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Fake it. Smile. Do the job.

“Eddie Carter,” the interviewer beams. “Back on tour, new cities, sold-out crowds. But you’ve been making headlines for something else lately, something personal. This Kidney Donation Chain event you’re helping sponsor.”

I nod, shifting forward a little. “Yeah. It’s a cause that means a lot to me personally. The event is aimed at raising awareness and building a chain of potential donors, people who are willing to donate a kidney either directly or through paired donation, so that more lives can be saved.”

“And this is tied to someone close to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “My best friend’s little boy—Joey—is waiting for a transplant. He’s been through hell and back already, and he’s still fighting. This isn’t just about one family, though. There are thousands of people waiting. And if I can use my platform to get just one more person to sign up, then it’s worth every second.”

The host nods visibly moved. “That’s powerful.”

I glance at the camera. “If you’re healthy, if you’re eligible—be a donor. Someone out there is hanging on by a thread, waiting for a match. You could be their miracle.”

By the time the interview wraps, my throat is dry, but I feel something settle. Not peace exactly. But purpose. A reason to keep going.

I grab a towel and pat down my face just as my phone buzzes.

Lucas.

Lucas: Just saw the interview, brother. Thank you. You don’t know what it means to us. To Joey.

My chest tightens, heart thudding as I stare at the message.

Eddie: I meant every word. We’re going to get him that kidney, man.

There’s no time to sit in the moment because the stage manager’s knocking on the door, letting me know it’s time.

The noise builds as I move through the hall—voices, instruments, the roar of the crowd filtering through thick walls. But under it all is the quiet thrum of one truth:

She’s not here.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I tap out a message as I wait in the wings, the guitar tech looping my strap over my shoulder.

Eddie: About to go on. I miss you like hell.

A few seconds later, her reply flashes on screen:

Laney: I miss you too. Always.

It’s enough to get me through.

The stage lights hit me like a freight train, and the crowd explodes. I wave, step up to the mic, and launch into the set—one song, then another, and another. My fingers move on instinct, my voice steady, but inside, I’m holding her like a lifeline.

Halfway through the set, I pause. The band fades out. The lights dim.

And I speak. “There’s someone back home,” I say, voice rough. “She’s not in the crowd tonight. But she’s in everything I do.”

The crowd stills.

“I wrote this song a long time ago. Never knew who it was about—until I met her.” I glance down, press my palm to my chest. “This one’s for the woman who owns my heart.”

The first notes of ‘Midnight Dune’ ring out, soft and slow. And I pour every ounce of missing her, loving her, needing her into the mic.

Each lyric is a confession. Every chord is a prayer.

By the time the final note fades, my throat is raw and my hands are shaking.

Applause thunders. But I’m already turning, walking offstage with the kind of focus that says, don’t stop me.