Shawn Mendes Imagines (Editing + Open Requests)

♬3.0 - New Cover

Shawn releases a new cover, and it gets a million views in 4 hours. You remember the time when he was excited about a hundred views.

"Are you sure it's alright?" Shawn asks for the twelfth time.

"I swear to God, Mendes, if you ask me again, I will actually punch you in the face," you groan. "It's great. Release it. Post it. Mail it to Canada Post. I don't care—just do it."

"Maybe it sounds better over the phone?"

"I have an iPhone 5s, Shawn. Everything sounds shittier over the phone. And even through this trash speaker, it sounds incredible. So I can't imagine what it actually sounds like. Release the cover. I'll try to be your first like."

Shawn snorts. "Yeah, right."

"I miss that, you know. Actually being able to see that I was your first like. Even when I warn you I'm about to refresh, your fans still beat me. It's insane."

"I miss things too," you shrug. "But honestly? You're exactly where you worked your ass off to be. People dream of this life. You used to dream of this life."

"You know I haven't released a cover in almost a year," Shawn says, stalling.
"I don't even remember the last time I posted on my own YouTube channel."

"You're stalling."

"Shut up."

"It's good, Shawn. Really good. I thought you outgrew this insecure little voice-cracking-boy era."

"Oh, says the girl who asked me how she looked five times and changed outfits five times."

"You let me leave half my closet at your apartment," you laugh.

"Yeah well, now guests think I have multiple girlfriends."

"You do. Me, your mom, and Aaliyah."

"I hate you."

"Post. The. Cover."

"Okay!" he shouts dramatically — then you hear him aggressively punch the enter key.

"I heard that," you say. "You don't need to fight your laptop."

"Got excited," he admits.

"I was like... the 539th like."
(You were definitely closer to #63, but at least 20 other girls think they were #63 too.)

"Alright," you sigh, glancing at the time. "My break is over. Three hours left. I'll call you later."

"Sounds good."

You hang up and go back to work. It's slow. You're tired. Ten p.m. hits, and you drag yourself through your front door, ready to collapse.

Laptop open. Emails first. Then—

Shawn Mendes uploaded: "Chariot (Cover)".

You click it immediately.

He's sitting in his apartment, soft lighting behind him, singing one of your favourite old songs. He's smiling that shy little smile he only gets when he's doing something for himself.

And then you see it:

The views.
Already.

Your jaw drops.

You call him instantly — and somehow he's still awake.

"Hey," he answers.

"Shawn, have you seen how many views you have?"

"No, what?"

"Like... almost a million."

"No way," he breathes. "Hold on, I'm checking."

"I'm serious," you laugh, heart racing for him.

There's silence on the line — but not the worried kind. The soft kind. The kind that feels full.

"You remember the last time we had a conversation like this?" Shawn asks quietly.

"No?"

"When I got my first 100 views," he says. "When I got signed. When I got my own tour."
A pause. A softer tone.
"You were there through all of it. You freaked out with me when I hit ten views for the first time. And now look—almost a million in three hours."

Your throat tightens.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Crazy."

"And maybe you were the 688th like..."
You hear the smile in his voice.
"But you were my first fan. My first comment. My first follower. Ever."

"Don't get mushy."

"Wow. Moment ruined."

"I'm proud of you," you say, real and quiet.

"I know," he answers.
"Thank you."