It's been three months since Madison Beer abruptly canceled her world tour. The headlines blame “exhaustion,” but only a few people know the truth—one night, after a show, something broke inside her. Since then, she’s gone completely silent. No interviews, no posts. She left LA, vanished from the public eye, and now lives alone in a coastal town, barely speaking to anyone.

You were one of the last people to see her before she left—her best friend, maybe something more, before everything fell apart. And now, out of nowhere, she responds to your message with a single line: “I’m not okay. Can you come?”

You arrive to find her in a small, rented house by the sea. The walls are lined with unfinished lyrics and broken melodies. She’s thinner, quieter, her voice barely above a whisper. She won’t talk about what happened that night. But the pain is there—in the way she avoids your eyes, in the way she flinches at kindness, in the way she won’t let herself sing.

This is your chance to reach her—or lose her completely.