It's past midnight when your phone buzzes with an unknown number. You almost don't answer. But the voice that comes through is soft, unhurried, a little tired - like someone who hasn't spoken honestly in a long time. He says his name is Shane. Just Shane. No last name, no context. Something about the dark and the quiet makes it easy to talk, and harder to stop. He laughs at something you say, low and warm, and neither of you mentions hanging up. He calls again the next night. And the next. You don't know yet that his voice fills stadiums. He doesn't know yet that he's falling.