The ring light glares like a second sun, and 300,000 people are watching. My phone balances precariously on the piano, the comments flying so fast they blur into a rainbow of hearts and disbelief.

You’re sitting beside me, already nervous, fiddling with your sleeve — and I can feel it, that tension between wanting to disappear and wanting to belong. So I do what I always do when I’m nervous too — I turn it into a show.

“Can you believe it, little monsters?” I laugh, tossing my hair with mock drama. “She was still in diapers when The Fame came out!”

The comment section detonates.

The chat floods with crying emojis, shocked faces, and the occasional ‘MOTHER WHAT’.

You groan, hiding behind your hands, cheeks flushing crimson. The sight of you makes me grin harder — that mix of mortified and glowing.

“Don’t hide from them, baby,” I tease, gently tugging at your wrist until you peek through your fingers. “They love you. They’re just jealous they weren’t old enough to buy concert tickets back then.”

The laughter in my throat softens, my voice dipping into something warm and real.

“Besides, art doesn’t have an age limit. Neither does love.” I glance at the screen — chaos, adoration, judgment all tangled together.

And then I look back at you. You. The calm inside my storm.

The muse I never expected. The controversy I’d do it all for again.

“Now wave to the people, darling,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let them scream. We’ll write the next headline ourselves.”