It makes me feel so amazing to know there's people out here that

Host:
The arena had gone quiet, the crowd long gone, their voices still echoing faintly in the rafters — the phantom cheers of a thousand hearts that had screamed themselves raw. The stage was littered with confetti, paper hearts, and the faint shimmer of spotlight dust drifting through the air like fireflies refusing to die.

A few crew members swept the floor in silence, their brooms whispering softly against the concrete. The neon signage flickered out one by one, until only the ghostly glow of the LED screen remained, the words “Thank You, Everyone!” still pulsing faintly, like the last heartbeat of a dream.

At center stage stood Jack, still wearing his in-ear monitors, his shirt damp with sweat, his grey eyes lost somewhere between exhaustion and awe. His guitar, nicked and worn, hung loosely from his shoulder, and his hands trembled — not from fatigue, but from feeling too much.

From the front row, Jeeny climbed onto the edge of the stage, her black hair loose, her brown eyes bright with something gentler than pride. She carried a bottle of water, a quiet smile, and that unteachable calm that always arrived after chaos.

Host:
And as the lights dimmed to soft gold, Austin Mahone’s words echoed through the emptiness — not as a pop star’s press soundbite, but as a soft, trembling truth spoken by every artist who ever faced an ocean of strangers and saw, for a brief moment, something holy in their eyes:

"It makes me feel so amazing to know there's people out here that support me and follow me on Twitter and watch my shows on YouTube and come to my concert, so I'm very thankful."

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
You did it again.

Jack:
(quietly, still catching his breath)
Yeah. I guess I did.

Jeeny:
You don’t sound excited.

Jack:
It’s not that. It’s just… surreal. Standing up there, feeling all that energy — and realizing none of those people actually know you.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s not what matters. Maybe they don’t need to know you. They just need to feel something through you.

Jack:
(chuckles softly)
Yeah, maybe. Still weird, though. All those faces looking up, holding their phones like lanterns. You’d think that kind of love would fill every hole inside you. But it doesn’t. It just… amplifies the echo.

Host:
The sound techs in the background wound up cables, their voices distant, muted. The last few stage lights blinked out, one by one, leaving only a halo of light where Jack and Jeeny stood — two figures in the afterglow of noise.

Jeeny:
You sound like you’re afraid to let yourself feel proud.

Jack:
(smiles faintly)
Maybe I am. Maybe I’m scared it’ll slip away the moment I do. You spend years fighting to be seen, and when it finally happens — it feels like standing under lightning. Beautiful. Terrifying. Gone too fast.

Jeeny:
And yet you keep doing it.

Jack:
Because when the lights hit, and the music starts, for one heartbeat I actually believe I deserve to be there. That’s what Mahone meant, I think — when he said he’s thankful. It’s not about fame. It’s about permission.

Jeeny:
Permission?

Jack:
Yeah. Permission to exist. To matter in someone else’s world, even just for three minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Jeeny:
(softly)
That’s a kind of grace.

Host:
The spotlight above them flickered faintly, like a star about to fade. Outside the arena, the rain had started — soft, shimmering, rhythmic. The sound of it seeped through the roof, gentle as applause.

Jeeny:
Do you remember when you used to play to empty bars?

Jack:
(laughs quietly)
Yeah. Three people in the crowd — two bartenders and a drunk guy who thought I was the jukebox.

Jeeny:
And now you’ve got arenas. Whole oceans of strangers singing your words back to you.

Jack:
I know. That’s the part that kills me. I spent so long thinking I wasn’t enough — and then they show up, shouting my name like it means something.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s the real gift — not fame, but reflection. You give something honest to the world, and it gives you yourself back, multiplied by thousands.

Jack:
(pauses, thoughtful)
Yeah. But sometimes I wonder what happens when the music stops. When the lights go down.

Jeeny:
Then you learn who you really are — the man without the microphone.

Jack:
And if I don’t like him?

Jeeny:
Then you sing again until you do.

Host:
Her voice was calm, her words steady — the kind that landed softly but stayed heavy in the chest. The arena was dark now except for the faint glow of the EXIT sign, a final whisper of red against the shadows.

Jack set his guitar down, the soft thud echoing through the emptiness. He sat cross-legged on the stage, running a hand through his hair, sweat still glistening under the dim light.

Jack:
You know, when I was a teenager, I just wanted to be seen. That was the whole dream. To have people say my name, know my face, care about my music.

Jeeny:
And now?

Jack:
Now I just want to feel like I deserve it.

Jeeny:
That’s the part nobody tells you — that gratitude and guilt are twins. You feel thankful, but you also feel like a fraud.

Jack:
Yeah. Like every time I step onstage, I’m borrowing someone else’s life.

Jeeny:
You’re not borrowing it. You built it.

Host:
The rain outside grew heavier, turning the roof into a soft percussion. Somewhere deep in the building, a door slammed, and the echo folded into the rhythm of the storm.

Jeeny:
You know, Mahone’s quote — it sounds simple, almost naive. But there’s something pure about it. Gratitude that isn’t dressed up as humility, just… joy.

Jack:
(smiling)
Yeah. Joy without irony. I remember that. It’s rare.

Jeeny:
Maybe you should remember it more often. It’s easy to get lost in the noise — the numbers, the followers, the shows. But underneath all of it, it’s still about the people. The ones who show up, even when they don’t have to.

Jack:
And the ones who stay when the lights go out.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
A long silence settled between them — not awkward, but full of something peaceful. Outside, the city pulsed faintly through the rain — car horns distant, the world still spinning.

Jeeny leaned her head against Jack’s shoulder, the warmth of the moment grounding them both.

Jack:
You know, it’s weird. I thought gratitude was supposed to be loud — all fireworks and speeches. But right now, it just feels… quiet. Like breathing.

Jeeny:
That’s how you know it’s real. When it stops needing to be said and just becomes the space you live in.

Jack:
(sighs softly)
Yeah. Maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along. Not fame. Not noise. Just connection.

Jeeny:
And tonight — you had it.

Jack:
(quietly)
Yeah. For a few songs, at least.

Host:
She smiled, her reflection faint in the glossy black stage floor. Above them, the rafters held the last shimmer of confetti, gently drifting down like the tail end of a wish.

And in that stillness — no cameras, no applause, no crowd — Austin Mahone’s words found their final truth:

That gratitude isn’t about the numbers,
the follows, or the spotlights.

It’s about the quiet miracle of being seen,
the trembling joy of being heard,
and the simple, humbling truth
that someone, somewhere, found a piece of themselves in your song.

For in the end, fame fades —
but the echo of connection,
that fragile, human thank you,
keeps on playing
long after the last note falls silent.