Last Friday night, Qudos bank arena became less of a stadium and more a diary entry with 20,000 authors, all waiting for Gracie Abrams to turn the page.

I’d heard stories about fans camping out for more than 80 hours, some even lasted the whole stretch, and made it to the front of the staidum to tell Gracie the story in front of the entire audience. I arrived just as the lights began to dim, but even from where I stood, wedged between two strangers in Abram's signature white prairie skirts and baby blue bows, I could feel the anticipation. Everyone had a piece of Gracie’s lyrics tucked away somewhere; in their notes app, on their bedsheets, woven into old conversations and connected to memories. That’s the thing about her music: it sticks with you. And that was obvious that night.

The show opened with Felt Good About You, and from the moment she stepped out, it was as if we collectively exhaled. No fireworks. No spectacle. Just her voice raw, slightly cracked, but sure.

The setlist spanned Gracie's discography, from Risk, to 21, to Gracie in a recreation of her childhood bedroom playing I Love You, I’m Sorry — a cacophony of songs that feel like bruises you press on just to remember they’re still there. Her surprise song of the night was Torn by Natalie Imbruglia, one of the biggest songs of the 90s, which echoed back like gospel throughout Qudos arena.

There were no elaborate monologues, just quiet "thank you's" and the kind of awe that makes you forget she's the one performing. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said at one point. “This is crazy.”  It was those little moments that made you feel like you were watching someone you've always known.

By the time we reached Close To You, the final song, the room was absolutely vibrating. Quite literally, as every person in the room was jumping up and down screaming their lungs out to the final moment we were having. Walking out, I didn’t want to speak. I just wanted to hold onto whatever that feeling was.

Gracie Abrams doesn’t perform so much as she confesses, and the audience just happens to be there, eavesdropping with reverence. From the moment she stepped onto the Qudos Bank Arena stage, which was a far cry from her show last year at the Horden Pavilion — it was clear she’s grown.

The Secret of Us tour leans into everything Abrams does best. Vulnerability as power. Silence as a statement. There were moments where it felt like she might disappear into the piano or the guitar or the memory she was singing from, and others, like her song I Know It Won’t Work, where her sorrow roared and we roared back.

It was intimate, even in a room of thousands. And as she walked offstage, a little wave and a bashful smile, it felt like the final page of a diary entry we’d been lucky enough to read.