The crowd doesn’t cheer.

They hold their breath. Because when the lights dim and the fog curls low across the stage ——— when the first gentle note hums from Kade’s guitar like a heartbeat under water—

you walk in.

Not strutting. Not rushing. Just… gliding. Barefoot, slow, wrapped in white—a dress that drapes like light itself, soft and sheer in the right places, trailing behind you like a secret.

Your hair is messy in the way that makes people ache— not styled, just touched by dreaming. Curls falling loose, framing your face like a painting no one’s allowed to touch.

Your eyes are low. Lips parted. Your whole body moves like you’re underwater—calm, floaty, haunting.

You don’t speak. You just walk to the mic waiting for you in the center of the stage, like it already knows what you’re going to say.

Kade watches you from behind the shadows, guitar resting across her thighs, fingers already curling tight on the strings.

And the second the light finds your face— the crowd stills. Entirely. Like they’ve never seen anything softer. Like you’re not just a singer. You’re a prayer.