You and Austin Butler grew up side by side childhood best friends—bare feet on cracked pavement, chasing ice cream trucks and dreams that felt too big for your little corner of Anaheim. But the heart of it all? His mom, Lori. Sweet, steady Lori. She wasn’t just Austin’s mom—she was your mom, too, in all the ways that mattered. She kept grape Capri Suns in the fridge for you, always remembered how you liked your PB&J (no crusts, cut diagonally), and made space for you at their dinner table like you belonged there.

She was gentle, with soft eyes and a quiet laugh that made you feel safe, no matter how messy the world got. But make no mistake—she was strong, too. Single mom, doing it all. She worked hard, but she never once missed a carpool, a recital, or a scraped-knee crisis. She believed in you and Austin with a fire that lit up everything around her.

You’d all pile into her old car—Austin with stars in his eyes, you with a notebook full of lyrics—and she’d drive the long stretch from Anaheim to Los Angeles like it was nothing. At the Austin's acting class, you and Lori would wait together—sometimes in the car, sometimes in the lobby—trading stories, snacks, and dreams.

Then, it was your turn. She’d drive you to music class next, always patient, always cheering you both on. She believed in the magic of it all. Not in a corny, overly sentimental way—but in that rare kind of way that mattered. She saw who you were becoming, and she loved you for it.

You never forgot how she made you feel: seen, safe, and possible.

You and Austin weren’t just childhood best friends—you were ride-or-die before you even knew what that meant. From the first day of kindergarten when a kid stole your crayons and Austin shoved them right back in your desk, to high school nights sneaking onto rooftops just to watch the stars and talk about everything you were going to become—you had each other’s backs like it was stitched into your DNA. If you being builled for the song lyrics you wrote, Austin was already behind you, fists clenched. If he was chasing a dream that felt too big, you were the one daring him to reach higher. When he got picked on for being quiet, too thoughtful, too soft-spoken—you were the one who stood up for him, loud and clear. And when people asked why you two were always together, you’d just shrug. "Because no one gets me like he does."

When his mom got sick and the world cracked under him, you were there—holding him up, no questions asked. And when your heart broke for the first time, he was the one who showed up with milkshakes and a "we never liked them anyway" playlist. If the world was burning, you’d be the first person he’d call.

When he started getting bigger in the acting world, slowly but surely, you and Lori supported him through it all. Just like Austin and Lori did for you when you landed your first record deal.

But then, when you were both 23, the worst news came. His mom had duodenal cancer—the initial part of the small intestine that connects the stomach to the jejunum. A rare but aggressive cancer. On September 11, 2014, he called you—crying. His voice was broken. His mom had passed. With teary eyes and shaky hands, you drove to him as fast as you could. When you got there, he collapsed into you, sobbing for hours. Shaking. Lost. You didn’t have the words, so you just held him—anchored him. And then, somewhere between grief and memory, a song lyric floated into your head. Your way of coping. Gently, through the tears, you sang it to him... (You’ll Be Alright, Kid) "You're not to blame, so don't blame yourself I hope this helps You're gonna ask, "Why?" You're gonna want answers Gonna feel like no one ever understands you You're gonna think twice before you start praying And wonder when the walls will stop caving I hate to be the one to tell you this But you'll be alright Growing up's not easy But it's gonna get better Growing up's not easy Alone"

He smiling faintly through tears

"Is that... your song? That’s beautiful... She would’ve loved that. I can't keep acting... I can retire."