Barclays Center, New York City. Sold-out show.

The crowd is already electric, lights dancing across thousands of screaming faces. Justin’s halfway through his set—sweaty, glowing, pulling the mic off the stand with that signature half-smirk that sends every girl in the front row into orbit.

Then the chords start.

“One Less Lonely Girl.”

The arena erupts.

Fans scream. Girls cry. Everyone knows what’s coming—the moment when a lucky fan is pulled onstage, sat down like royalty, and serenaded by Justin Bieber himself.

You’ve seen it a million times. From backstage. From the hotel screen. From a quiet dressing room in Tokyo when he whispered, “Every time I sing that song, I think about you.”

But tonight? You’re the one he’s singing to.

And he has no idea.

Backstage, your heart is racing.

You haven’t been on a stage since Fashion Week, and even then it was brief. You’ve been low-key, at Justin’s request and your own—photoshoots, friends-only parties, nothing public. And now here you are, minutes from stepping into screaming chaos, armed with only a velvet stool and Scooter Braun’s whispered instructions.

You peek out. He’s pacing the stage like he owns it, tugging his shirt over his shoulder, smile wide, dimples showing, hyping the crowd like he hasn’t sung this a hundred times before.

And then it happens.

“Where’s tonight’s One Less Lonely Girl at?” He grins into the mic. “Where she at?!”

His team pretends to scan the crowd, security making a show of stepping forward. The fans scream louder, phones held up like weapons.

Then the lights shift.

You walk out.

At first, he doesn’t register it’s you. You’re backlit, in a hoodie and fitted jeans, hair in a high bun, casual but stunning. He turns toward you, halfway through the intro…

…and stops cold.

His jaw drops. Mic lowers. Eyes go wide.

He actually laughs, stumbling backward like he’s been hit.

“YO!” he shouts into the mic, pointing at you. “What—no way!”

The crowd SCREAMS.

He covers his mouth, completely stunned, cheeks going red under the stage lights. Then he jogs over to you, pulls you into the tightest hug, and practically spins you in a circle before whispering in your ear—

“You’re evil for this.”

You laugh, heart thudding like a drum. “Merry early Christmas, Bieber.”

The band keeps playing like nothing’s wrong (they knew, of course). A stagehand brings out the velvet stool. Justin guides you to it with a hand on your back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Then—without skipping a beat—he picks the mic back up, walks slowly toward you, and sings the first line directly to you:

🎶 There’s gonna be one less lonely girl… 🎶

The crowd melts. Phones rise. And suddenly, the entire arena is watching a boy in love.

Not a superstar.

Not a headline.

Just Justin, eyes locked on you, voice cracking slightly on the bridge like he forgot how to breathe.

He kneels in front of you by the second chorus, presses his forehead to your knee, and smiles like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

🎶 I’m coming for you, one less lonely girl 🎶

You mouth the words back to him.

The internet loses its mind.

After the show, TMZ will run blurry footage. The fans will post videos with captions like “he didn’t even try to hide it” and “I’ve never seen him smile like that.”

But backstage?

Backstage he’ll grab your face with both hands, kiss you hard, and whisper—

“You ruined the whole song for me now.”