"That was really beautiful," Jumana whispered, her voice soft, still trembling with awe.
The four girls walked side by side into the backstage corridor, their shoulders nearly touching, hearts still pounding, bodies buzzing with the aftershock of everything they had just witnessed. The music still echoed faintly in their ears, like a dream they weren't quite ready to wake up from.
They had read the posts. They'd seen the viral videos. They knew—at least intellectually—that Ethan's shows were intense. People online described his concerts as life-altering, emotionally charged, and even transcendent. Some had gone so far as to call Ethan the greatest performer of their generation—a bold, often controversial claim that sparked fierce debates and backlash from critics and fans of other artists. But now, standing here in the dim backstage glow, the memory of the lights still flickering in their minds, the girls knew what they had just experienced.
For them—despite their privilege, their sheltered lives, their inexperience with live music and massive crowds—Ethan wasn't just an artist. He was a force. A presence. A magician of emotion who had pulled them into his world for two unforgettable hours.
To them, Ethan was the greatest performer ever.
Sure, they were four seventeen-year-old rich girls who hadn't been to many concerts—if any at all. And yes, in the grand scheme of musical critique, their opinions might not have carried much weight. But that didn't matter. It was their truth. It was their moment. And no one could take it from them.
As they passed through the heavy backstage door, Mariam glanced sideways at her friends. A soft smile tugged at her lips when she spotted something that made her heart squeeze. Her voice, playful but affectionate, cut through the quiet hum of their footsteps.
"Look at Jasmine," she teased, nodding toward the far corner.
The others turned their heads, curious—then froze.
There, near the edge of the hallway, stood Jasmine. The unshakable one. The one who always kept her cool. But now… she was crying.
Not sobbing. Not hysterical. But gentle, steady tears slid down her cheeks, her eyes wide and wet with a kind of emotion none of them were used to seeing from her.
"Jasmine?" Jumana said, concern knitting her brows as she stepped closer. "What's wrong?"
Jasmine shook her head, blinking fast. "It's nothing," she whispered, voice barely above the hum of backstage machinery.
Rachel moved forward too, her tone laced with warmth and worry. "Just what?" she asked gently.
Jasmine hesitated. She looked down at her feet, then up at them again. Her lips parted. Her voice came out small—fragile in a way that felt sacred.
"It's nothing," she repeated, then paused as her chest rose and fell in a shaky breath. "I just… I just really love you guys. So, so much."
The girls melted.
"Awwwwn!" they all cried in unison, smiles blooming through their concern like sunlight breaking through clouds.
In an instant, arms wrapped around each other, heads tucked into shoulders, laughter and tears mingling in a soft, chaotic embrace. They didn't care who was watching. In that moment, it was just them—four girls bound not by wealth or school or social status, but by something infinitely more precious: sisterhood.
"I'm so glad I met you girls," Jasmine said, sniffling. Her voice cracked slightly as she looked at each of them in turn. "You guys are the best friends ever. I love you guys."
"We love you too," Rachel whispered, her eyes glassy.
"I don't even know what I'd do without you girls," Jumana added, tightening the hug.
"Best friends for life," Mariam said with a soft giggle, brushing a tear off her cheek.
They stood there like that—wiping tears, laughing at themselves, fixing each other's mascara and smoothing down glitter-covered dresses—until Jasmine, the very girl who had started the emotional landslide, finally laughed out loud.
"Okay, okay," she said, breathless from the crying and the laughter. "Enough of this Disney moment, I swear my eyeliner is halfway down my face."
The others laughed too, sniffling as they stepped back to collect themselves.
Jasmine clapped her hands together, her usual energy returning as the sparkle came back to her eyes. "Let's get ready. We still have a mission to complete, girls. Let's not get sidetracked."
At her words, the girls began dabbing at their cheeks, adjusting their outfits, and checking their reflections in their phones. They were steady now. Focused.
"Okay, so…" Jasmine said, her voice firm but laced with anticipation. "Where is he?"
The girls turned in unison—eyes scanning the backstage world they were now fully immersed in.
It was everything they'd imagined and more.
The backstage of a stadium tour wasn't just a hallway or a door. It was an entire ecosystem.
To their left, they saw bustling set managers in headsets, barking orders into walkie-talkies, their expressions sharp with precision. Behind them, sleek black cases marked "ETJ TOUR" were being wheeled around by crew members dressed in black tees and cargo pants, each one moving with the urgency of someone on borrowed time.
Massive screens showed playback from the stage. Stacks of water bottles and towels were being replenished beside the performers' tent. Further down the corridor, an entire spread of catering lined the far wall—tables decked out with silver trays of gourmet food, rows of energy drinks, bottled water, and perfectly stacked sandwiches. There was even a dessert station with cookies shaped like microphones.
Everything smelled like a mix of electricity, perfume, sweat, and sugar. The air buzzed—not just with sound, but with something intangible.
Possibility.
Hope.
The girls took it all in, breath catching in their throats, eyes wide as children stepping into a dreamland. It was hard to believe this was real. That they were really here. That all the planning, the money, the lies told to parents about "study trips" and "school retreats," all of it had led to this.
Because more than anything—even more than the concert itself—they had one goal left.
To meet Ethan.
To speak to him. To look him in the eye and tell him what he meant to them. To prove that this trip, this adventure, this night… had a purpose beyond screaming and singing.
They had come to find him.
Yes, the girls had one more goal—a goal that danced like fireflies in their chests, flitting in and out of reach, yet close enough to keep their hearts pounding with anticipation. Their ultimate dream was to come face to face with the artist who had, over the course of a single night, taken over their entire beings. Ethan. The urge was electric. It coursed through them with every heartbeat, pushing away any interest in the other glittering, chaotic, and fascinating elements of the backstage area.
Around them was a world that would have enthralled anyone else. There were massive light rigs stacked like futuristic towers, buzzing softly from above. Gigantic speakers, some covered with branded cloth, stood like sentinels around the edges. Tech teams communicated through headsets, their voices clipped and full of urgency. Catering tables lined one wall, overflowing with gourmet snacks and cold drinks, trays of colorful fruit and canapés, high-end bottled water with condensation sliding down their sides. Dancers and backup singers moved around still half in costume, their laughter echoing. There was even a makeup station glowing with mirrors framed in lights, half-emptied bottles and brushes scattered artistically across the counter.
But none of that mattered. Not to them. Their eyes, hearts, and souls were searching for just one thing. One person.
Rachel, eyes darting like a hawk, suddenly gasped. Her hand shot out in excitement, her face lit up with a light so pure, it made the other girls instinctively turn toward her.
"There! He's going to be there!" she shouted, her voice trembling with adrenaline as she started moving swiftly toward the far end of the room.
The others didn't even need to ask. They were right behind her, their steps fast and urgent, hearts pounding as hope surged in their veins. The place Rachel had pointed to wasn't even that distinct—just a corner of the room. But what made it special was the crowd that had gathered there. A mini-mob of mostly girls had formed a semi-circle, their hands outstretched, phones held high, posters waving in the air, voices loud and frenzied.
"Ethan! Please sign this!"
"I love you!"
"Break up with that girl and be with me!"
Journalists shouted over the din, microphones out, trying to squeeze in questions, trying to catch a moment. It was organized chaos, a wild current of passion, devotion, and desperate hope. And now, it was their battlefield.
The four girls tried to push through. Gently at first. Then more determinedly. But every time they found an opening, someone else swooped in, blocking them, shoving past with elbows and bags and louder voices. The wall of bodies felt immovable.
"Ya Allah," Mariam muttered, her voice full of disbelief and frustration. "What are these girls made of? Steel?"
"I don't even know anymore," Jasmine huffed, wiping sweat from her brow. "Why are they so rough? Can't we just, I don't know, line up like civilized people?"
Even Jasmine, usually the most cunning among them, was visibly rattled. There was no charm or trick that could outwit this wall of screaming, overexcited fans.
"We don't come this far just to quit. Not us. Not now. We lied to our parents, we crossed oceans and time zones. We've chartered jets, cleared private terminals, and skipped sleep in five-star silence just to be here—for this moment. We didn't move mountains just to be shoved aside by a crowd. We came because it matters. Because he matters. So ask yourself—are we really going to let a few elbows and a bit of noise stop us, when we've crossed entire worlds to stand at the edge of history?"
The words hit like sparks in the air.
Mariam, now fully upright as well, nodded firmly. Her voice trembled with emotion. "She's right. We travelled thousands of miles. We did all this together. And even if we can't do it for ourselves, we need to do it for Rachel. We came all this way—we have to finish what we started."
Jasmine and Jumana looked at each other and smiled, their eyes shining with renewed fire. The fighting spirit had returned.
And in that moment, Rachel had only one thought racing through her mind like a banner in the wind: Captain Erwin, thank you.
Because who knew that all those anime speeches would come in handy?
Fueled by heart and strategy, by adrenaline and sheer stubborn will, the four girls regrouped. They planned. They executed. And they clawed their way through the crowd—inch by inch, shout by shout, push by push.
Until finally, breathless, exhilarated, they were in the second row. Just one line of people between them and Ethan.
And there he was.
Wearing a soft hoodie, smiling softly, his face a mix of focus and fatigue and warmth. He was there in the flesh, not a screen, not a music video. Right there. Talking to fans, signing posters, taking selfies.
As he signed the final autograph for the girl in front, his voice came through clearly. "Thank you for coming."
The girls looked at each other. Wide-eyed. Shaking.
This was it.
Mariam leaned toward Rachel and whispered, urgently, "Go. Go first. Don't wait. Don't let anyone cut."
Rachel didn't hesitate. She stepped forward.
And there she stood.
Face to face with Ethan.
Ethan looked up at her, the corners of his mouth curling into a warm, gentle smile. His eyes dropped to the book she was holding, the cover slightly crumpled from how tightly she had been clutching it. He leaned forward a little, his voice kind but casual, as though they'd known each other for years.
"And who can I make this out to?" he asked, already reaching for the marker in his back pocket.
Rachel didn't answer right away.
For a moment—just one breathless, perfect moment—she stood frozen. Her mouth slightly open, her hands trembling as the weight of the moment pressed into her chest like gravity itself had shifted. Ethan Jones, her favorite artist, was right there. The boy whose voice had soundtracked her hardest nights, the performer who seemed to pour his soul into every lyric—he was no longer pixels on a screen or a voice through headphones.
He was real. Inches away. And he was speaking to her.
Her heart stuttered. Her lungs squeezed. She quickly gave her head a little shake like someone trying to wake from a dream, her lips finally parting.
"To… Rach—"
She didn't even get to finish.
Suddenly, a man in a black headset and all-black outfit—clearly a staff member—rushed over to Ethan. His expression was serious, urgent. He leaned in close, whispering something directly into Ethan's ear, shielding his mouth with one hand. Ethan's easy smile faltered, his face turning slightly apologetic as he gave a small, understanding nod.
Rachel blinked. No. No, not now.
Ethan looked back at the crowd. "Hey, everyone," he said, his voice louder now, addressing the semicircle of fans gathered around him. "I'm really sorry, I just got called for something important—I have to go right now."
A chorus of gasps, groans, and disappointed voices rose all at once.
"No way!"
"Please, just one more!"
"Ethan, I've been waiting for three hours!"
But Rachel… Rachel didn't say anything yet. Her breath caught in her throat.
Ethan was already taking a step back, waving a hand. "Thank you all so much for coming," he said sincerely, eyes sweeping over them all. "I love you guys. Really. Thank you."
"No, wait!" Rachel finally burst out, stepping forward without thinking, the book still clutched in her hand like it was a lifeline. "Please—wait!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, fragile and desperate.
Ethan turned briefly, caught her eyes just for a second… but then gave a small, apologetic smile, and with another quiet, "Sorry," he disappeared through the side curtain, flanked by two crew members.
Rachel stood there, frozen again—but this time, it wasn't awe.
It was heartbreak.
She had been so close. So painfully close. There had only been a single line between them, barely the thickness of a breath, and yet now it felt like an ocean. Her hand slowly lowered. The book, once held with so much hope, hung uselessly at her side.
She watched his back disappear into the shadows of the backstage hallway, the glittering lights casting long silhouettes.
A hollow ache bloomed in her chest.
"Wait," she whispered one last time, barely louder than a breath, the sound swallowed by the noise around her.
And then he was gone.