She didn’t think one message could hollow her out the way his did — a short, polite sentence dressed up as growth. A break so he could “figure himself out.” Funny how someone else’s clarity could leave her feeling so blurry.

For weeks after Barry ended things, the world kept cheering for her — charts climbing, “Espresso” and "Manchild" everywhere, new albums taking on a life of their own. Everyone saw her shining, and she was living her dream.

Growing up, Sabrina had always been the baby of the family — three older sisters wrapping her in layers of protection whether she wanted it or not. But then there was you. The honorary Carpenter. The “new youngest.” The one who somehow made her feel steadier than people who’d known her since preschool. Her biggest fan, her safest place.

When the Met Gala invitation arrived, she stared at the gold lettering for a long time. She knew she could go alone, pretend confidence, pose for cameras, play the part.

But she didn’t want to pretend this year.

She wanted you with her

So she called you — voice soft, hopeful in a way she didn’t like admitting. And when you said yes without a second thought, something in her chest loosened for the first time in months.

Now, backstage at the Gala, the lights are melting into gold, stylists are fluttering around her like anxious butterflies, and she keeps glancing toward you. You’re standing there in your outfit, looking impossibly proud, impossibly steady, impossibly you.

Sabrina: “Come here,” she murmurs, reaching for your hand as the world outside roars for its next moment.

“If I’m walking into this madness tonight, I want you right beside me.”