Rhett never checked the fan forums.
Not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. The words stayed with him. The praise felt like pressure. The criticism clung like static in his chest. Somewhere along the way, he'd decided the only way to keep making music was to shut the doors between him and the people it was made for.
That changed the morning Liz burst into his trailer holding a tablet like it was on fire.
"You need to read this," she said, short of breath. "It's going viral."
Rhett was seated in a hoodie, legs stretched across a makeshift ottoman, sipping lukewarm coffee. "If it's another petition to bring back the 'Violet Shore' tour jacket, I swear—"
"It's not about clothes," she said. "It's about you. Or more specifically, it's about that girl—from the acoustic set. June."
He blinked. "The letter girl?"
"The letter girl," Liz confirmed, pulling up the forum post. "It's spreading like wildfire. Reddit, Twitter, TikTok edits. The fans are calling her your 'quiet muse.'"
Rhett groaned, but something warm pressed under his ribs. He reached out, took the tablet
The screen loaded slowly, but when it finally revealed the post—"Something I Never Thought I'd Write (Backstage Show – My Experience)"—he found himself locked in.
Every word was a thread pulling him back to that five-minute conversation. The clumsy Sharpie drop. The way her voice shook but still carried meaning. The letter she gave him—folded and worn at the edges. He had read it later that night, alone in his hotel room, the words inked in handwriting that slanted slightly left. She'd written about feeling invisible. About his music giving her a shape when the world tried to flatten her out.
He had cried reading it.
He cried again now—not with tears, but with a tightness in his throat that stayed for hours after.
When he finished the post, he passed the tablet back.
"I wrote a song," he said quietly.
"I know. The demo," Liz said. "The fandom thinks it's about her. Is it?"
Rhett didn't answer. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and murmured, "Do you think it'd be insane if I messaged her?"
Liz stared at him for a long moment. "From your official account?"
"No," he said. "Private. No blue check. No signature. Just... me."
She hesitated, then nodded. "If you're careful. If it's real."
"It is," Rhett said. "That's why I'm scared."
The private Instagram account was one Rhett had made years ago under a fake name—mostly to follow obscure poets and old high school friends without being noticed. No photos. No posts. No links.
But now it had a purpose.
He found her easily. @junemarlowe22. A private account. Her profile photo was a blurry sunset, and her bio was blank. He hesitated.
Then he typed:
Hi. I read your post. I was there, too. Would you mind talking? Just you and me. Nothing weird, nothing loud. Just... real.
He stared at the message for ten minutes before hitting send.
He didn't expect an answer.
June stared at the message like it was a hallucination.
She'd just gotten out of the shower when she checked her phone, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping. The notification came through while she scrolled past a meme about Rhett Calloway being a "soft cowboy with emotional damage."
At first, the message didn't register.
The username was vague: grayfieldlines. No profile photo. No followers.
But the text?
It was specific.
Personal.
"I read your post. I was there, too."
June felt her lungs tighten.
It couldn't be him. Could it?
She opened the message, read it again.
Would you mind talking? Just you and me. Nothing weird, nothing loud. Just... real.
She sat down, heart racing, towel forgotten. After a minute, she replied.
Who is this?
The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.
I think you already know.
But I'll say it anyway.
It's Rhett.
Her fingers froze.
She didn't move for a long time.
Then she typed:
Prove it.
Another pause.
Then a voice memo popped up.
June didn't breathe as she tapped play.
"You said once that silence used to hold something. That line stuck with me. So did you. I'm not sending this to make a scene. Just to say thank you. You reminded me that my songs don't matter if they stop being human."
His voice.
Unmistakable.
Raw, low, a little tired, a little nervous.
June's hands trembled.
She typed:
Okay. Let's talk.
What began as a single message spiraled into something quiet and wide.
They messaged every night for a week.
Nothing romantic. Nothing scandalous. Just thoughts. Little things. What she was reading. What he was writing. He sent photos of his dog curled up beside studio monitors. She sent a voice note laughing at herself for burning toast. They shared playlists. Favorite lines from forgotten movies. Complaints about allergies and too-tight jeans and the weird ache of being known by strangers and unknown by the people who should have loved you better.
They didn't name what they were building.
But it grew, steady and certain.
One night, June asked: Why me?
Rhett replied instantly: Because you were honest when everyone else wanted a piece of the performance.
He added: You didn't ask for the mask. You asked if the face underneath still remembered how to feel.
June lay in bed long after that, staring at the ceiling, clutching the phone to her chest.
Something was happening.
Not fantasy. Not fandom.
Something real.
And this time, she wouldn't run from it.