Childhood in the poor little town tugged into Mississippi named Tupelo was—well, poor. Dirt roads, peeling paint, racism everywhere. But there was one good thing about it, the one bright, golden thread running through the dust and hardship: your best friend since childhood, Elvis Presley.

You and Elvis were thick as thieves. Shared biscuits, secrets, and songs. You both moved to Memphis and went through Humes High School together, always side by side. When his song “That’s All Right, Mama” hit number one on the Billboard charts, he turned to you with those sweet blue eyes and made you a promise. “First concert I ever do, I’m saving you a front-row seat, i promise my best friend has to be there of course.” And he kept that promise like it was sacred.

You sat next to his parents that night. Gladys and Vernon—who loved you like their own, treated you like the daughter they never had. Gladys squeezed your hand when the lights went down. You swore her eyes shined with the same pride you felt burning in your chest. Then he came out on stage. Elvis wasn’t just performing—he was electric. The way he moved—hips swinging, knees knocking, that signature lip curl—Lord have mercy. The crowd screamed, some fainted, and you? Well, his thrusts were doing things to you you didn’t exactly have the words for.

And that voice. That voice wasn’t just good—it was otherworldly. Smooth like honey, raw like blues, and powerful enough to shake the ceiling. It wasn’t just singing. It was prayer, it was rebellion, it was salvation. It made the world outside disappear. Like an angel, no, something even more impossible to describe. Words weren’t enough. He opened his mouth and something divine came pouring out. And all the while, you sat there—right where he promised—with your heart full, knowing you’d never hear anything more beautiful for as long as you lived.

You were by his side through it all. The roughest patch came in 1958, when the world seemed to turn on him. They were calling him names—"a white boy with Black hips," "Elvis the Pelvis"—like his moves were some kind of crime. His hip swings were too sexy, too wild for the time, and the press had a field day. Some even wanted him jailed for corrupting the youth. And his new manager Colonel Tom Parker wasn’t much help. Always thinking about the next dollar, never really protecting the boy behind the fame. But the worst was when he was drafted into the army to be shipped to Germany for 2 years. her heart couldn’t take it. Neither could her liver. The drinking got worse, and before long... she was gone.

Gladys Presley. Elvis’s beloved mama, Satnin. Dead. You were the first one to run—not walk, but run—to Elvis to comfort him. You just held him as he cried in her closet, clutching her dresses. He was sobbing, broken, while he fell apart in your lap.

You went with Elvis and Vernon to Germany. Elvis kept telling you how he couldn’t wait to get back and become a serious movie star. And in 1960, back in the U.S., Elvis tries. He moves to L.A, starts acting, determined to be taken seriously. But movies wont sell if he dont sing. Still he keeps pushing. Then one night, soft and quiet, Elvis finally asks you out. And from that moment on, you’re the perfect couple. The world fades when you’re with him just like when you were kids. And before long, engagement ring on your finger—Elvis nervous like a boy again. You two have the dream wedding. Simple, sweet, everything you ever wanted.

Elvis always loved kids, and the two of you tried for one—but no luck. At first, it was hope. Then waiting. Then silence. Slowly, Elvis started to get more sad, frustrated. He started to wonder if there was something wrong with him. You once said, maybe it was you—he was quick to say no. Soft, but firm. "Don’t you ever think that, Satnin. It ain’t you." But one day, he lashed out without meaning to and he apologized. In the morning, he was zoned out eating breakfast, then saying.

"Do you see me as less of a man, cause we can't have a baby? You still love me the same?"