The chorus swept over them like a wave.
It began quietly—Jasmine's voice, almost a whisper, trembling with feeling. Jumana joined her, then Mariam, then Rachel, and before long, the four friends were holding each other tightly, swaying to the rhythm as the words passed through their lips like a prayer.
"On another love, another love All my tears have been used up On another love, another love All my tears have been used up On another love, another love All my tears have been used up..."
Their voices cracked but didn't falter. The weight of the lyrics settled into their bones. Jasmine wiped a tear with her sleeve, and then—like some invisible hand had waved over the stadium—voices erupted all around them.
The VIP section—once composed, elegant, untouchable—was now alive with emotion. Grown men and women, stars and influencers, people who'd once posted pictures without blinking, were now singing with quivering lips. Some hugged strangers. Others cried openly.
It wasn't just a concert anymore. It was a moment. A collective surrender.
Every voice in the stadium joined in.
"On another love, another love All my tears have been used up..."
Phones lit up the dark like a sea of floating stars. Thousands and thousands of them. The entire stadium glowed softly in the dark, shimmering like a galaxy had descended into their hands.
Jasmine, still singing, reached for Mariam's hand. Mariam took it and grabbed Jumana's. Rachel wrapped both arms around them, her face buried into their shoulders as she sang. Her voice shook, and when she lifted her head, tears glistened in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, blinking rapidly. "It's just... that voice."
Mariam smiled and pulled her closer. "We know," she said gently. "Don't worry."
The crowd kept singing, louder, fuller, richer with every note. It wasn't chaos. It was unity. It was survival. It was love and grief and something holy.
"On another love, another love All my tears have been used up..."
The final line echoed like a farewell. Then silence.
Complete silence.
And in that pause, it felt like the whole world held its breath.
A soft voice broke the stillness.
Ethan's voice. Alone.
Delicate. Vulnerable. Perfect.
"All my tears have been used up Oh-oh Oh-oh..."
There was no cheering. No screaming. No clapping.
Only the lights of phones, swaying gently like waves in the dark.
A million tiny stars.
Ethan's voice faded out, but no one moved. No one spoke.
It was like the purity of what had just happened was too fragile to break.
Then—
Light exploded.
Stage lights burst into motion, dancing wildly across the stadium like lightning made of color. The stage beneath Ethan pulsed, panels shifting and morphing as if the ground itself had come alive.
Colors flooded the arena—violet, gold, crimson, teal—all exploding behind Ethan like fireworks from another world.
And Ethan...
He stood there, shirtless now, bathed in luminous color. His skin shimmered under the lights, as if every emotion sung had been carved into him, etched into his very being.
He looked untouchable. Enchanting. Like a warrior, a saint, a god of music and flame.
And the beat began to build...
That's when the screaming returned. Deafening. Joyful. Wild.
Girls shouted his name with tear-stained cheeks. Boys, too. The ground shook beneath their feet.
And they all knew—every single person in that stadium—that the show was only just beginning.
Rachel was still holding someone—someone she didn't know—but she couldn't move just yet. Her eyes were locked forward, drinking in every detail like it was sacred.
There he was. Ethan.
The lights had caught his body perfectly. From this angle, she could see the soft gleam of sweat that ran down the thin lines of his chest, catching the low light like streaks of liquid gold. His shirt was gone now, tossed somewhere behind him, and though Ethan wasn't jacked, he didn't need to be. His lean, toned frame looked like it had been sculpted just for this moment.
Every muscle moved with intent. Every movement of his arm, every stretch of his neck—Rachel could see the thin veins under his skin, the lines of his collarbone, the way the light made him look otherworldly. There was heat in how he looked. Not just from the sweat glistening on his body, but in his presence—how he owned the stage like it belonged to him.
Then, the soft, delicate plucking of a ukulele drifted into the air.
Some fans shrieked immediately—"Riptide!" they screamed—but Rachel couldn't even think. She was still staring. Still fixated.
"Wow," she breathed, not even realizing she said it aloud.
A voice answered her, just by her side.
"It's crazy, right?"
Rachel blinked, suddenly realizing she was still in a hug—an actual embrace—with someone she had no memory of connecting with. The emotional storm from the last song had pulled them all into each other. She pulled back quickly.
"Oh! I'm sorry," she said, awkwardly.
The girl she'd been holding was smiling. Bright, open, radiant.
"It's fine, really. I held you, too. And it's not like you were a bad hold," she laughed.
Rachel gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
The girl leaned closer, eyes still fixed on Ethan.
"Lord knows, if I wasn't gay, I'd be so into that."
Rachel's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but then she followed the girl's gaze and realized she meant Ethan. Of course.
"Oh," Rachel said.
"Yeah. He's dreamy, isn't he?" the girl added, still watching him.
Onstage, Ethan was grinning ear to ear. The song's rhythm had picked up, and he was dancing—no, flailing, really. His arms moved like waves, sometimes on beat, sometimes not. He looked like he was just having fun, lost in it all, no choreography, just motion and music. He was pure freedom.
Rachel smiled.
"Dreamy? He's... breathtaking. It's not even fair," the girl said with a laugh.
As a hardcore fan, Rachel already knew this. But even if she hadn't been, she would've said the same. Ethan Jones wasn't just famous. He was beautiful. His golden-blond hair fluttered with each movement, catching light like strands of silk. His beauty tiptoed over the edge of femininity in the most mesmerizing way. As an anime fan, Rachel had once thought if his hair were white, he could be the real-life version of Griffith from Berserk. That image had only grown stronger tonight.
"Ooo look! He's coming here!" the girl beside her suddenly said.
Rachel snapped forward—and there he was.
Ethan had wandered over to their side of the VIP stands, still singing, still smiling. His sweat-slicked chest shimmered under the lights. And he was close. So close. The crowd tightened, people moving forward. The atmosphere surged with excitement.
Then Ethan stopped.
He was looking at someone. Not the crowd—someone specific.
A girl in the front row. African-American. Stunning. She was wearing a sequined top and had soft curls that glinted in the lights. She looked like a painting brought to life.
And Ethan was singing to her.
His voice softened, the playful energy giving way to something far more tender. The uke kept playing, but now his voice—clear and intimate—took center stage. He leaned forward slightly, eyes still on the girl.
"I swear she's destined for the screen Closest thing to Michelle Pfeiffer that you've ever seen, oh..."
Rachel's breath caught. Ethan's tone was lighter now, more fragile, like a confessional.
"Lady, runnin' down to the riptide Taken away to the dark side I wanna be your left-hand man I love you when you're singin' that song And I got a lump in my throat 'cause You're gonna sing the words wrong..."
He sang like she was the only person there.
The girl stared up at him, lips parted, eyes wide. His hand rose—slowly—and for a moment, it looked like he was going to touch her face. But he stopped, hovering just short of contact, then pulled back, offering the softest smile.
And then he turned.
Back to the rest of the crowd.
"Oh lady, runnin' down to the riptide Taken away to the dark side..."
The energy surged again.
Ethan danced, voice rising. The crowd screamed back the words, hands up, bodies swaying. He was singing to everyone now.
And the entire stadium sang with him.
Rachel, still dazed from the breathtaking moment she'd just witnessed, found her gaze lingering on the girl Ethan had sung to. A quiet, awestruck whisper escaped her lips: "So lucky." There was something magical in the way he'd looked at her—like the rest of the world had faded, and in that fleeting moment, only she existed to him.
But before Rachel could drift deeper into her thoughts, she noticed movement—saw the girl weaving through the VIP crowd, waving excitedly, eyes lit with pure disbelief. Rachel blinked, startled, realizing she was heading straight toward her.
"Did you see? Did you see?!" the girl squealed breathlessly, her words tumbling out in a mix of adrenaline and joy. Rachel turned instinctively, expecting someone behind her, but it became clear—the girl was talking to her.
Moments later, the girl Rachel had hugged during the earlier song appeared behind her, grinning from ear to ear. "I saw, I saw!" she laughed, and just like that, the two girls—the girl from the stage, and the one who'd shared a silent embrace with Rachel—were reunited in a tight, elated hug.
"Oh God," the girl Ethan had serenaded gasped, jumping slightly as emotion burst out of her. "He's just so—ahh! I can't believe he did that. I couldn't even remember to record it—oh Lord, what do I do?" Panic began to sneak into her voice, cutting through the euphoria.
But the second girl, still glowing with happiness, chuckled and took her by the shoulders. "Celeste, just calm down. There are probably thousands of videos already online. We'll find them—don't worry." Her voice was grounding, like a hand reaching out in the wind.
She continued, more softly now, eyes warm. "The main thing is, you enjoyed it. You got something most people only dream of—a once-in-a-lifetime experience. That's what matters."
Celeste, the girl Ethan had sung to, mumbled a shy, barely-there, "I guess," while trying to suppress a giddy smile.
The other girl laughed again, then turned to Rachel with a little bow of her head. "Where are my manners? After that hug, the least I can do is introduce myself. I'm Moon—and this is my girlfriend, Celeste."
Celeste gave a soft wave. "Hi."
Rachel smiled, heart full. "Hi. I'm Rachel Zhao. It was really nice meeting you both, but I should get back to my friends now. They'll be worried."
She said it gently, with kindness. She wasn't trying to escape; she just knew she belonged with her girls for what was coming next.
Moon nodded. "Totally understandable. It was lovely meeting you too."
Rachel turned and began making her way through the sea of people. Thankfully, the VIP area was a bit more breathable—less of a crush. She could move without being swept away, and in the gentle glow of stage lights and starlike flashlights, she spotted her friends.
Mariam was the first to see her, eyes wide. "Where were you?!"
Rachel reached them and immediately found herself wrapped in a warm group hug as they all began to speak over one another:
"We were looking for you!" "You just disappeared!" "We thought we lost you!"
Rachel just held them tighter. "I'm here now. I'm here."
And they stayed like that—arms intertwined, swaying slightly, safe in each other's presence. In that embrace, 20 minutes seemed to drift by like a dream.
Then, a single spotlight appeared.
It found Ethan.
He was standing alone now, center stage, bathed in a soft, silver glow that made his golden hair shimmer like threads of sunlight in moonlight. The stadium seemed to inhale collectively, holding its breath as the first notes of the next song began to rise.
Rachel felt her heart pause, then beat in rhythm to the slow tempo that followed.
Ethan's voice came in—low, gentle, aching.
Could you find a way to let me down slowly?
A little sympathy, I hope you can show me
If you wanna go, then I'll be so lonely
If you're leaving, baby, let me down slowly…
The crowd was quiet now. Not silent—but tender, reverent. Thousands upon thousands of people, some with their eyes closed, others gently swaying, arms around friends, lovers, strangers.
Rachel and her friends stood together, arms wrapped around each other's waists and shoulders, their heads resting against one another. They sang too—softly. The lyrics wrapping around them like a warm blanket of memory and meaning.
Let me down, down, let me down, down…
The sound of the audience blended with Ethan's voice until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. This wasn't just a concert anymore. It was communion. Catharsis. A collective cry and a tender release.
Then, as Ethan reached the final haunting line—
If you're leaving, baby, let me down slowly…
—the light on him began to fade.
Bit by bit.
Until there was nothing.
No music.
No voice.
No light.
Just silence.
For a heartbeat.
Then two.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd—clapping.
One person.
Then another.
And then it spread like wildfire.
The applause burst forward like sunlight after a storm, breaking through the silence with roaring waves of gratitude and awe. Whistling joined in. Cheers. Shouts. Tears. Smiles.
Rachel and her friends clapped too—clapped until their palms ached.
And the lights slowly came back on.
Ethan was still standing there.
His head was bowed, his golden locks hanging over his face, hiding his expression. He hadn't moved. But the crowd was on its feet now—more than 70,000 people, all of them clapping for him.
Applauding not just a performance, but an experience. A memory. A moment in time they would never forget. Many would later say it was the greatest concert of their lives.
Rachel stood there with her friends, overwhelmed with emotion. She wasn't crying, but she could have. Something inside her chest felt cracked open. Hope was there. The hope they'd all fought for. A hope that, through music and unity, there could still be something pure. Something beautiful.
And then—
Ethan looked up.
Slowly.
He brought the microphone to his lips. The crowd instantly quieted again.
He smiled—just barely, his expression soft.
And with a voice that was tender and raw, he whispered into the mic:
"Thank you… and goodnight, Iowa."
The place erupted.
Because in that moment, they all knew they had witnessed something more than just a show.
They had lived it.
Together.