I met Porter Robinson in, like, 2016 at Shaky Beats after one of

Host: The night pulsed with light and sound. A sea of bodies swayed beneath the open sky, drenched in the glow of a thousand LEDs that flickered like digital stars. The air was thick with bass, sweat, and the raw electricity of youth that believed, if only for a night, that the world could still be infinite.

A faint mist hung over the festival grounds, catching the flashes of color from the stage. The crowd was thinning now—the headliner’s last note still echoing somewhere between the speakers and the stars.

Jack and Jeeny stood by the metal barriers, the music still humming in their bones. The ground was littered with glow sticks, paper cups, and fragments of euphoria that no one wanted to sweep away.

Jeeny: (breathless, still glowing from the show) “Do you know what Chandler Riggs once said? ‘I met Porter Robinson in, like, 2016 at Shaky Beats… we said hi really quick, and it was the best 30 seconds of my life.’” (She laughs softly, her voice trembling with nostalgia.) “It sounds so silly, doesn’t it? But I get it. Moments like that can mean everything.”

Jack: (half-smiling, shaking his head) “Everything? Thirty seconds of small talk with a DJ? Come on, Jeeny.”

Host: The bass from a distant tent still thumped faintly, like a heartbeat echoing across the emptying field. Jack’s grey eyes reflected the dying neon lights, sharp but tired.

Jeeny: “It’s not about the seconds, Jack. It’s about what they hold. Sometimes one small moment can hold an entire childhood.”

Jack: “Or just a well-packaged illusion. These artists, they’re icons because we make them that way. You meet them and realize—they’re just people with microphones and better lighting.”

Jeeny: (turning to face him) “That’s exactly why it matters. They remind us that even gods are human. When someone’s music saves you, you don’t meet a celebrity—you meet a version of yourself that survived.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of rain and smoke. The stage screens went dark, leaving the world briefly in half-shadow. Jeeny’s eyes caught the last shimmer of light, glowing with something deeper than fandom—something like faith.

Jack: “Faith. That’s what this is for you, isn’t it? Not music, not art—faith in other people’s ability to mean something. But what if it’s all projection? What if you only worship what you want to see?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Then maybe projection is just the universe’s way of reminding us we’re still capable of wonder.”

Host: Her words lingered in the humid air. Around them, a few stragglers still danced barefoot in the mud, laughing like children who hadn’t yet learned what regret felt like.

Jeeny: “When I was sixteen, I listened to Porter Robinson’s Worlds on repeat. Every night. That album carried me through the loneliest parts of growing up. When he sang about trying to be human again, I felt like someone had looked inside me and turned my ache into melody. So yeah, meeting him for 30 seconds meant everything. It was proof the person who saved me was real.”

Jack: “Saved you? That’s a heavy word for an artist who doesn’t even know you exist.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need someone to know you for them to touch you. Van Gogh never knew the people his paintings healed. Neither did Bowie, or Elliott Smith. You think impact requires interaction, but art works like light, Jack. It travels across time, hits you when you least expect it, and by the time it does—the source might already be gone.”

Host: A faint gust swept through, rippling Jeeny’s hair like dark ink in the wind. Jack looked away, his expression unreadable, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.

Jack: “You’re talking about art like it’s divine intervention. But it’s just sound waves. Electricity. Software. Autotune and reverb.”

Jeeny: “And stars are just gas, right? But look how much they mean to you when you stand under them.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You always do that—turn logic into poetry.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe because life makes more sense when it sings.”

Host: The crowd noise had thinned to murmurs now. Crew members moved like ghosts across the stage, coiling cables and gathering discarded dreams. The festival’s glow had dimmed, but the energy still clung to the air—electric, restless, human.

Jack: “You know, I used to think moments like that were overrated. That meeting your heroes only ruined the magic. But… maybe I was wrong. Maybe the real magic is realizing they’re just as lost as you are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about worship—it’s about connection. For a moment, the distance between stage and crowd disappears. You’re both just… alive. That’s what Chandler meant when he said it was amazing. For thirty seconds, time stopped.”

Jack: “Thirty seconds of borrowed meaning.”

Jeeny: “Thirty seconds of proof that meaning exists.”

Host: The sky cracked faintly—a low rumble of thunder rolling through the clouds. The air shimmered with tension, the kind that feels like the world holding its breath.

Jeeny: “When you’re young, you think meaning has to last forever. But maybe meaning’s just what happens when you feel something too big for your body to contain.”

Jack: (quietly) “And then you spend the rest of your life chasing that feeling again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe you learn that the beauty of it was its brevity. The fact that it happened at all.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated their faces—hers soft and radiant, his carved in thoughtful shadow. The thunder rolled again, gentler this time, like applause from a distant sky.

Jeeny: “You know, every generation has its gods of sound. People who make the world stop spinning for a minute. For our parents, it was The Beatles or Dylan. For us, it’s Porter, Madeon, Fred again… different instruments, same hunger.”

Jack: “The hunger for belonging.”

Jeeny: “No. The hunger to feel infinite, even if just for a song.”

Host: Jack laughed softly—a sound that carried something fragile, something almost like nostalgia.

Jack: “You really think a three-minute song can make you infinite?”

Jeeny: “No. But for three minutes, it can make you forget you’re not.”

Host: The rain began—soft, hesitant at first, then steady. The drops fell against the metal rails, the earth, their faces. Jeeny tilted her head back, laughing quietly as it soaked through her hair. Jack stayed still, his eyes closed, letting the rain wash away the tension.

Jack: “You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Two adults, standing in the rain, talking about a 30-second meeting with a DJ?”

Jeeny: (smiling through the rain) “And yet, here we are. Proof that even the smallest spark can start a conversation about the universe.”

Jack: (grinning now) “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “No. Just human.”

Host: The lights from the stage flickered one last time before shutting off completely. The festival was officially over, but something lingered—the hum of shared memory, the ghost of rhythm in their hearts.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think the reason moments like that stay with us isn’t because they’re rare. It’s because they remind us that we’re capable of awe. That we haven’t gone numb yet.”

Jack: (softly) “And that’s worth thirty seconds.”

Host: The camera panned upward. Rain blurred the lights, the field, the remnants of a generation chasing sound and meaning beneath the stars. The world shimmered with the glow of youth and memory—a brief, sacred overlap of noise and silence.

Jeeny reached for Jack’s hand. He didn’t pull away.

Host: And in that fleeting stillness, with the rain falling and the night breathing around them, they both understood:

That the miracle isn’t how long the moment lasts—
it’s that it happens at all.