No matter what country, the love our fans have is absolutely

Host: The night was thick with electric air, the kind that hums before the curtain lifts. Outside the stadium, thousands of lights blinked like a restless constellation — fans holding their phones high, faces painted with the colors of devotion. Their voices, layered in shouts and laughter, rolled like a living wave across the city blocks.

Inside, in a dimly lit backstage room, the energy was different — tighter, quieter, pulsing beneath the surface like the heartbeat of an approaching storm. The faint thump of bass lines bled through the concrete walls.

Jack sat slouched on a bench, tuning an old guitar, his fingers moving with mechanical grace. The cords of his neck stood tense, his expression sharp but tired. Across from him, Jeeny stood before a cracked mirror, adjusting her headset, her eyes shimmering with a quiet kind of excitement.

Host: The air between them was filled with unspoken questions — about meaning, about fame, about the fragile truth behind the thunder of applause.

Jeeny: “You know, Moa Kikuchi once said, ‘No matter what country, the love our fans have is absolutely amazing and we are so lucky to have so much support from them.’” (She smiled faintly, her voice both soft and certain.) “That kind of gratitude… it’s rare. And real.”

Jack: (snorts lightly) “Gratitude? Or obligation? You say it’s love, but it’s a transaction, Jeeny. They adore you because they don’t know you. They project themselves onto the stage lights and call it connection.”

Host: The guitar hummed under his fingers, a single discordant note trembling through the air before fading. Jeeny turned slowly, her hair falling like black silk against the silver shimmer of her jacket.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve forgotten what that connection feels like. Have you ever seen the faces in the crowd, Jack? The ones who cry, who sing every word back at you like it’s prayer? You can’t fake that. You can’t buy it.”

Jack: “I’ve seen those faces. I’ve seen them outside hotels at dawn, waiting in the cold just to get a glimpse of something they built in their heads. It’s not love, Jeeny — it’s projection. The fans don’t fall in love with you. They fall in love with the idea of you.”

Host: A drip from a nearby pipe echoed softly, like a metronome keeping time with their argument.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But does that make it less real? Every love begins as an idea before it becomes something human. Maybe what they love isn’t me, but what I represent — hope, courage, escape. Isn’t that still something worth being grateful for?”

Jack: “Hope wrapped in a concert ticket? Escape that ends the moment the lights go out? Tell me, Jeeny, when they leave the arena — when the glitter fades — do you think they still feel that love? Or do they just scroll to the next idol?”

Jeeny: “And what if they do? Even a moment of joy can matter. You think it’s temporary, but sometimes a single night can change a life. I remember when I was fifteen, standing in a crowd at a small festival — I didn’t know who I was until I saw that band play. It wasn’t just music. It was recognition — someone saying, ‘You belong here too.’”

Host: Jack stopped tuning. His hands stilled over the strings. His eyes softened for the briefest second before he masked it with a smirk.

Jack: “You always were sentimental.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you always pretend not to be.”

Host: A faint chuckle escaped him, low and unguarded. But the weight of his cynicism soon returned, as steady as the hum of amplifiers through the walls.

Jack: “You talk about belonging, but it’s an illusion, Jeeny. The fans belong to the fantasy, not to you. That’s why idols burn out — because the love they get isn’t for them, it’s for what they symbolize. You start living for that mirror reflection, and eventually, it devours you.”

Jeeny: “You think too much in absolutes, Jack. You see poison where there’s perfume. Sure, fame can twist things — but there’s truth in those lights too. When fans across countries, languages, and borders sing the same song together — that’s unity. That’s love, even if it’s fleeting.”

Host: The door opened slightly; a crew member poked his head in — “Five minutes till showtime.” Jeeny nodded without looking away from Jack.

Jack: “Unity built on sound bites and strobe lights. The kind of unity that disappears once the Wi-Fi’s gone.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t all connection fragile? Even love, Jack — especially love. But fragile doesn’t mean false. Think of Live Aid in ‘85 — millions connected by one cause, one rhythm, one pulse. For those few hours, the world felt smaller. Real. That’s what Moa means — love beyond boundaries.”

Host: Jack looked up, surprised. For a man so anchored in skepticism, something about her words stirred him.

Jack: “So you think fandom equals faith?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Faith is belief in something you can’t touch — and that’s what music is. That’s what we are for them. A voice when they can’t speak. A heartbeat when they’ve lost their own rhythm.”

Host: Her eyes glistened under the dim bulb, the kind of light that turns sincerity into something sacred.

Jack: “But don’t you ever feel trapped by it? The expectation, the endless gratitude you’re supposed to perform? Sometimes it feels like worship — and worship always turns people into gods or ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “Sometimes I feel both.”

Host: Silence fell — not the comfortable kind, but the heavy, human kind that reveals more than words ever could. The sound of distant cheering surged like a tidal wave outside the walls.

Jeeny: “But even ghosts can guide. Even gods can love. We stand under those lights because they reflect what the fans already carry inside them. We just give it a melody.”

Jack: “And what about us? When the music stops?”

Jeeny: “Then we listen. To them. To each other. The gratitude keeps us alive, Jack. It reminds us that love — even when it’s noisy, messy, commercial — still connects. It crosses oceans, languages, and loneliness.”

Host: The speaker outside boomed, announcing their names. The crowd’s roar erupted, shaking the floor beneath their feet. Jeeny straightened her shoulders. Jack exhaled deeply, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the guitar.

Jack: (softly) “You really believe in them, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because somehow, they still believe in us.”

Host: She reached out, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, all the tension melted — two performers caught in the fragile stillness before the storm of applause.

Jack: “Then let’s go give them what they came for.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Let’s give them what we came for — connection.”

Host: The door swung open. The lights from the stage burst through the darkness like dawn breaking. The sound of the crowd was deafening — yet, within it, there was something pure, almost tender.

They walked side by side toward the stage, the glow wrapping around them in gold and crimson.

Jack glanced once more at Jeeny as they stepped into the light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this — all of it — is real, even if it’s built on illusion.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Because love always is.”

Host: The music hit — the first chord slicing through the air like lightning. Thousands of voices rose as one, the echo of human devotion stretching across borders, cities, and hearts.

From the back of the stage, it looked less like a crowd and more like a galaxy — each light, each face, a testament to the strange miracle of connection.

And in that moment, as the song began and the voices soared, there was no illusion, no cynicism — only the pure, astonishing truth that love, in whatever form it takes, still finds its way through the noise.