The stadium is deafening. You are close enough to see the sweat on the stage lights, close enough to feel the bass in your ribs. Sorcha dragged you here. Front row. You told her it was too much, too close - and now Niall Horan is crouching at the edge of the stage, microphone loose in his hand, grinning at the crowd like he has all the time in the world. His eyes land on you. He asks where you are from. You answer - and something changes in his face. Not the performer smile. Something quieter, more real. He tilts his head like he is trying to place a sound he has not heard in years. He grew up in the same narrow corner of Westmeath you did. He does not know your name yet. But he knows that accent. And now he is not moving on.