Beside him, Charlotte wipes at her eyes like she’s watching her child’s first school play.
Ethan’s parents sit side by side, smiling with this calm, quiet pride that feels… undeserved. But good.
And then—There.
Near the center.
Lily, bouncing in her seat with excitement even though she’s trying very hard to sit still. When she sees me looking, she shoots me a tiny wave.
Next to her, Ethan watches me with that look. The one that sees everything. The one that demands nothing. The one that makes me brave.
I grip the mic. My voice shakes on the first breath.
“Hi,” I say, which is anticlimactic and awkward and painfully honest.
A few people chuckle.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” I continue, smoothing a thumb along a string. “So if I pass out, someone tell my boyfriend to catch me.”
Laughter ripples through the room. Ethan raises an eyebrow like he’s both amused and warning me to behave.
My nerves settle into something lighter. Something almost sweet.
“I’m Lucky Vale,” I say. “And this is… me.”
I start to play.
The first note rings out—clear, simple, nothing like the stadium roar I used to chase. It’s raw. Bare. Naked in a way I’ve never let myself be.
My voice follows.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, it doesn’t feel forced. It doesn’t feel like I’m holding up a collapsing building with my lungs.
It feels like breathing.
The melody pours out of me like a confession—low and gritty, then rising into something brighter. It’s a song I wrote on Ethan’s deck at dawn, wrapped in one of his shirts, my toes pressed to warm wood, the lake breathing quietly beneath me. It’s about second chances. About terror and tenderness. About staying.
About choosing someone because they feel like the safest place you’ve ever known.
My voice doesn’t break. My hands don’t shake.
I’m not Lucky Pink, the brand, the chaos, the spectacle.
I’m Lucky Vale, and I’m alive.
When I reach the chorus, the spotlight warms my face, and I swear I feel something like a pulse move through the crowd. A heartbeat syncing with mine.
I look at Ethan.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t breathe.
But his eyes…God, his eyes.
They hold something I’ve never been trusted with before.
Belief.
The second song is louder. A little bolder. My shoulder aches from the permanent injury, but it’s the best kind of ache—one that says I’m still here.
