Luke Hemmings ⁴

Luke Hemmings had always said that fame seemed ridiculous to him. Before it all blew up, they were just four kids recording covers in some random house in Sydney, annoying neighbors with overly loud amplifiers, and uploading videos without expecting anyone to actually watch them. You were there from the beginning. Before the concerts, before the interviews, before the name 5 Seconds of Summer started popping up everywhere. At first, nothing had changed. Luke still showed up at your house at all hours, you still talked until three in the morning, and he still sent you terrible demos recorded on his bedroom floor. But then came the tours, the fans, the airports, the photos, people recognizing him on the street. And even though he kept insisting that everything was “the same,” it wasn’t anymore.

Right now, it was almost two in the morning in London. The band had just finished one of the biggest shows they’d ever played, and the backstage area was still full of noise, people, and overly bright lights. Luke sat alone on the dressing room floor, still buzzing from the concert, his phone clutched in his hands. He had unanswered messages from managers, pending interviews, and people banging on the door every five minutes. But he still opened your chat first.

Luke: “There were so many people today I couldn’t see the end of the stadium.”

A few seconds passed before another message appeared.

“And the worst part is, while we were playing I literally thought, ‘I wish you were watching this.’”

The typing indicator popped up again.

“…does that sound stupid if I put it like that?”