Fame doesn't arrive like fireworks.
It shows up as emails, tags, mentions, and professors suddenly remembering your name in class.
And silence.
A new kind of silence—the one that comes from people watching, waiting for you to speak again, like your voice now belongs to them.
---
Two weeks after the contest, I'm everywhere.
Interviews.
Invites to speak at panels.
An offer to publish a collection of poems.
Tari holds my hand through all of it, like his touch is my grounding cord.
But I feel something shifting between us.
Not gone. Not broken.
Just… different.
Like he's watching me disappear behind stage lights he can't reach.
---
One night, after a poetry event downtown, we sit outside a suya spot in silence.
"I barely see you anymore," he says.
I take a breath. "I'm trying to figure out how to be this new person."
He nods. But something in his jaw tightens.
"Just don't forget the old one. The girl who danced in my studio barefoot and cried into my hoodie."
"I could never forget her."
"But could you still be her?"
I don't answer.
Because I'm not sure.
---
Back at the dorm, I stare at the ceiling.
Success is beautiful—but lonely too.
Everyone wants a piece of you.
But no one asks if you're still whole.
---
Nene calls it "visibility fatigue."
"It's like being emotionally famous without the money," she says, handing me bubble tea.
We laugh.
But I feel it: the exhaustion, the guilt of wanting rest when everyone else wants more of your light.
---
The next Saturday, Tari's dance showcase takes place.
I promised I'd be there. Front row. No distractions.
But that morning, I get a call from one of the editors I met through the writing contest.
"Ayanna, we have a last-minute spot on the youth panel. Five thousand attendees. Livestreamed globally. You in?"
My mouth says yes before my heart remembers the date.
By the time I get to the auditorium where Tari's dancing, the lights are off, the crowd is gone, and his name has already been cheered and forgotten.
I find him backstage, wiping sweat from his brow, alone.
He doesn't look at me.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I figured," he says, voice flat. "You had bigger things."
"No—Tari, that's not fair."
He turns, eyes sharp but tired. "You promised."
I nod. "I know."
"You said this—*we*—mattered."
"You still matter. You always—"
"Not like that," he interrupts. "Not in a sentence squeezed between fame and flights."
Silence.
Sharp and wide.
"I didn't mean to choose the panel," I say. "It just… happened."
He exhales. "That's the thing, Ayanna. You didn't *mean* to. But you did."
---
I leave the hall with a heart heavy as stone.
Not because he was angry.
But because he had every right to be.
---
That night, I don't write.
Don't cry.
I just lie awake, wondering how many dreams we have to chase before we stop running from the people who stood still for us.
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*
*Success is loud.
But regret whispers.
And tonight, it won't stop.*
---