated with glitter gel pen and unicorn stickers. He began reading aloud, deadpan:
“My love is like a rainbow tail, sparkles through the stormy veil…” He blinked. "Seriously?"
"Give it!" she screeched, snatching it out of his hand like it was a nuclear code.
He held up both palms, amused. "Didn’t peg you for the unicorn type."
"I’m not!" she said, voice embarrassingly high. "I mean—shut up."
He laughed softly. Not cruel this time. Just entertained.
“Sorry about earlier,” he added after a beat. “Didn’t mean to nearly flatten you.”
"Yeah, thanks for that," she grumbled.
“To make it up to you…” He fished something from the inner pocket of his jacket. Two sleek black and silver rectangles with gold trim. VIP backstage passes.
Her jaw dropped.
“These are for tomorrow night’s show. We’re performing at Shadowlight Arena.”
“You’re… giving me these?”
“You got hit by my car. Legally, I think I owe you.”
Her fingers brushed his as she took them. A jolt—not magical, but sharp and real. Electricity from nerves, not fantasy.
“Thanks,” she murmured, stunned.
The car slowed in front of the school’s grand stone gates. Students milled about in crisp uniforms, ivy curling up the fence posts.
She scrambled for her things again, clutching them to her chest.
“I’m not as ditzy as I seem, you know,” she blurted, stepping out of the car.
He smirked, one eyebrow raised. “You sure?”
“I’m—ugh. Never mind.”
She slammed the door, cheeks on fire. As she jogged off, she muttered, “Not even that hot,” under her breath.
Inside the limo, Astin chuckled.
Then he noticed something—another paper lying on the floor. Not pink. Not glittery.
This one was written in dark ink. The edges were wrinkled. Faint tear stains marred the corners.
He picked it up and read silently.
The words weren’t silly or sweet. They were real.
“Cut me open and I bleed your silence.
On pages no one reads, I drown…”
He stared at it, the playfulness draining from his face.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Driver,” he said suddenly. “Go. Shadowlight. Let’s get ready.”
But his gaze lingered on that paper.
And something inside him shifted.
POV Shift: Astin Gray
The limo's cabin was quiet, save for the soft hum of the road beneath them and the rustling of the paper in his hand.
Astin stared at it.
It didn’t match her. At least not the version of her he’d just met—blushing, babbling, sparkles and unicorns scribbled in pink ink. That girl was all light.
But this? This poem whispered shadows. The lines trembled with something raw. Something broken.
“Cut me open and I bleed your silence.”
His thumb grazed the smeared ink, stopping at the faint crescent mark where her tear had dried. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t fake. It was the kind of pain he understood.
He knew what it meant to scream into notebooks no one ever read.
Who is she really?
The limo took a sharp turn and his body swayed. The paper fluttered from his fingers and landed on the leather seat beside him like it had finally given up trying to be noticed.
“Astin-hyung! Where the hell have you been?”
The shout came the second the limo door opened backstage at Shadowlight Arena. The air was electric already—stage crew running with cables, techs setting up lighting rigs, the distant bass of a soundcheck thudding through concrete.
Astin stepped out slowly, sunglasses already shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescents above.
And standing there with his arms flailing was Jae-Hwan, aka Juno’s Red Riot.
“I swear, if Ji Lee noona finds out you were out sightseeing again before rehearsal—”
“I wasn’t sightseeing,” Astin cut in smoothly, brushing past him.
Jae narrowed his eyes, then blinked as he spotted the torn edge of a paper peeking from Astin’s jacket. “That a love letter? From a fan? From a stalker?”
“None of your business.”
Astin didn’t offer more. He never did.
Inside the green room, chaos brewed as always.
Sprawled across the couch like a lazy prince was Eli, the group’s resident golden boy. His bleach-blond hair practically glowed under the dressing room lights, and his face—sweet, angelic, with plush lips and sleepy fox eyes—looked like it was airbrushed in real time.
He was barefoot, eating cereal from the box. “Astin returns from the void. Do we clap?”
“No,” came a dry voice from behind the clothing rack.
That would be Min-Jun, aka MJ—the silent genius. His hair was dyed silver-gray, parted neatly and tucked behind his ears. He wore a long black trench over sleek slacks, and wire-frame glasses rested on his nose as he tinkered with a portable mixer on the table.
He didn’t even look up. “He’s late. Ji Lee’s going to kill him.”
Astin rolled his shoulders. “Let her try.”
“You say that now,” Eli said, pouring a handful of cereal into his mouth. “But she has a clipboard, man.”
“Worse,” Jae added. “She’s already here.”
As if summoned, the dressing room door slammed open.
Son Ji Lee, their manager, entered like a hurricane in heels. Immaculately dressed in a tailored navy suit, black stilettos, and scarlet lipstick that could cut glass, she looked every bit the woman you did not cross.
“ASTIN. GRAY.” Her clipped accent was sharper than her heels.
Astin slid down into the nearest chair with a sigh. “Hi, Ji.”
“Don’t ‘hi Ji’ me.” She marched up to him, whipping a folder onto the table. “You missed vocal warmups, you missed choreo check, and the sponsors are here in two hours. What were you doing?”
“I hit a girl with my limo,” he said flatly.
Dead silence.
Min-Jun’s eyes slowly lifted.
Eli choked on a Fruit Loop.
Jae leaned forward, horrified. “You what?”
“She’s fine,” Astin muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t hit her hard. She just… sort of popped out of nowhere.”
“Like a squirrel?” Eli asked, genuinely curious.
“Like a girl with her head in the clouds,” Astin muttered, his thumb grazing the inside of his jacket where the poem still hid.
Ji Lee stared him down. Then sighed.
“You have the emotional range of a cactus,” she snapped. “Fine. Don’t be late again. You’re the face of this band, Astin. Not a tabloid headline waiting to happen.”
“I’m always a headline.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she turned to the rest. “You three. Wardrobe in ten. Vocal run-through in fifteen. And Eli—put on socks, for God’s sake.”
“Oppa has sensitive feet,” Eli said with a dramatic sigh.
She glared.
He scrambled.
As the room slowly emptied, Astin stayed behind, shoulders slouched, phone buzzing with sponsor requests and digital chaos.
But his eyes weren’t on the screen.
They were on the paper.
The dark poem. The tear stains.
That girl.
Alize.
- Writer
