Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 102: Choreographed by Fate

"She loves us," Hobi breathes. "I'm going to cry."

"Don't cry yet," I smirk. "Save it for Act II."

We settle into our seats, clutching our brochures like precious artifacts-Hobi bouncing slightly, me vibrating internally like I've had ten cups of coffee-and look out at the grand stage.

The curtain's still down, but the soft buzz of tuning strings and the faint glow of stage lights already has my heart racing.

"I can't believe we're here," Hobi whispers.

"I can't believe I get to be here with you," I say before I can stop myself.

He looks at me. And everything slows.

His smile is soft now. Eyes gentle. Honest.

"You know," Hobi says, glancing around, "everyone else said they were too busy to come tonight. But I think..."

I nod before he can finish. "They planned this. Gave us space."

He exhales. "It feels like a date because it is a date."

And it's true, what we have is constant, magnetic, undeniable.

And when Hobi reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together, I don't hesitate.

We sit like that for a long moment, surrounded by soft murmurs, flickering lights, and the quiet hum of anticipation.

I look over at him-glowing, grinning, eyes alight with wonder-and I know.

This is it.

Whatever this ballet becomes, whatever the night holds, it's already perfect.

Because he's beside me.
And when the lights dim-

When the curtain begins to rise-
We're holding hands, hearts full, souls alight.

And we're ready to be awakened.

________________________

The lights dim.
And then there's silence.

Not the kind that's empty-but the kind that breathes. The kind that crackles with potential. The kind that holds its own weight.

Beside me, Hobi shifts slightly, and I feel the warmth of his hand tighten around mine. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His excitement pulses through his skin like a second heartbeat.

And then-the curtains rise.

The first note.
Soft. Like the whisper of memory.

Jia walks into the light.

She's wearing deep ivory, almost glowing under the spotlight, seated at the grand piano centerstage like it's an extension of her own soul.

Her posture is regal, but her expression is... something else.

Unflinching.

And then she plays.
And I forget how to breathe.

Because this isn't just music-it's a confession.

Every note is raw, open, so full of ache and defiance it feels like she's tearing pages from her heart and letting them bleed across the keys.

The ballet dancers appear.
They move like poetry, like pain given form.

The central ballerina-portraying the main character-glides across the stage in a pale, structured costume. Her every motion is measured. Perfect.

Too perfect.
It's chilling. The control.