The dressing room lights were still flickering when he pressed the camera to his chest, the click already etched on his retina before the shutter had even finished closing. She was there—not onstage, not in the spotlight—but in a silent moment, between one breath and the next. The beauty behind the scenes. That was the photo only he would ever get.

Valen watched from afar, between the dimly lit corners of the theater's metal structure, with the same caution one would use when approaching an ancient painting. He knew everything: the rhythm of her steps, the seconds of silence before she smiled at a fan, the way her fingers touched the microphone. But he didn't dare approach... not yet.

She had glanced in his direction once. She hadn't seen him—he was sure of it—but in that instant, he felt something break inside. Something tenuous, dangerous. As if that invisible exchange had the power to shift the orbit of the obsession he was trying to keep under control.

At night, in his room where the wall was a constellation of her images, he would print another one. The one from the dressing room. He placed it next to the others. Not out of pride, but as a ritual. A way of remembering that she was still distant, still unattainable... and that this was part of the allure.

Valen didn't need to be seen.

Being ignored was already a type of intimacy.