Page 10 of I Fell for an Alien Popstar

“Liar!” the first friend said, smiling.

As I continued walking down the aisle, I overheard a trio of younger fans chatting. They were huddled around a magazine that had a giant pull-out poster of Zhari in a neon green leotard.

“She did that thing with her throat,” one of them groaned. “You know she only does that when she’s amused.”

“Or when she’s lying,” another said. “Remember the talk show on Oris? The host asked if she was seeing anyone, and she said no. But her pulse flickered and her nose scrunched. She is not a good liar.”

“That was nerves,” the third argued. “She hates those interviews. You can tell.”

The fact that there were entire debates about the micro-expressions of this woman’s circulatory system should have been absurd. Instead, it felt comforting and familiar. Back home, fandom had always been something that lived on my screen, in tagged threads and late-night chats. Here, it was bodies and voices—the shared hum of people who had all, at some point, heard the same song and decided to rearrange their lives around it.

The aisle opened suddenly into the main bowl of the arena.

It was amazing.

Levels of seating rose in concentric rings, each tier lit in a different soft color, so the whole place looked like a cross-section of some luminous planet. The stage stretched out at one end, a vast structure of platforms, ramps, and suspended rigs, currently dark except for a few busy techs moving like shadows against the crystal. Above it all hovered a circular screen.

My wrist comm pinged, a subtle vibration against my skin, and a holo-arrow appeared in my display, directing me down instead of up.

Pit access.

Right. Somehow, I’d already started drifting toward the nosebleeds.

“First time?” a nearby usher asked as I hesitated at the top of the stairs, taking it all in.

“Gosh, I really do stick out like a sore thumb,” I muttered. “You are, like, the hundredth person to ask me this. Is it really that obvious?”

They smiled. “No, not too much. I don’t think you ever get used to how crazy these arenas are. Follow the path lights. They’ll take you to the front.”

“I am so excited! Woo!” I yelled over the music. “I have never been to one of her concerts before. Stars, I have never traveled off Earth before.” I giggled as I did a little excited dance.

They laughed and gestured to the stairs. “Well, have fun!” They were still chuckling as they turned around and walked back up the aisle.

I started down, the crowd’s chatter rising and falling around me in waves—arguments about favorite bridges, speculation about tonight’s outfit, and someone loudly insisting that Zhari performed better in pink lighting than in blue because “that’s when her dual-pulse syncs with the bass.”

The pit was a wide, open area right up against the barrier, all standing room and no seats—a sea of people pressed close enough that the air felt warmer just walking into it. I found a spot near the center, two bodies back from the rail, and wedged myself there with the stubbornness of someone who had not crossed space to watch from the nosebleeds.

The arena slowly filled. The upper levels glowed as more Velans filtered in, bracelets lighting up in colors that corresponded to sections, as if someone were assembling a giant pixelated image one row at a time. Above us, the ceiling dimmed from bright crystal to a deep, dusky hue, sprinkled with projected stars that drifted lazily in slow orbits.

Pre-show tracks from other artists played over the system, low and rhythmic. Each bass line sat in my chest like a second heartbeat. I tried to imagine where she was right then. Probably backstage in some cavernous dressing room, light threads being woven into her hair, stylists adjusting chromeskin panels while she ran through scales.

My palms were already damp. Not from fear. From… okay, a little bit of nerves. Suspended over a pit of excitement.

The lights dropped without warning.

For a second, there was only darkness and the sound of thousands of people drawing in the same breath. Then a single tone rolled through the space, low and resonant, vibrating up from the floor into my calves. It built slowly, gathering overtones, harmonies folding in like layers of color. The starfield on the ceiling flared, and all the bracelets in the arena synced to the same soft pulse.

The stage exploded into light, and everyone started to chant her name.

“ZHARI! ZHARI! ZHARI!”

“WE LOVE YOU, ZHARI!” a bunch of female aliens yelled out in front of me.

Zhari slowly rose from the center on a hidden platform, her arms outstretched. Her chromeskin outfit caught the illumination and split it into shards of magenta and gold. Her skin glowed a warm, bioluminescent pink that deepened along her throat and cheeks. Glitter covered her body, with glitter streaks woven through her hair.

The first song detonated. The floor kicked under my feet, the air turned solid with sound, and something behind my sternum jolted like it had been jump-started.

“Welcome, Lumara! Is everyone ready to party?” Zhari screamed.