The final chord lingered in the air before dissolving into applause. Mirabelle smiled as the sound washed over her—warm, familiar, and full of life. The small crowd surrounding her clapped enthusiastically, a few cheering while others raised their phones to capture the moment. With a graceful bow, she rose from her stool and carefully placed her guitar into its case.
The afternoon had been perfect—clear skies, a soft breeze, and the cheerful chatter of her regular listeners. But today, a quiet excitement stirred beneath her usual composure.
"Belle, you're packing up early," Mae called from the front row, concern softening her features. "Everything alright?"
Mirabelle glanced up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek and smiling apologetically. "I'm fine! It's just—" she paused, her excitement breaking through her composure, "—EON's concert is tonight."
The small crowd gasped and then burst into laughter. Everyone knew.
"Of course it is," Elias said from his seat near the fountain, shaking his head with a grin. "Go on then, Miss Number One Fan."
A student clutching a coffee cup and phone grinned. "You'll probably lose your voice again from cheering too hard, won't you?"
Mirabelle laughed as she fastened the latches on her guitar case. "Maybe," she admitted with a grin. "But that's part of the fun."
Playful groans and chuckles followed. "Lucky you," one woman sighed dramatically. "I could only afford the livestream ticket."
Mirabelle smiled kindly. "Then I'll scream twice as loud for you."
She waved as she left, their laughter chasing after her through the plaza. Once she turned the corner, her pace quickened. Her driver was already waiting beside a sleek black limousine parked discreetly by the curb.
"Good afternoon, Miss Terania," he greeted with a slight bow, opening the door.
"Straight to the tower, please," Mirabelle said as she slipped inside.
The city blurred past the tinted windows, sunlight streaking across glass and steel. She could hardly sit still, the thrill of what was coming making her pulse quicken. When the limousine reached the private high-rise, she stepped out and boarded the waiting helicopter on the rooftop. Within minutes, it lifted into the sky, carrying her toward the glittering heart of the metropolis where EON's concert venue shone like a jewel in the dark.
By the time she arrived, night had fully descended. The air vibrated with excitement; the crowd outside pulsed like a living wave of color and sound. Thousands streamed through the gates, their lightsticks glowing in gold and silver. Mirabelle found her seat in the middle section, surrounded by fans just as eager as she was. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation; strangers smiled at each other like old friends, united by shared devotion.
When the lights dimmed, the roar that followed was deafening. The screens flared to life with flashes of rain, fire, and starlight. Then, one by one, the members of EON appeared.
Luca was first—graceful, magnetic, every movement perfectly controlled. His dancing seemed to breathe life into the rhythm itself. Luca, the pulse of the group, Mirabelle thought, her grin widening. He doesn't just dance—he commands the rhythm itself.
Next came Theo, seated at a grand piano that glided across the stage. His fingers moved like water, weaving melodies that shimmered through the arena. Theo, the mind of EON, she thought fondly. You can hear his soul in every note he writes.
Then Jace bounded into view, pure energy and sunlight. "How are you tonight?" he shouted, his laughter echoing as the crowd screamed in reply. Mirabelle clapped along, smiling. Jace, the heart. He never forgets how to make us feel seen.
Cassian followed, poised and elegant, his subtle smile sending the arena into chaos. Every camera adored him. His voice, deep and steady, grounded their harmonies. Cassian, the anchor, she thought proudly. He carries the grace of the whole group. And my cousin. She cheered even louder.
And then, the lights dimmed once more. A single spotlight cut through the haze. Noah Rolston stepped forward. The arena exploded into screaming. The screens behind him blazed gold, framing him like a figure carved from light. He wore black and silver; each movement caught the glow. His expression was calm yet piercing—the kind of focus that silenced everything else.
Mirabelle's breath caught. No matter how many times she saw him on stage, the sight of him still left her in awe. Noah Rolston, she thought, her heart thrumming. The architect of perfection. The man who turns music into devotion. Every word he sings sounds like a promise the universe keeps.
He began the first verse, his voice low and resonant, drawing the audience into stillness. Then the others joined, harmonizing in seamless unity. Lights swept across the crowd like waves of starlight, and Mirabelle raised her lightstick, cheering until her throat burned.
Between songs, Noah's gaze swept over the audience, measuring its rhythm, reading its energy. But this time, his eyes lingered a little longer on the middle section. For just a moment, his expression softened.
Mirabelle didn't notice. She was too caught up in the moment, singing and laughing with everyone around her. When the crowd screamed as Noah smiled, she joined right in, her joy pure and unguarded.
Every so often, Noah's gaze drifted back to that same spot—Mirabelle's spot—and his satisfaction deepened. Tonight, he knew exactly where she was seated. He had asked Nigel to confirm it earlier that afternoon—just a quiet inquiry buried among the usual logistics. He asked about her ticket number, her section, even the time she had arrived—nothing invasive, just enough information to recognize her in the crowd when the lights went down.
But for Mirabelle, it was blissful ignorance. She was lost in the music, swept up in the beauty of sound and light and the shared heartbeat of thousands. When Noah hit the high notes, the entire arena seemed to rise with him, and Mirabelle's heart soared. He's truly incredible.
By the final encore, her cheeks ached from smiling. Confetti filled the air. She pressed her hands to her chest, her eyes bright with pride and love. I'm so proud of him, she thought. He deserves every bit of this.
This was how she wanted to love him—quietly, selflessly, without asking to be seen. Watching him from afar, knowing she had once been part of his beginning, was enough. She could love him this way, as a fan among thousands—grateful just to witness his dream fulfilled.
And from the stage above, Noah sang toward the glow of her section, his smile faint but certain—a quiet smile meant for one person who didn't know it was hers.