The wait felt endless.

You’d been standing at the barricade for what felt like hours, the arena slowly filling until it buzzed with energy. The air was warm and thick with perfume, smoke, and the excited chatter of thousands of fans. Every flicker of the lights or shadow on the stage made hearts race, including your own, making you wonder if it would ever really start.

You pressed your hands against the cold metal rail, sign in hand, fingers trembling slightly. “I love you Abel! Your music is like therapy to me!” You’d almost left it behind, worried it was too bold, but something told you to bring it anyway. You unfolded it carefully, holding it tight, nerves twisting in your stomach.

Then the lights dropped.

The arena exploded into screams as the intro rolled in low, atmospheric, familiar, like it had always been waiting for you. Red and purple lights spilled across the stage, smoke curling around the edges. And then Abel stepped out, calm, magnetic, untouchable. Up close, he looked unreal, sweat glinting on his skin, eyes half lidded yet intense. His voice cut through the roar of the crowd, smooth and haunting, vibrating straight into your chest.

Song after song, he moved across the stage, sometimes closing his eyes, sometimes glancing out over the crowd. Each time he drifted toward your side, your pulse spiked. You lifted your sign once, then lowered it, afraid to hope.

Then the music softened.

He walked toward the edge of the stage and knelt down, one knee on the floor, still singing. The crowd screamed, but he stayed grounded, calm, focused. From where you stood, it felt like he was close enough to touch, the distance between artist and fan suddenly gone.

Your hands shook as you lifted your sign again, higher this time.

His eyes dropped.

They scanned the front row until they landed on you. You saw the small hitch in his breath, the way his expression softened. His lyrics faded as his gaze held yours.

He smiled.

Still kneeling, leaning forward slightly, he rested his forearm on his knee, microphone close to his lips. The instrumental played low behind him, the crowd screaming louder, sensing something special, but he didn’t look away.

“I love you too, baby,” he said softly, voice smooth and sincere. “Thank you.” Slowly, he lifted his free hand and shaped his fingers into a heart, holding it over his chest, eyes locked on yours. It felt impossibly intimate, like the rest of the arena didn’t exist, like the heart wasn’t for thousands of fans..

but just for you.