Shawn Mendes Imagines

Spotlights & Promises

(p.s. sorry for being inactive) IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE AT THE END, PLS PLS DONT SKIP!!!!

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The atmosphere had shifted the moments the lights dimmed. Every heart jumped a beat, every pale eye widened, every breath became unsteady and everyone's adrenaline rushed through their veins all at once.

Elbows were pressed into your back, your body shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone and everyone close by, skin stressed against theirs like tangled vines yearning for the sun.

You, too, could hardly contain your excitement. Spotlights circled the arena for a long while before landing on something in the distance, a tall, dark figure, looking small and frail from far away.

You bite your lip and suppress a grin, the volume of the screeches and squeals of the place increasing with every step he took closer to the center stage.

You hold your breath as he walks, careful not to seem to eager, but desperate enough to blend in. You could see the contours of his face as he approaches, the light hitting him like a thousand needles.

His hair was loose, shaggy, sweeping across his forehead and shaping his face. He held his guitar by the neck, his lean figure fragile, like the impact of walking should have shattered him.

Slowly, he pushes his face towards the microphone and says four simple words that make the entire stadium go ten times more insane than they already were.

"Good evening, Los Angeles!"

Even though you had seen him perform countless times, each show felt like the first, each crowd different-- and you could see it in his eyes, too.

"You look beautiful, LA," he exhales, gazing out at the crowd huddled before him, lights twinkling, hands reaching out for him in the front row where you stood. It was roughly a sea of chaos, but all he could see was the beauty of it.

You could tell he was searching for you, but waving, jumping up and down, trying to get his attention-- it was no use. That's what everyone else, all two-hundred thousand of them, were attempting to do just as well.

He swallows, the toe of his black leather boot digging into the ground of the dusty stage.

"I'm going to start by singing one of my favorite songs off of Handwritten," he says, his voice slightly shaky. He explained to you once how you never grow used to speaking in front of a crowd that large; when every single one of them was taking in each word like cool, clean water to a dry mouth. "I hope you like it, this is Never Be Alone."

The screams crescendo once again, and you wrap your arms around your torso, trying to feel smaller.

This song was about you.

He begins singing, and you slightly hum along to each word, hearing the way his angelic voice grazes over each note without missing one. He looked glamorous in this setting, all the lights, yet the darkness casting a shadow over his body like a blanket.

As the song was coming to an end, the last chorus starting, you were taken by surprise when Shawn-- all of a sudden-- stops singing, stops playing. Looks of confusion washed over every face, especially yours. He was just standing there, staring straight ahead. You couldn't decide what he was doing, or why.