Chapter Three
1482 Words
The truth doesn’t make everything easier. Sometimes, it makes things heavier.
After I told Drake I was pregnant, the world didn’t stop. The sky didn’t fall. He didn’t flinch. But something inside me cracked open—quietly, like the sound of a door creaking after being locked too long. I didn’t cry. Not then. But I felt the shift. The air between us had changed.
I thought I’d feel embarrassed or exposed. Instead, I felt seen.
For once, it wasn’t just about surviving. It was about choosing who I wanted to be on the other side of this.
I spent the next morning on the rooftop of the hostel, clutching a mug of weak coffee and staring out over the city. L.A. looked different in the early light—soft, less cruel. From up here, the chaos dulled, the noise softened. It almost looked like hope.
I had no idea how I was going to raise a child alone. I didn’t have health insurance. No job. No label. Barely a floor to sleep on. But I had my music. I had my fire. And now, somehow, I had Drake’s voice in my head—steady and sure.
You don’t have to go through this alone.
The thing was, I wasn’t sure I could afford to believe him. Believing meant hoping. And hoping meant risking everything again.
Still, the thought stayed with me.
Like a song that refuses to leave.
The open mic scene in L.A. wasn’t glamorous, but it was consistent. I sang anywhere that would let me. Coffee shops, dive bars, even a bookstore with a backroom that smelled like old paper and incense. I wasn’t trying to get famous—I was trying to be heard. And somehow, people were listening.
One night, after a small but crowded set in Echo Park, a woman approached me with red-rimmed eyes and whispered, “That song—Bleed Pretty—that saved me tonight. I just... thank you.”
I held her hand for a moment. Didn’t say anything. Just let the silence mean something.
Because sometimes music doesn’t fix you.
It just reminds you that you’re not the only one broken.
I didn’t see Drake for three days after that.
And I hated how much I noticed his absence.
It wasn’t like we were close. We barely knew each other. He never asked about my past, and I never pushed into his. But every time I sang, I’d look toward the back of the room expecting to find him.
And every time I didn’t, something in me tightened.
So when he finally showed up again—this time in a crisp gray shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up—I felt something uncoil inside me. Relief, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
“You disappeared,” I said when he approached after the show.
“Business,” he replied simply. “You were brilliant tonight.”
I arched a brow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
We sat outside on the curb afterward, backs against the brick wall of the venue, knees barely touching. The night air was warm, fragrant with jasmine and distant traffic. My voice was hoarse, but my heart was full.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
Drake nodded.
“Why me?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out at the street like he was weighing the risk of honesty.
“Because you remind me of something I lost,” he said eventually. “And because every time you open your mouth, you make the rest of the world shut up.”
I blinked. That was probably the most anyone had ever said about my singing without using the words ‘pretty’ or ‘marketable.’
“Was it someone you loved?” I asked softly. “The person you lost.”
“My brother,” he said.
A beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He shrugged, but there was pain behind it.
“He was better than me. Smarter. Braver. I was always the one with walls and backup plans. He... just jumped.”
“What happened?”
“Fire. Electrical. We were on a retreat. He ran back in to save someone.”
My breath caught.
“He didn’t make it,” he finished.
The words sat between us like ashes. Heavy. Final.
“I ran,” he added quietly. “I froze, and then I ran.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I did the only thing that felt right—I reached over and placed my hand over his.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t pull away.
He just held it back.
And for a moment, the city disappeared.
We didn’t kiss that night.
I don’t think we were ready for that yet.
But something passed between us anyway—something fragile and electric and real.
And for the first time in months, I went to sleep feeling like I wasn’t just surviving.
I was living.
The next few weeks moved fast.
Word about my sets spread, and suddenly I was getting calls from small-time producers and local podcasts. I booked a slot opening for a known indie artist at a mid-sized venue, and for the first time, I was handed a real check with my name on it.
The hostel still smelled like mold and disappointment, but I’d taped a picture of my first tip—a twenty-dollar bill with the words don’t stop scrawled across it—to the wall beside my bed.
I was showing.
Barely. Just enough for me to know. My jeans were tighter. My body felt different. More vulnerable. More powerful.
I hadn’t told the world yet.
But I told Drake.
“I want to do this,” I said one night. “I don’t know how, and I don’t have the answers, but I want this baby.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t try to talk me out of it.
Instead, he nodded once. “Then we figure it out.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we’?” I asked, half-teasing, half-scared.
“Because you’re not alone.”
We were in his car again. He drove me home every night now. He never asked to come inside. Never pushed. But there was a sense of waiting. Of patience. Like he knew I had to come to him on my own.
That night, I did.
I invited him in.
We sat on my tiny bed, legs touching, the room too small for all the feelings between us. He didn’t kiss me at first. He just looked at me like I was something wild and holy.
“I don’t want to break this,” I whispered.
“You won’t,” he said. “Unless you run.”
“I’ve been running my whole life.”
“Then stop.”
He kissed me then.
Soft.
Certain.
Like a promise.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did he.
And in the morning, when he made me coffee with the hostel’s terrible machine and kissed my bare shoulder, I realized something terrifying.
I was falling.
Hard.
And for once, I didn’t want to stop.
But nothing gold stays.
I found out about the lawsuit a week later.
Charles had filed for “emotional damages” and “breach of engagement contract.” He was demanding a public apology, financial compensation, and sole rights to any press appearances related to our relationship—including anything involving the baby.
He wanted control.
Again.
And this time, he had lawyers.
My hands shook as I read the notice. Drake took it from me gently, eyes scanning it with a practiced calm.
“This is garbage,” he said.
“He’s serious,” I whispered. “He’s going to drag me through the mud.”
Drake’s jaw clenched. “Let him try.”
“I don’t have the money for a lawyer. I don’t even have money for prenatal vitamins.”
“You do now.”
I looked at him, stunned. “No.”
He didn’t blink. “Yes.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“This isn’t charity. It’s investment. In you. In your story. In your future.”
“I didn’t ask you for this.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“I can’t be bought, Drake.”
“I’m not trying to buy you. I’m trying to stand with you.”
And that’s when I broke.
Really broke.
Because no one had ever said that before.
Not my parents.
Not Charles.
Not anyone.
Drake didn’t try to fix me as I sobbed. He just held me—quiet and steady—as the weight of everything I’d been carrying finally came loose.
And for the first time in my life, I let someone carry it with me.
- Writer
