Did her label drop her?
Jett Langford spotted in LA with Rebel June — without Lucky Pink. Did they fire her?
My stomach drops so hard and fast, it feels like a stone falling through water.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, scrolling. “Already? It’s been weeks, not years.”
The comments are worse.
She’s unstable.
She can’t handle fame.
Probably hiding after another meltdown.
Her management is covering something up.
Poor girl is spiraling again.
I heard she attacked someone backstage.
Does she ever stay sober?
My throat tightens, the dryness scraping sharp and raw as if someone has dragged sandpaper down the inside of it. My vision flickers at the edges, going slightly off-kilter, like someone is shaking the frame of the world.
Because, of course, this is the narrative they always reach for. The same tired headline.
Lucky Pink = disaster waiting to happen.
They don’t know a single real thing about my life, my mind, my fears. They just fill in the blanks with whatever sounds messy and clickable enough to keep the machine turning.
Something inside me buckles—quietly, but with the weight of something long overdue. I slam the phone face-down on the couch, harder than necessary, hard enough that it bounces and lands crooked on the cushion. The notifications keep buzzing anyway, relentless and sharp, as if they’re trying to claw their way back into my head.
I snatch the phone again with shaking fingers and shut everything off—alerts, banners, sound, all of it—until the screen goes dark and the world falls abruptly, unnervingly still.
Silence drops over the room like a heavy blanket.
And the moment it settles, my lungs forget how to work.
Silence is the worst.
It presses in from all sides, thick and invasive.
It crawls into the corners of my mind.
It remembers things I don’t want to remember—things I’ve spent months burying under noise, motion, anything but this.
I wrap my arms around myself and stand in the middle of the room, trying to breathe through the static in my head.
That’s when I hear footsteps on the deck.
“Lucky?” Lily slides the door open just enough to peek in. She’s holding two mugs of hot chocolate like offerings. “You okay? You look like you’re about to murder your phone.”
I snort despite myself. “It started it.”
She steps inside, eyebrows raised in that twelve-year-old way that somehow manages to be both judgmental and gentle. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
