Chords of obsessions

Dreams are not chimeras

The lights were still buzzing above the stage when the final echoes of Bleed It Out faded into the humid air. The crowd was dispersing, sweaty and euphoric, voices hoarse from screaming every lyric. But Mélodie wasn't moving. Not yet. She stood at the barricade, heart pounding like a drum solo, her fingers curled tightly around the edge. Clare was beside her, eyeliner smudged, cheeks flushed, practically vibrating.

- That was insane, Mel. I swear I saw Mike look directly at you during In the End. Like actual eye contact.

Mélodie's voice caught. 

- Don't say that. I'll pass out.

Clare grinned wickedly. 

- Perfect. If you faint, maybe he'll come rescue you. Knight in emo armor.

Behind them, a roadie appeared, clipboard in hand, and called out.

- We've got time for a few meet and greets, Shinoda's down to sign some stuff.

Clare didn't even wait. She grabbed Mélodie's wrist and dragged her behind the barriers, weaving through the crowd of fans, adrenaline still spiking. Backstage smelled like stale beer and leather. Posters from past tours lined the hallway. And then, there he was. Mike Shinoda. Beanie on. Sweaty from the show. Smiling. He looked exactly like she imagined, only realer, more human, and somehow larger than life all at once. Mélodie froze. Clare whispered.

- Go. This is your moment.

Hands trembling, Mélodie stepped forward, clutching the slightly crumpled setlist she'd caught at the end of the show. Mike turned to her, his black eyes warm.

- You were front row, right? he asked, pen already in hand.

She nodded like her brain had short-circuited. 

- You... you're the reason I picked up a guitar.

That made him pause. His smile softened.

- Damn. That means a lot. 

He took the setlist, scribbled his name with a little sketch beside it, his signature, and a tiny Sharpie drawing of a spray can and a broken heart. Something about her told him she'd appreciate that.

- Keep playing, he said. You've got something in your eyes. Like... you're meant to scream your truth.

Mélodie nearly died on the spot. Clare, ever the chaos gremlin, swooped in. 

- Can she get a hug or what?

Mike laughed and pulled Mélodie in for the briefest hug. Her world exploded. The signed setlist went in a frame the next day. Centerpiece. Sacred. It was the first brick in the wall behind her that would become iconic to her growing fanbase. Mélodie didn't stop at the setlist. Soon came posters from every Linkin Park album, rare magazine clippings of Mike looking like sin in baggy jeans and eyeliner, fan art she'd bought online, even a vinyl sleeve she managed to get her hands on. And of course, the hand-drawn sketch Mike did, scanned, printed, enlarged. She called it her "altar." Every time she went live, fans would flood the chat with:

"OMG THAT WALL 🔥🔥🔥"

"We stan your shrine to Shinoda!"

"Queen of chaos and taste 💅"

But only Clare knew the real story. The moment that started it all.

- Your wall's getting crowded, Clare teased one day, watching Mélodie adjust a new framed photo of Mike mid-performance.

Mélodie smirked. 

- There's always room for more Mike.

The night reeked of gasoline, sweat, and rebellion. It was the kind of night where the air was thick with anticipation and danger, the sky bruised purple and gold above the outdoor stadium. Fireworks had gone off before the band even took the stage. Clare could already feel the bass in her bones before a single note was played. Mélodie had glitter in her hair, leather on her hips, and an arm slung around Clare's shoulders.