Confetti

The lights in the auditorium brightened to full intensity, glaring spotlights that washed over a sea of twenty thousand some-odd concertgoers. Confetti still floated lazily in the air, the speakers were still reverberating after the last note of a song, and the crowd was churning in thunderous applause loud enough to make anyone go deaf.
“I love you, Los Angeles!” more cheering. “Goodnight!”

It had been another over-the-top show, par for the course for an artist as celebrated as Chantz Carrigan. The singer-songwriter paused for a moment to revel in the streams of people leaving the auditorium – people that had come to see him – before vanishing off stage. He walked briskly down the corridor to his private room, picking colorful pieces of tinsel out of his tangled hair as he walked. Set managers, producers, and others attempted to engage him, but he brushed each of them off with equal indifference. Chantz slipped through a darkened doorway, locking it behind him. He heaved a deep sigh. The cheerful panache of mere minutes prior had melted into tired, apathetic bitterness. He made brief eye contact with himself in the mirror but turned away in disgust.