The hour that followed Ethan's unexpected departure was a strange mixture of joy and longing. The backstage area was alive with music, golden lighting, and the soft chatter of VIPs soaking in the once-in-a-lifetime experience. But for Rachel, Mariam, Jasmine, and Jumana, the air still tasted bittersweet.
They walked through the exclusive zones slowly, soaking in the sights. The section was reserved for Very Very Important Guests only—a title they had earned after pulling strings, saving up, and booking their tickets from Dubai months in advance. It was glamorous. Velvet ropes divided areas where artists had walked just moments ago. There were white leather couches scattered around, with gold-rimmed coffee tables and mocktails being passed around in tall crystal flutes.
"Okay, but this mocktail?" Jumana said, holding up a glowing, lime-green drink, "This is giving luxury."
Rachel offered a half-smile. "It's good," she said, sipping her own but barely tasting it.
On any other day, they'd be gushing, taking a hundred pictures, dancing. But today, all they could think about was the boy who had slipped through their fingers.
Their legs carried them from corner to corner. Mariam was the first to spot the exclusive merchandise stall. "Yo, girls! Come, come, come!" she called excitedly.
They rushed over and found themselves in front of a stunning display. The shelves were packed with limited edition items—signed vinyls, hoodies from the tour that glowed under UV light, and a special edition perfume line inspired by Ethan's latest album. Behind the glass counter were boxes labeled: EJ VVIP Experience Gift Box.
"I heard only twenty of these were made," Rachel said in awe, running her fingers across the gold-embossed lettering.
They opened their own boxes with care, their eyes wide like children on Christmas morning. Inside each one was an Ethan-branded hoodie, a handwritten note—copied, but still—printed to look like a personal thank-you from Ethan himself, and a sealed envelope.
Jasmine tore hers open first and let out a small shriek. "An autographed card! Legit!"
Mariam was already taking selfies with hers. "Okay, maybe we didn't get to talk to him," she said. "But we got his signature. That's not nothing."
"Yeah," Jumana nodded. "And we got all this. For free. Just for being VVIP."
They laughed, snapped more photos, and for a while, it felt like they were just regular fangirls living the dream. For a while, it was enough. But only just.
They kept walking, passing another booth where photo-ops had been set up. One corner had a fake stage background, and a few staff members were ushering girls over.
Rachel was already distracted, scanning every face in the room like she was still searching for something.
"Oh my God! Ethan!" Jumana gasped.
They all turned.
And there he was—or so they thought.
A tall figure stood with his back turned, hoodie up, head down. The girls rushed forward, only to skid to a stop as the figure turned slowly.
A wax statue.
A very realistic wax statue, with a professionally staged background and a camera set up beside it.
"Come, come!" said a cheerful photographer. "I'll snap you with Ethan!"
Rachel blinked, too stunned to react.
"No, you will not," Jasmine said flatly, folding her arms.
Mariam and Jumana, meanwhile, were already laughing, dragging Rachel along.
"C'mon, we've come this far. Might as well," Jumana chuckled.
Before long, the trio stood beside the statue, posing. Rachel reluctantly joined them. The flash clicked. A fake moment, but one they'd remember.
Now walking down the dimly lit street outside the venue, Jasmine broke the silence, her voice incredulous.
"I can't believe you guys took that picture with the wax statue," she said, shaking her head, eyes wide.
"You say that now," Mariam replied, scrolling through her gallery, "but watch when I post this online with just the right filter. People are gonna believe I met him."
"Exactly," Jumana added with a smirk. "Let them talk. Even if it was a statue, it looked more real than the guy who left us hanging."
Rachel was quiet. She hadn't said much since leaving the venue. Her fingers were idly scrolling through the photos on her phone too, but her eyes didn't focus.
"Besides," Mariam continued, "We were lucky. That VIP box? Not everyone got one. We were this close to his autograph. That's more than most people can say."
Jasmine slowed her pace slightly, her hands curling into small fists at her side. Her brows furrowed.
"You guys are seriously okay with this?" she said suddenly.
Everyone turned to her.
"You're really just going to accept that we travelled across the world—from Dubai—for a wax statue and a printed note?" Her voice cracked slightly, her frustration flaring. "Rachel…"
Rachel looked up, blinking as if woken from a trance.
Jasmine turned to her, stepping in front of her gently. "What about that speech you gave? About never giving up. What happened to that fire? To the girl who had us all fired up? Who said we couldn't give up after everything?"
Rachel's expression crumpled just a bit. Her lips parted, her voice soft and hoarse.
"I guess… I guess we won't see him."
She looked down at the pavement, her shoulders sagging.
Mariam sighed, rubbing Rachel's arm. "Hey, at least we got the box, right? That counts for something."
"Don't worry," Jumana added, trying to sound cheerful. "We'll come again. Next time, we'll make sure it happens. All of us."
Jasmine nodded slowly, glancing at the street. "Yeah… I mean, it's getting late. My aunt's probably already waiting."
She was about to agree, to finally let go of the night, when she raised her head and caught sight of something.
A line of large buses.
Security staff stood flanking them. Crew members moved in and out quickly, some holding clipboards, others talking into walkie-talkies. A man in sunglasses guided another girl into one of the buses while two security guards watched nearby. Everything about the scene screamed "VIP transport." Something important was happening.
Jasmine's eyes widened.
"No…" she breathed, a glint flashing across her gaze.
She turned back to the others, her voice laced with renewed energy.
"No. We are going to see Ethan."
The city lights shimmered outside the concert venue, their glow casting a golden haze over the backstage area that was slowly emptying. Most of the guests had left, and security was now more focused on organizing the remaining staff and breaking down stage equipment than monitoring the areas behind the venue. And it was exactly that shift in priority that Jasmine had been counting on.
"Jasmine, this is a very, very bad idea," Mariam hissed in a low whisper, clutching the edge of her abaya and glancing nervously around the darkened alleyway they had slipped into.
"Like, extremely bad," Jumana added, her voice trembling slightly. She tugged at Jasmine's hoodie sleeve, trying to pull her back. "Do you realize this could end with us getting arrested? Or worse, banned from ever seeing Ethan again?"
Jasmine didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed on a row of blacked-out buses lined along the far end of the service lane. The kind of luxury buses only a celebrity would travel in. She pointed to them like a general pointing to a battleground.
"He's there. I'm telling you, Ethan's on one of those buses. I can feel it."
Rachel, who had been mostly silent, still crushed under the weight of the earlier disappointment, finally lifted her head. Her voice was small but certain.
"Actually... that one on the end—it's Ethan's. I saw the tag on the rear license plate when we were exiting. Same initials that were on the backstage schedule. E.J plus i have seen videos of his bus i am sure it's that one." She blinked rapidly, then looked at Jasmine. "You really think we can do this?"
Jasmine turned to her, a fire in her eyes that hadn't dimmed since the show ended. "We've come this far. We missed him by a heartbeat. I'm not walking away when he's literally twenty steps from us."
Mariam groaned. "This is how all horror stories start. You know, group of friends sneak into an area they're not supposed to be in..."
Jumana nodded solemnly. "Next thing you know, poof, the end."
"Girls," Jasmine said, stopping and looking at them all. "We've walked through fire together. We've flown from Dubai. We've cried, we've laughed, we've even hugged a wax statue. And you're telling me we're giving up because a security guard might yell at us?"
Rachel couldn't help but let out a small laugh at that. Jumana cracked a smile too.
"Fine," Mariam said reluctantly. "But if I get tackled by a six-foot guard, I'm haunting all of you. Forever."
They crouched low, sticking to the walls, careful not to make noise. Every time a security staff member passed in the distance, they held their breaths and pressed themselves against the cold concrete like action movie heroes.
At one point, they had to cross a narrow path behind a catering truck. Just as Jasmine stepped forward, the truck door slid open and a man in a hairnet stepped out holding a box of leftover pastries.
"What are you girls doing here?" he asked, blinking.
"Umm... we're the pastry inspectors?" Jumana blurted.
The man squinted, shrugged, and walked away muttering about how this concert gig never made sense.
"That was too close," Mariam whispered.
They darted past stage rigging, dodged mop buckets, and even slipped behind a stack of folded chairs where a couple of security guards were smoking and arguing about who had the worst shift.
As they approached the line of tour buses, the chatter and noise faded into a heavy silence broken only by the sound of their sneakers on the gravel.
"That one," Rachel pointed again. "See the gold star near the front wheel? That was on Ethan's sugar video. It's him."
They inched closer, barely breathing. A soft glow came from inside the bus—warm, golden, inviting. It spilled faintly through the tinted windows. It wasn't loud or chaotic. It was calm. Peaceful. And in that calm, they found their excitement returning.
Jumana clutched her chest. "Oh my God, what if he's actually inside? Like right now? What do we even say?"
Rachel, whose heart had already been through an emotional marathon, suddenly began to panic. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "What if he calls the cops? What if he thinks we're stalkers or bans us from his events? What if—"
Jasmine placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. "Calm down. Take a breath. You've come this far. Don't fall apart now. He's just a person. A person we adore, sure, but a person. We're not criminals. We're fans."
Mariam muttered, "Illegal fans."
"Semantics," Jasmine replied, brushing her off.
They reached the side of the bus. The engine was off, but the faint hum of electricity inside told them it was powered up. The curtains on the front windows were mostly drawn, except for a small gap. Through it, a shadow moved.
Jumana squealed and grabbed Mariam's arm. "He's in there. That's him. I saw the hoodie."
Mariam gasped. "I saw it too!"
Rachel's hands were trembling. She reached up slowly, each second stretching endlessly. Her knuckles hovered above the metal of the door.
"Okay... okay... I'm going to do it," she whispered, more to herself than the others.
"We believe in you," Jumana said, now completely invested despite earlier protests.
"Knock gently," Mariam advised. "We're trying to meet him, not scare him."
Rachel took a deep breath. Her heart pounded so loud she thought Ethan might hear it through the door. Just as her hand moved to knock—
A voice rang out from behind them.
"Who are you?"
They froze.
The voice was firm. Sharp. Unfamiliar and commanding