The moment the announcement dropped, Aarohi was at her desk, halfway through annotating an economics chapter. Her phone buzzed repeatedly on the wooden table beside her, vibrating in small jolts that made her lose focus. She picked it up, preparing to mute the notifications.
But then she saw the headline on a fan page:
"SOLARIS WORLD TOUR FAN EXPERIENCE CONTEST – Win backstage passes and meet your idols!"
Her heart did a somersault.
She opened the link, fingers trembling. It was real — an official post from SOLE Entertainment.
"Five lucky fans from across the world will be selected to travel to London for an exclusive SOLARIS fan interaction, including backstage access, rehearsals, and a surprise performance. Send in your video entries showcasing how SOLARIS changed your life. Creativity counts. Emotion wins."
The deadline was in three days.
Aarohi leaned back in her chair, stunned.
London. Backstage. SOLARIS.
Jae-min.
Her fingers hovered above her phone as if afraid to touch it. For a full minute, she didn't move. Then, she grabbed her journal and began scribbling ideas — her journey, her favorite songs, the letters she'd never sent, the diary entries, the drawings, the nights when their music had saved her.
The video. She could do this.
She had to.
The next few hours blurred into frantic excitement. She sketched a script. She rearranged her desk, set up a clean backdrop with the most meaningful SOLARIS posters — not the glossy ones, but hand-drawn ones she had made herself. Her worn-out fanlight sat neatly by her side.
She recorded the first take.
And the second.
And the tenth.
Each time, her voice cracked a little less. Each time, her words grew stronger.
"I'm not rich. I've never been to a concert. But your music reached me even when nothing else could. I just want to say thank you. No matter what happens, I'll always be your light."
She ended the video with a soft smile, tears clinging to her lashes.
But then reality crashed back in.
The form required a passport number.
And a travel affidavit. And proof of visa eligibility.
Her heart clenched. She didn't have a passport.
She had never even been to another state alone, let alone another country.
She stared at the screen, hands cold. Her family had just paid Aaru's school fees. Kabir's medical semester was upcoming. Every rupee was stretched thin.
She opened a browser tab. Looked up express passport services. Calculated the fees.
She didn't even have that.
Not without asking.
And she wouldn't ask.
She shut the tab.
She saved the video.
But didn't upload it.
That evening, as her mother stirred dal in the kitchen and the fan ticked overhead, Aarohi sat at the window. The neighborhood was loud — kids shouting cricket scores, scooters revving, someone playing old Bollywood songs in the distance.
Aaru came up to her, munching a banana. "Didi, why are you sad?"
Aarohi smiled faintly. "I'm not sad."
"You look like when the tailor spoiled your lehenga."
She laughed. "It's nothing like that. Just a small dream. It didn't come true."
Aaru tilted her head, thinking. "Will it come true later?"
Aarohi nodded slowly. "Maybe."
That night, she watched the SOLARIS announcement video again.
Jae-min was smiling in it. Bright and full of energy. As if the world had never hurt him.
He said: "We can't wait to meet you all. Every fan has a story. We're honored to be part of yours."
Aarohi touched the screen.
"I hope… someday… you'll know mine too."
She closed the laptop.
She didn't cry.
But she sat in silence for a long time.
Because sometimes, letting go of a dream doesn't feel like heartbreak.
It feels like breathing underwater.
The next morning, Naina came running up to her before class.
"Did you see the contest?! Did you send in something?!"
Aarohi smiled gently. "No. I couldn't."
Naina blinked. "Why?"
"Because… some dreams you hold in your heart, not your hands."
Naina was quiet for a moment. Then she hugged her.
"You're the best fan I know, Didi."
Aarohi hugged her back, tightly.
That day, she walked through campus lighter, as if the burden of desire had been gently folded and placed back into the pocket of her soul.
And far away, in Seoul, a letter was slid across a desk.
It had no video. No passport ID. Just a handwritten envelope.
It read:
"She didn't submit the entry. But we think you should see this. The emotion in it… It's rare."
Jae-min opened the USB and pressed play.
As the video started, his eyes met hers — through the screen.
And his heart skipped a beat.
He didn't know who she was.
But her words echoed louder than any applause.
"I'll always be your light."