𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 (alysa liu x fem!oc)
SUMMARY — you hit a point where you just can't take being at the awards gala anymore, so you slip away to the bathroom to hide from the crowd, but a certain Olympic athlete follows you in and helps calm you down.
WARNING — social anxiety/agoraphobia
The Dolby Theatre glowed under an endless storm of white lights and camera flashes. From the outside, the place looked like it was built out of glass and noise. Inside, it was even worse. The air smelled like expensive perfume, hairspray, and that constant buzz of hundreds of voices blending together until it became one giant headache.
Or at least, it looked like you did.
Practice had taught you how to barely tighten your lips, tilt your head just enough, and hold eye contact long enough for the pictures to come out good. Nobody noticed the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress. Nobody saw how hard your heart was slamming against your ribs.
This wasn't new to you. You'd been in the music industry for years. You practically grew up playing tiny stages, summer festivals, and local interviews where nobody remembered your name afterward.
But fame hit late—and all at once. Two years ago, you could barely fill mid-sized venues. Now your face showed up in magazines and TikTok edits because Taylor Swift had picked you as one of the openers for the U.S. leg of her tour.
Streams exploded. Labels started chasing you down. Journalists suddenly wanted to know every little thing about you: what you ate for breakfast, who you listened to, why all your songs sounded so damn sad.
And then the invitations started showing up.
Award shows. Galas. After-parties.
Events where everybody somehow seemed to know exactly how to exist except you.
Your agent kept insisting you had to go.
"It's good for your image."
Like an image could hold itself together when you could barely breathe in a crowded room.
The worst part was that you didn't even trust him anymore. He was the same guy who told you a few weeks ago you could still perform even though you were half sick and losing your voice. "Nobody's gonna notice," he’d said.
You felt your voice crack right in the middle of a bridge and had to fake a smile while internally you just wanted the stage to swallow you whole.
So by the time that night started, you were already exhausted.
Every conversation inside the Dolby Theatre felt fake as hell. Laughter too loud. Hugs too rehearsed. People congratulating each other while secretly checking who was watching.
You stayed seated at your table, spine straight, untouched drink in front of you. You answered when necessary. Smiled on cue. Clapped when they announced winners.
But inside, you were counting the minutes.
Massive screens flooded the room with gold and red light. Transition music shook through the seats. Somewhere near the stage, somebody let out this ridiculously sharp laugh that made you flinch.
The anxiety had been crushing your chest all night like an invisible hand. You felt overheated under the lights even though the theater was freezing from the AC. Your jaw hurt from clenching. Your shoulders were locked tight.
And the worst part was feeling trapped.
Because leaving early would mean questions.
"Why did she leave the ceremony?"
People were always ready to make shit up.
Until you couldn't anymore.
It happened during one of the last awards of the night. You slipped away from the table quietly. Nobody seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, but they were too busy staring at the stage.
You walked fast between rows of seats, avoiding eye contact, random greetings, and the camera flashes still chasing anyone even remotely famous.
The hallway outside the main room was darker.
You could still hear the muffled echo of the ceremony through the closed doors. Applause. Music. The presenter's voice somewhere in the distance.
You walked into the bathroom without really thinking about it.
The white mirror lights felt harsh immediately. Marble everywhere—perfect, cold, way too clean. The sound of your heels against the floor disappeared once you reached the back of the room.
And then finally, silence.
Or something close to it.
You leaned against the sink and shut your eyes.
Your chest rose and fell way too fast. You pulled off your earrings because suddenly they felt unbearably heavy. Then your hands gripped the edge of the counter like you needed to hold onto something real.
There were no cameras in there.
No music executives trying to decide whether you were still profitable.
Your makeup was still flawless. From the outside, nobody would've guessed you were seconds away from falling apart. Maybe that was the weirdest thing about fame—learning how to break down quietly.
You slowly slid down onto the floor of the farthest stall, not even caring that the expensive dress spread across the tiles.
You didn't check your phone. You didn't want to read texts asking where you were. And you definitely didn't want to go back out there.
Because outside, everybody else seemed built for this.
And you were starting to realize maybe you never would be.
Alysa Liu still hadn't fully gotten used to rooms like that.
Even after months of magazine covers, interviews, and ad campaigns following her two Olympic gold medals, she still felt slightly out of place at events like this.
The Dolby Theatre looked like it had been built for people who were used to being watched every second of the day. Legendary actors. Musicians who'd been selling out stadiums before Alysa even learned how to skate. Producers surrounded by assistants orbiting them like tiny planets around something important.
Sitting at a table way too elegant for comfort, wearing a dress that still felt borrowed somehow, with a smile she'd practiced in the hotel mirror because she still had no clue what she was supposed to do when cameras kept pointing at her nonstop.
Fame had hit her all at once.
That's exactly what it felt like.
A few months ago, she was just Alysa: the girl who spent hours training, throwing her hair up in a messy rush before stepping onto the ice, someone who felt more comfortable at a freezing rink at six in the morning than on any red carpet on earth.
Now people said her name like she'd always belonged there.
Like this world naturally fit her
That's why she spent most of the gala watching instead of talking. Listening to other people's conversations. Looking around at tables full of celebrities who seemed perfectly designed to exist under spotlights.
And then Alysa noticed you.
Not because you were trying to draw attention to yourself or anything, but because there was something about the way you sat that was impossible to ignore if someone knew how to recognize nervousness hiding behind calm.
Most people in that theater took up space like it belonged to them.
You looked constantly pulled inward, like you were trying to make yourself smaller without realizing it. You smiled whenever somebody came over to talk to you, but the smile faded too fast. Your fingers kept messing with the base of your glass. Your shoulders stayed tense even when you laughed politely.
Alysa started noticing little things.
The way you avoided looking around for too long.
How every once in a while you'd take a slow breath like you were trying to steady yourself.
How you flinched just slightly every time the audience burst into applause.
It wasn't obvious to most people.
But Alysa understood that kind of thing better than people realized.
She'd spent too many press conferences wanting to bolt out the door. Too many interviews where she said all the right things while internally begging for silence.
Not in a creepy way. Not invasive.
And the longer the night went on, the clearer it became that something was wrong.
When you finally stood up from your table, Alysa noticed immediately.
The movement was too quick. Too rushed for someone just going to the bathroom.
She watched you slip through the rows of seats while the stage still glowed gold and the presenter kept talking. Nobody at your table really reacted. One of your reps was still staring at his phone. Somebody else clapped absentmindedly.
Nobody seemed to notice the slight shaking in your hands.
She watched you disappear into the side hallway and waited.
Maybe someone would go after you.
And something about that twisted uncomfortably in Alysa's chest.
Because suddenly she remembered exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel completely alone.
She glanced toward the door you disappeared through again.
Nobody even seemed to realize you were gone.
Alysa hesitated for a few seconds.
Maybe she shouldn’t interfere.
Maybe you just needed air.
Maybe following you would be weird.
But then she remembered your trembling hands.
And the exhausted look she'd caught on your face before you left.
She muttered a quick excuse to the person beside her and slipped out of the main ballroom without drawing too much attention. The noise of the gala dulled behind the massive theater doors until it became a distant echo.
The lights out there were softer, less harsh than inside the main room. Alysa walked slowly at first, unsure where exactly you'd gone.
Then she saw the bathroom door slowly swinging shut at the end of the corridor.
She took a breath before walking over.
She didn't actually know what she was gonna say.
She'd never really been great at comforting people. On the ice, everything was easier: exact movements, choreography, routines practiced thousands of times.
Real emotions were messier.
She stopped outside the door for a second.
There was no sound coming from inside.
Alysa carefully rested a hand against the cold metal door and stepped inside.
At first glance, the bathroom looked empty. White marble. Huge mirrors. Perfect lighting. Everything overly polished and way too still.
Sitting on the floor of the farthest stall, your dress spread around you, your back resting against the wall.
For a second, Alysa felt something tighten painfully in her chest.
Because seeing you like that stripped away the entire public image instantly.
You weren't the famous singer.
You weren't the artist selling out stadiums.
You weren't the girl from viral interviews or the industry's newest obsession.
You were just a completely exhausted person trying really hard not to fall apart.
Alysa quietly closed the door behind her, careful not to let the sound echo too loudly through the silence of the bathroom.
For a moment, she didn't say anything.
Not because she didn't want to, but because suddenly every sentence felt useless. The usual lines — are you okay?, do you need help? — sounded hollow in her head, way too small for something that had clearly been building up inside you for hours.
So she just stayed there.
The white overhead lighting spilled across the marble, making everything look fake-level perfect: spotless mirrors, pristine sinks, polished tile floors. And right in the middle of all that cold perfection was you, sitting on the floor like your body had finally decided it couldn’t carry the weight anymore.
Alysa watched you for another second.
Your hands still trembling a little.
The way your eyes stayed fixed downward, staring at some invisible spot on the floor.
You looked exhausted in a way that went way beyond being physically tired.
Her voice came out soft. Careful.
You didn't answer immediately.
You barely looked up, clearly surprised you weren't alone. For a second, it looked like instinct kicked in automatically — like you were about to pull the public version of yourself back on. Neutral expression. Small polite smile. Quick reassurance that everything was fine.
Maybe because you were too tired.
Maybe because Alysa didn't look like she came with cameras, questions, or hidden motives.
She took a small step closer, slow and cautious.
"I saw you leave," she said. "And… I dunno. Just wanted to make sure you were okay."
The words hung there between you.
You let out this small, cracked laugh that didn't really sound like laughter.
"Well, you picked a pretty bad time to check."
The honesty caught Alysa off guard enough to make her smile a little.
Not a huge smile. Not awkward. Just something small and human.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I kinda figured that out."
But this time it didn't feel as uncomfortable.
From somewhere deep inside the theater came muffled applause. A speech. Brief transition music. It sounded so far away it almost felt like another universe compared to the quiet bathroom around you.
Alysa leaned back against the marble near the sinks.
Just close enough to stay.
"I hate these kinds of events," she confessed suddenly.
You lifted your eyebrows slightly, surprised.
Alysa Liu's public image was practically flawless. Confident. Charming. Smiling. The skating prodigy who looked perfectly comfortable under pressure since she was thirteen.
Alysa exhaled through her nose like she could read exactly what you were thinking.
"No, seriously," she continued. "I have no clue how any of this works. Everybody always seems to know exactly where to look, when to talk, how to pose… and I still feel like I accidentally snuck in here."
That pulled a small smile out of you.
And Alysa noticed immediately.
"Also," she added, crossing her arms, "half the people here were famous before I was even born. That's honestly terrifying."
You dropped your head for a second as a more genuine laugh finally escaped you.
But enough to loosen some of the tension filling the room.
Alysa felt something in the atmosphere ease just a little.
Then she watched you take another deep breath.
And the exhaustion came rushing right back into your expression.
"Sorry," you muttered after a few seconds. "I didn't mean to make a scene."
"You're not making a scene."
"I'm literally hiding on the floor of a bathroom during a televised awards show."
"Well… technically, yeah," Alysa admitted with a tiny amused grimace. "But that still doesn't count as a scene."
You softly shook your head and leaned it back against the wall behind you.
The white lights made the exhaustion under your eyes even more obvious. Up close, it was impossible not to notice how hard you'd been holding yourself together all night.
"I just needed five minutes without people looking at me."
God, she understood that way too well.
Because one of the worst things she'd learned after the Olympics was that people started feeling entitled to pieces of her. Her time. Her smile. Her energy.
Everybody wanted something.
A specific version of who they thought you were supposed to be.
And the more famous you got, the less space there was to simply exist while tired, anxious, or sad without somebody trying to analyze it.
Alysa slowly tilted her head back toward the ceiling.
"After the Olympics" she said calmly, "I had to hide in a closet during a sponsor party because there were too many people."
You looked at her directly for the first time.
Alysa nodded, completely serious.
"A janitor's closet. With brooms and everything."
That got another laugh out of you.
And it was weird how quickly the whole mood shifted a little over something so dumb.
Alysa smiled too, feeling the tension in the room become slightly less suffocating.
"My agent spent forty minutes looking for me," she continued. "When he finally found me, he thought I'd been kidnapped."
You covered part of your face with one hand, still laughing somewhere between exhausted and disbelieving.
"That is… honestly kinda iconic."
"Thank you. One of my classiest moments."
The silence afterward didn't feel as heavy anymore.
The exhaustion was still there. The anxiety too. All of it.
But now something else sat beside it.
The strange feeling that somebody had finally noticed you weren't okay and decided to stay anyway.
And maybe that was the part you didn't know how to process most.
Because in this industry, you were used to people showing up when you were shining.
Not when you were quietly falling apart on the cold bathroom floor.
Up until that moment, you still hadn't really looked at her.
It had been easier to keep your attention fixed on the floor, on the white tiles, on any tiny meaningless detail that stopped you from feeling too exposed. Because looking directly at someone meant letting them really see you too, and you'd spent the entire night trying to avoid exactly that.
But then you lifted your head.
Alysa was still leaning against the marble near the sinks, her arms crossed loosely, dark dress falling softly around her figure. The white bathroom lights painted silver highlights through her dark hair and left soft shadows beneath her cheekbones.
And suddenly, for some ridiculous reason, the whole world felt strangely still.
Alysa was beautiful in a way that didn't fully translate in magazines or sports broadcasts. Here, away from the ice, without perfect HD-camera makeup or carefully trained interview smiles, there was something way more human about her.
Her eyes were the first thing that got you.
Dark. Focused. Ridiculously alive.
She wasn't looking at you with morbid curiosity or that fake sympathy people used when they wanted to feel like a good person. Alysa was looking at you like you were actually there with her. Like she wasn't waiting for a shinier or easier version of you to show up instead.
And that wrecked you faster than anything else had all night.
Because it was hard to remember the last time somebody looked at you like that.
Without wanting something.
Without turning you into a story, an opportunity, or a headline.
Alysa noticed the change immediately.
The way you were finally meeting her eyes for real.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
And then Alysa went completely still too.
Because now she was really looking at you.
Up until then, she'd been focused on other things: your shaking hands, the obvious exhaustion, the anxiety hidden behind every deep breath. But seeing you finally lift your head beneath that cold white lighting felt like taking a soft, unexpected hit straight to the chest.
Not in some artificial, untouchable celebrity way built perfectly for magazine covers.
Because there was something devastatingly real about you.
Your flawless makeup had started smudging just slightly around your eyes after hours of wearing it, and somehow that only made you look more human. Closer. The faint gloss on your lips had mostly faded away. A few loose strands of hair had escaped the perfectly styled gala look.
And Alysa couldn't stop staring.
Way too tired for someone your age.
There was sadness there. Anxiety. Exhaustion that had been building up way too long. And something else too — something softer, vulnerable in a way Alysa couldn't fully explain but that made this weird pressure settle in her chest.
Suddenly she understood why she'd been watching you all night without realizing it.
It hadn't just been concern.
She'd been attracted to you from the beginning, and it had been growing quietly the entire night while she pretended to pay attention to the gala.
And now, stuck in that bathroom with you, there was nowhere for her to run from it anymore.
Alysa realized way too late that she'd been completely silent for several seconds.
You noticed too, apparently.
"What?" you asked softly, almost unsure.
The question snapped the moment apart just enough.
Alysa blinked quickly, dragged back into reality.
"Nothing," she answered way too fast.
Because you lifted an eyebrow slightly, exhausted but amused.
And Alysa immediately felt heat rush up her neck.
Olympic cameras had never made her this nervous.
She let out a small embarrassed laugh and glanced toward the mirror for a second.
"Okay, maybe not nothing."
You kept looking at her now, more curious than before.
She wasn't used to feeling this… thrown off balance. On the ice, everything had structure. Movement. Control. Even under pressure, she always knew exactly what to do with her body.
And because you kept looking at her with that calm expression that made pretending to be normal basically impossible.
Alysa finally looked back at you.
And there it was again — that ridiculous feeling in her chest.
"Just…" she started, exhaling softly. "I think you might actually be the prettiest person I've ever seen."
The silence afterward was immediate.
Just full of something thick and electric that suddenly filled all the space between you.
Your eyes widened slightly, clearly caught off guard.
And Alysa instantly wanted to slam her head into the sink.
Trapped in a gala bathroom and that's what she decide to say.
But then something unexpected happened.
Not the polite red carpet smile.
Not the small automatic one you'd been using all night.
And so pretty Alysa felt her brain completely short-circuit for a full second.
"That was really direct," you murmured.
Alysa let out a nervous laugh.
"Yeah, well… I usually have way better social skills than this."
Alysa held your gaze for another second before answering.
And for the first time all night, the exhaustion on your face softened enough to look almost like happiness.
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