Page 1 of I Fell for an Alien Popstar

The day the vending machine ate my last weekly coffee credit, I told it I hoped it choked.

It just blinked at me—row after row of polished chrome panels and soft blue interface lights pretending it hadn’t just committed theft. The whole machine was glitching out. The screen offered me choices in three languages, and none of them were human language.

“I swear to every person who works here,” I muttered through my clenched teeth, “if you keep my coffee, I’m pulling your plug myself.”

The machine stared back with the dull, indifferent glow of corporate machinery, reflecting my own tired-looking face and messy hair. I looked exactly like someone who should accept defeat and fill out a maintenance ticket.

Instead, I slapped my palm flat against the metal like I was some sort of chaotic goblin. “Ahh! Give it back, and we’ll pretend this never happened,” I yelled, glancing around to make sure no one important was witnessing me threaten an appliance. “You can be a hero here. Redemption arc. Come on.”

“Still bullying the coffee dispenser, Lamoth?”

I jumped and jerked my head to the side. Thomas from payroll was drifting past with a stack of papers.

“It started it. Crime of passion. I was provoked.”

He snorted. “You know you can just use the upstairs one.”

“The one upstairs hates me more.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “This one and I had an understanding. A long, fruitful partnership. Mutual respect. Then it decided to ruin my life. I’m going to have to tell Carla she needs to retire this model and get an upgraded one. I heard all these old models are glitchy.”

“Tragic. But I doubt she’ll replace it. She’s trying to budget, remember.” Thomas gave me a sympathetic wince. “Hey, if you’re short on caffeine, I’ve got an extra sachet at my desk.”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll see how far pure spite can carry me.”

“Good luck with that.” He smirked and shuffled off toward the elevators.

As soon as he disappeared, I leaned my forehead against the cool metal and let my voice drop to a whisper. “Listen, machine. Buddy, pal. Please give me my coffee. I mean, it won’t kill me to lose all these credits to you without getting my drink, but if you could just spit it out, that would be great.”

Then I started thinking. Maybe it was a sign. I didn’t need coffee; I wanted it. Maybe spending a ton of credits on something that actually mattered wouldn’t kill me either. I didn’t need to go to the concert; I wanted to.

The idea had been circling me for weeks, irritating me, really. Like a pop hook stuck in my head. Planet Vela, Popstar Zhari, and her Cosmic Girlz Tour. My chest tightened with excitement whenever a promo clip flashed across my feed. Her outfits for this tour were amazing: holographic neon pinks and purples, pearlescent and chrome pieces. She even had these glitter extensions that made her pink skin glow and her blue eyes pop. Her voice kept me sane during 3 a.m. depression episodes.

I pulled back, studying the machine as if it might argue. “I’m taking your silence as a no. You won’t give me my credits back. Very mature of you.”

I gave the bottom of the machine a small kick and turned to walk back to my cubicle.

Making my way down the hall, I passed Steve from logistics. He was around seven feet tall, lavender-skinned, and had been working in our building longer than I had.

Aliens had been on Earth for decades by then, since around 2040. They were so integrated that most people didn’t even notice they were aliens.

“Hey there, Steve,” I said, waving. “Nice day today, right?”

He flashed a partial grin and kept typing away at his computer. Sometimes I thought he had his ear translator piece turned off so he didn’t have to talk to us.

I often wondered what he was like outside of work. Did he have a goofy side? Was he kind and empathetic? What about his home planet? Did he miss it? Was it a water planet? Or a hot and humid flora planet where everything was covered in jungle? I guessed that until he opened up, I’d never know.

Back at my desk, the office buzzed with the usual computer keyboard clicks, printer whirs, and the distant murmur of someone pretending to care on a customer call.

My supervisor, Carla, popped her head over the partition. “Vada, did you get those quarterly summaries sent?”

“Almost,” I lied. My screen showed a spreadsheet behind a minimized window of the shuttle company’s homepage, pixelated stars promising new horizons for a modest fee. “They’re… progressing.”

“Great. Remember, end of day.” She gave me a thumbs-up and vanished, leaving behind the faint smell of cheap perfume and productivity quotas.

“Yuck,” I said, wincing as I fanned the air around me.

I opened the minimized tab, which showed the space station and Zhari’s tour advertisement. I guessed they were one of her sponsors. There were only five space stations on Earth, and one of them was right here in England. The banner ad across the top of the page was worse than the vending machine debacle, teasing me for weeks with the reminder that I couldn’t afford a concert ticket and a shuttle pass. The ad read: ZHARI LUMIS—LIVE IN LUMARA—ONE NIGHT ONLY. A looping clip played automatically, showcasing Zhari onstage below.

I’d watched that clip one too many times already. The internet knew it; that was why it kept throwing it at me like a dare.