With that, I race off to the ladies’ room, ducking into a stall to restick my bra. I let out a breath. Whew. That was close.

Except… I suddenly realize that I never got the editor’s name. Or her number. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. God, I probably came off like such an ass. There goes my chance at ever doing a solo interview with Elle.

When I emerge from the ladies’ room, I see a man, midforties with a stubby ponytail and blue wire-rimmed glasses, heading my way with a wry grin on his face. He’s wearing a simple flannel shirt and nondescript black jeans, and yet he looks totally at ease among the fashion elite. Immediately, I’m mortified. Did he just witness that whole sticky-bra fiasco?

But when he arrives at my side, he just pulls something out of his pocket, saying, “Here. My husband is a backstage dresser. He never lets me leave for a gig without this.” I look at his outstretched hand and see the most glorious thing in the world: a small roll of double-sided fashion tape. “You never know when you might need to help someone out of a… sticky situation,” he says with an eyebrow raised. I take the tape, profusely thanking my glasses-wearing savior, and rush back into the ladies’ room.

When I emerge a second time, with everything securely held in place, the man is still there. I give him a sheepish smile and thank him again.

“Seriously, you saved my life just now,” I say, handing back the roll of tape. “Please also thank your husband for me.”

“He’ll be thrilled to know he aided one of K-pop’s biggest stars.” He smiles and extends his hand. “I’m Maxwell Li-Harris. I’m a photographer for Vogue. I recognize you from Girls Forever.”

“Oh, hi!” I say, shaking his hand. Of course, a photographer. I should have known. The high-fashion ones are always so effortlessly chill. “So nice to meet you.”

“I love your outfit,” he says, admiring my look. “Nell Kramer Men’s Collection from last spring, right?” I nod, secretly thrilled to have my fashion choice validated by someone so established in the biz. “Totally ingenious. Do you have anything like this in your line?”

I blink. My line? “Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean? I don’t have a line.”

His brow furrows. “You don’t? Everyone is always calling you Forever Fashionista… I thought that was the name of your label!”

“Oh,” I say with a smile, shaking my head. “That’s just a nickname my fans call me. They’re sweet.”

“Please, girl. Don’t be so humble,” he says with a mock eye roll. “You’re a fashion icon, and your fans aren’t the only ones who know it.”

We laugh and I feel a bubble of joy well up inside me.