Tragedy is inescapable. Every day, there are new attacks, new casualties, and new reasons to fear for the next generation's future. Even if you live in a peaceable country like Switzerland where crime of any sort is essentially non-existent, you're still affected. You can't shake off the horrors occurring in the world—not when the Internet and media make them easily accessible.

I remember thinking concerts housed sanctuary. Nothing serious ever happens at concerts. Okay, sleazebags can harass women in the crowd. Artists usually call those people out if visibility allows. But nobody can commit a serious crime at a concert because they have the whole security thing down to a T. Or so I thought.

The attacks in Paris and Manchester demolished my "concerts are places to escape reality, therefore they're immune to being targeted" hypothesis. For three gunmen and a suicide bomber to do what they did in such positive, carefree atmospheres, especially in two of the biggest Western European nations, is beyond me. I was shocked by the Eagles of Death Metal shooting; the Ariana Grande bombing left me absolutely speechless.

And paranoid. Those attacks triggered my paranoia brain signals. If an Ariana Grande concert can be targeted, who's to say mine will be safer with incredibly heavy security? The youngest person who died was a pure, innocent child—she was eight! Where's the humanity in that? It happened two months ago and I'm still overly anxious about opening night tomorrow.

So many thoughts have been racing through my mind, the primary one being my background. Everyone knows I'm half Persian; I have the closest connection to Islam than any other major female pop star since my mother's side is Muslim. My biggest fear is some white supremacist attacking me or holding my fans hostage because of who I am. ISIS isn't the only threat to humanity, you know.

There is so much evil rooted in a plethora of people, but ISIS receives the most attention because they're "Muslims" and 9/11 demonized their religion. I bet anything that if a white male tried to kill me or my fans, they'd say he's "mentally unstable" or some other bullshit excuse. But if, in this hypothetical situation, he is someone with a darker skin tone, he would be labeled differently—a thug if he's black, a terrorist if he's of Middle Eastern descent.

There is no difference in race or religion. If someone wants to intentionally murder mass innocents, then they're simply a murderer. Differentiating murderers based on melanin or religion is the stupidest form of segregation because it doesn't matter. Their goal is the same: to kill without remorse.

My team is probably ten times as collective as me. They're not worried about any terror threats or an attack. They've assured me that nothing will happen, not after Ariana's One Love Manchester Concert showed solidarity and strength from our industry. They say I'm in safe hands and I shouldn't live my life in fear, but an inner voice tells me otherwise.

Giovanna says I shouldn't stress about something that has less than a tenth percentage of actually happening. She thinks I'm fretting over a hypothetical event that won't come true. Concentrate on the show, Parisa. That's what I should do. I've tried to shake it off so my fears don't psych me out, but I can't. She doesn't know what I know, nor does she know what I've been through.

"Please tell me you've had something to eat, Par. You hardly ate a thing over the past couple days," she voices after taking a seat. "You're not sick, are you? Is that why you won't eat?"

"I'm fine, Gi. I swear I'm okay," I drone. I pick up my phone and see that it's 10:30. "I'm just exhausted. I need rest."

"You also need food to keep your strength. We can order takeaway for dinner and someone can fetch us a pint of your favorite gelato."

"Pistachio and coffee?"

Giovanna smiles and pats my head. Ugh, I hate when she does that! It makes me feel like a child—as if being petite isn't enough.

"Those are two different flavors, Par! I'm sure we can get one of each. Nicola will make sure of it," she promises. "When in Rome and you're Parisa Nicchi, you can get anything you want. Two types of gelato shouldn't be a problem."

Giovanna waves over her assistant some kid named Nicola who I rarely see around, and orders him to grab our food. While she's distracted and playing the caring older sister, I check my messages. The conversation I choose to open first would totally embarrass me if Giovanna was helicoptering me right now. Let's just say I beat her. I reached out to Kristian, myself, a few days ago so she won't embarrass me.

Kristian and I have been holding a chill, normal conversation via text. I'm merely reaching out to him as a fellow musician and Eurovision family member. I won't tell him about my manager's PR ploy because that would probably scare him off. I think. I don't know. I just don't want this new friendship ruined by business. I'm sure he'd want the same. Besides, I doubt he'd be into a PR stunt.

"Ah, il giovane amore è bello!" Giovanna exclaims. "You're doing my work for me. Looks like I don't have to play matchmaker after all!" (Young love is beautiful!)

I roll my eyes, scoff, and turn towards her so she can't read our conversation over my shoulder. There's nothing incriminating about it—we're your average teens discussing mundane teenage things, but living abnormal lives. I know Gi, and I know how she can twist something as minuscule as "you're sweet" or "you look nice" into more. Maybe I should learn Russian or Bulgarian so she can't snoop.

We're currently discussing music and our future plans. I've just mentioned the tour and how ecstatic I am to start tomorrow, and he responds that he's excited to see me in Moscow. Oh, Giovanna will absolutely adore that! To fess up about that or not...

ME: My manager will flip if she finds out you're coming. She's scheming about us.

KRISTIAN: About what?

ME: About us...dating. And potentially collabing on a song. I'm not having a PR relationship. I don't want our friendship to be awkward with a fake relationship. I genuinely think you're a great person. I really like you.

Shit. Did I just send that? Did I admit that I like him? What if he thinks I'm being weird or too forward? What if h—

KRISTIAN: Haha. My manager thinks we should also date. Don't worry I feel the same. Maybe we can prank them. You can pretend you're my girlfriend.

Suddenly, my nerves disappear. My eyes light up as I turn around. Giovanna glances up from her phone and eyes me; I shoot her a wide grin. If he's up for this prank, I'm so in. This will show them to not meddle!

ME: Kris you're a genius! I'm in! But if you want to work on a song for real, I'm down. I think our voices would be amazing together. I'll get back to you later. Gotta rest of the big day tomorrow.

KRISTIAN: Let me know if you have a plan. 

I exit our conversation with the biggest smile on my face. This doesn't go unnoticed by my beautiful manager. Giovanna smirks as if she knows I've given in to her wish...kinda. I try to ignore her by pulling up Twitter, but she yanks my phone away.

"GIOVANNA!" I shout, shooting her daggers. "GIVE ME BACK MY PHONE!"

"I just want to know why you have that big smile on your face, Par," she claims. "Is it Kristian?"

I angrily snatch my phone out of her hand and retreat as far away from her as possible on the complete opposite side of the sofa. However, Giovanna won't leave me alone. I think I deserve a nice break after a full day of dress rehearsals. We commenced around eight and only broke for lunch; it's nearly eleven at night!

"Since you're so nosy, I might as well admit defeat," I grumble as I cross my arms. "I was texting Kristian. There, I said it!"

"And? What'd he say?"

I sigh and frustratingly run a hand through my hair. This is the moment of truth. We're not actually about to date, but I'm glad he's siding with me. Now that I think about it, this could be fun. We can fool them so badly if we're smart.

"He um...he asked me out," I lie. I sink into my seat and prop my legs up, making myself comfortable for her impending reaction. "I was surprise, really. We discussed our friendship and how blessed we are that Eurovision brought us together. We talked about our similarities. Somehow, that paved the way for those six words. Will you go out with me? I was taken aback. Why wouldn't I be? But I told him I will. I don't know what my schedule will be like in Moscow, but I'm squeezing a date in there regardless."

"You have a day off. If we're lucky and he doesn't have much to do, you can spend the entire day with him. I knew you'd come around! You two will be THE hottest new couple in Europe," she beams. "See? This is what it'll be like if Eastern and Western Europe collide. If everything works out, I think you two will have a bright future head."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you guys are really young, but your babies will be beautifully diverse."

I nearly choke on air. "I've had enough for now. I'll just take a walk around the venue for a little. Text me when dinner's here."

Giovanna gives a nod of approval and waves me away. I rise from my seat and run to the exit. Looks like my explanation was enough for her. I don't want to wait for her to change her mind about letting me off easily. Once I'm out of my dressing room, I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Finally, some alone time!" I quietly express my happiness. "Where should we go now?"

Wherever the corridors lead, I mentally respond. Far, far away from Gi planning your wedding.

So I make a right and commence walking. I don't care where I go so long as my head clears itself from general negativity. I shouldn't be shaken the day before tour kicks off, but it's hard when expectations are high and you're paranoid. This walk should cool me off.

I follow the path, walking quicker with each minute. I keep my head down and level my gaze now, yet high enough that I can see what's ahead. No matter how hard I attempt to steady my thoughts, I can't do it. My head is too muddled with "what if" situations. I'd rather think about Giovanna's plans for Kristian and me than this!

"Stop psyching yourself out, Parisa. You'll be okay. This tour will be amazing. You're gonna kill it tomorrow night," I assure myself. "Nothing will happen. Nothing will break the love and bond between you and the Pack. Nothing c—"

I whip my phone out and stop walking to see who is texting me. My stomach growls, thinking it's Giovanna about dinner. It's not her. The text isn't even from anyone I know.

UNKNOWN: تور معرض خطر خود شما (tour at your own risk)

I nearly drop my phone upon reading the sentence. My hands shake as I slowly re-read it, and my anxiety exponentially increases. I don't know if they're warning or threatening me. What I do know is that my life may be in danger. This isn't the first time I've seen a message like this.

I scrolled through social media during lunch just to check in with my fans. Whilst on Twitter, I received a couple of messages—DMs from an egg telling me the exact same thing, but in Italian. I thought whoever sent those messages was joking around, so I didn't think much of them. Now I'm freaking out. This text and those DMs might not be related—most Italians don't know a lick of Persian—but this can't be a coincidence.

I'd love to say it's a prank by my family, but I'm an only child. I don't have siblings to joke about my fears, and most of my cousins can only speak one of the two languages. Besides, I don't know any other Persians living in Italy besides my mom.

"Shake it off, Par. Shake it off," I coach myself.

Eyes closed and hands clasped together, I breathe in and out. I can feel my phone between my fingers, and it pings as another message is received. After another deep breath, I glance at the message. Thank goodness it's really Giovanna and dinner is here! Maybe I'll feel better once I'm fed.

    ♫                           ♫                               ♫

The look on Giovanna's face once I enter the dressing room is a little alarming. Her eyes sparkle like the ocean on a sunny day, highlighting the beautiful turquoise tones of her irises. I know that look. That look is loads more frightening than those messages because that look means she has something up her sleeves. It's hard to focus on the delicious scent of carbs and greens on the table when Giovanna has that face.

"What did I miss?" I ask as I approach the food. I pick up a box with my name written in pink Sharpie and sit beside her. "And what's with that look?"

"Did you see Kristian's TBT? Everyone's going crazy over you two already!" she gushes.

I was just about to tackle my panzanella like a ravenous wolf, but I have to see this first. Sensing my thoughts, Giovanna holds a hand out and grabs her phone. I stab into my food and stuff it into my mouth as she searches. 

Ugh, my taste buds are in salad heaven! Panzanella is primarily tomatoes, stale bread, and oil, but the taste is simply divine and true to its Tuscan roots. The onions and basil in this dish add enough flavor that anything additional seems excessive. I love a good, traditional panzanella whenever I'm back in the Fatherland.

"Found it!" Giovanna exclaims. She shoves the phone in my face and beams. "You two honestly look so good together. I think your height difference makes you look cuter."

I hate to admit it, but she's right. At 6'0", Kristian towers over my petite frame. An arm wraps around my waist as a bright smile illuminates his pale complexion. I have a pretty huge smile on my face too, and I look—I'm glowing beside him. Our love of music and Eurovision is one thing, but seeing us together seals the deal. If the looks on our faces and adorable height difference don't vouch for our union, then there's the color of our ensembles—we're both rocking that all black aesthetic from literally head to toe. His caption teases his crush on me, as well.

kristian_kostov_official: met one of my favorite singers almost 3 months ago. ParisaNicchi is one of the sweetest girls and beautiful inside and out. to know her is an honor. to work with her would be amazing. #tbt #ESC2017 #teamkris

That Instagram photo has nearly 200,000 likes and it was only posted twenty minutes ago. I don't even want to read the comments...yet. Maybe I'll give them a read at home before I pass out.

"Almost everyone ships you," Giovanna mentions as she withdraws her phone. Did she just read my mind? "They've already given you a ship name—Krisa. Some really salty fangirls will fume once you two go public. You can handle it, Par. You're a strong girl."

"I've gone through worse adversaries than bitter fangirls," I chuckle. In a serious tone, I add, "like people threatening me for being a hapa."

Shock hits Giovanna as her eyes widen. I don't know why she looks surprised when it's natural to experience even in this day and age. I've had my fair share of hater prior to Eurovision and afterwards. People have approached me on the street, spit on my face, and verbally attacked me. A few months ago when I was in the States, a group of white boys sexually harassed me and said they've love to enslave me. I wanted to cry and vomit. That hit me so hard, I couldn't eat for a week.

Then there are the threats. Tour a proporio rischio. تور معرض خطر خود شما. Tour at your own risk. Regardless of which language they use, it's equally frightening. The message is the same and holds the same level of threat. How do I explain this to Giovanna when she can never understand?

"Parisa," she worriedly calls, gently tapping my shoulder. "What did you mean by that? Surely it's no big deal. People are not attacking an innocent girl like you, are they? No. That's i—"

"Non impossibile. È un cento per cento vero!" I counter. I stuff more panzanella into my mouth and eat quickly. "You wouldn't understand, Gi. No. you can't understand. Kristian can't even understand my struggle because he's a boy and he actually looks Eastern European! You can't argue that either of you can relate when you just can't!" (Not impossible. It's 100% true)

"Par...speak to me. What's going on?"

"You know what? Just let me eat so I can feel better. I want to go home after I eat."

Giovanna might have that concerned older sister expression written all over her face, but she can't crack me. I'll just finish my meal, eat some ice cream, and call it a night. Tomorrow is game day—I can't afford to let anything psyche me out. And if anything does, I can't show it. I need to be strong for myself because I can take it. I—

I receive a text and manage to grab my phone from the table before Giovanna can see the message. Although my insides become queasy, my poker face hides how I'm totally feeling. Same message, different anon (I think) and language.

UNKNOWN: Tour a proprio rischio

"Who's it from?" Giovanna pesters. "What do they want at this time of night?"

"It's nothing. It's just Kristian. He wanted to wish me luck for tomorrow," I fib as I stab my fork into the box. "It's really sweet of him."

"Told you he'd be a good boyfriend!"

I roll my eyes and shake my head. Thankfully his name dodged further questioning about my adversaries. We finish our dinner in peace, with more jokes during our gelatto binge about Krisa that don't bother me. I'll take her digs over concern all day. Giovanna's the type of person to hold onto a thought, but it seems there's a certain person who can divert her attention and completely dissipate her hold on a previous topic.

After dinner, Giovanna and I do our rounds to ensure everything is set for tomorrow. Nothing appears out of order, and all props are accounted for. I linger over my favorite props: a gorgeous set of fairy wings adorned in glitter and a flower crown beautifully wreathed in pink carnations and orchids. Giovanna has to pry them out of my hands so we can leave!

When we do, I take on glance back and smile before turning the lights off.

"You look happy," she notes. She takes my hand and swings our arms as we walk. "Is it tour? You excited?"

"More than excited!" I extol. "I'm elated, Gi! I'm so ready to get the ball rolling tomorrow. It'll be amazing to open the show in my hometown."

She chuckles and nudges my shoulder. Glad to see we're ending tonight on the same page.

We travel down the corridors in high spirits, discussing the show tomorrow night and family coming to see me from both Italy and Iran. It's daunting that they'll all be here. As if opening night isn't stressful enough, they'll be watching. But it's also exciting. I'm happy to bring the entire family together. I swear it's the power of music! Not even holidays can unite them! When the Ramadan and Christmas seasons coincide, it's difficult because they want us to choose sides.

Our high spirits falter once we reach Giovanna's car. Someone must know this vehicle is hers. Why else would they vandalize it? The message in pink paint is clear to me. Someone is out to get me.

"Tour a proporio rischio," Giovanna disbelievingly reads, her voice cracking from the sigh of her beloved car. "Is someone trying to threaten or warn you?"

"I don't know," I breathe. "But they have my attention now. This looks serious."

A/N:

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR 100 READS!!! This is absolutely amazing. I can't believe y'all are reading this. Things are about to get serious. What did you guys think of this chapter. What do you think will happen next?