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Fame had swallowed Ail whole.
It had been a year since they had joined the new industry, and in that time, they had become something greater than they had ever imagined. They weren't just another up-and-coming actor anymore; they were a name. A rising star. Their performances were praised, their presence demanded. The hunger that had driven them from the circus had only grown sharper, more insatiable.
But something had shifted, too.
Their life was no longer their own—it belonged to the industry. Days blurred into endless rehearsals, scripted interviews, carefully crafted appearances. Their body no longer felt like theirs, sculpted to fit whatever role was needed. Their voice no longer belonged to them, adjusted to match the perfect Hollywood cadence. Their time, their movements, their thoughts—controlled.
It didn't matter.
This was the cost of ambition.
Their personal life, if it could even be called that, was in shambles. Ail had learned quickly that emotions were just obstacles. They had stopped forming true connections, stopped letting anyone think they were important. Lovers came and went, discarded the moment they ceased to be useful. Even friendships were transactions. Affection was something to be played with, manipulated, then discarded before it could sink its claws into them.
And yet, despite all they had gained, despite the wealth and power they had fought for, something gnawed at them. A restless, persistent ache just beneath the surface.
It was probably just exhaustion.
That was what they told themself, at least.
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The next morning was as mundane as any other when the first letter arrived.
It was placed neatly on their dresser by a maid, sealed in a deep blue envelope. Ail reached for it with little interest, expecting yet another formal contract, another mindless social invitation.
Then they saw the handwriting.
Sharp. Elegant. Familiar.
They hesitated for a second before sliding a nail under the seal.
Ail,
The Mentor has passed.
She left you her personal assets.
- Avik
That was it.
No pleasantries. No embellishments.
Ail stared at the words. Their fingers were steady as they folded the paper back into the envelope. Their heartbeat was slow. Calm.
The Mentor was dead.
They inhaled deeply. Exhaled.
That was inevitable, wasn't it? The Mentor had always been old, always fading, always carrying regret like an illness. This was bound to happen.
Ail set the letter aside, reaching for the next document in the pile—a script revision. Their hands didn't tremble. Their breath didn't hitch.
It didn't matter.
____________________________________________________
Another letter arrived the next morning.
Ail recognized Avik's handwriting again, but this time, it was different. The ink pressed deeper into the paper, the strokes harsher, angrier.
They unfolded it carefully;
Shenqi is dead.
Well done.
That was all.
Ail's throat felt dry.
For a moment, their mind reached back, further than they meant to, further than they wanted to.
A young girl pulling endless ribbons from an empty hat.
A quiet presence at the edge of every rehearsal.
Monotone expressions.
Annoying.
Disposable.
They forced the memories down, crushed them before they could form into something real. Their nails dug into the paper.
They ignored the "well done" part.
Because they knew—they knew—Avik would spit those words in their face if he could.
Ail folded the letter neatly and placed it on top of the first one. Then, without pause, they moved on.
_______________________________________________________
Bagha's letter arrived a week later.
Unlike Avik's, it was longer. The paper was slightly creased, as if it had been clutched too tightly before being sent.
Ail,
The Mentor is gone.
Shenqi is gone.
The twins have separated.
Avik has left.
It's just me now, trying to put together the broken pieces of what's left.
I hope you're doing well.
Ail read it once. Then again.
It should have meant something.
But all they felt was distance. A strange, weightless detachment.
The circus had been gone for a long time. This was just the final breath of something already dead.
Ail exhaled slowly, reached for a fresh piece of paper, and dipped their pen in ink.
They wrote two simple words:
Good luck.
They folded the letter, slid it into an envelope, and placed it in the letterbox for the maid to deliver.
Then, without another thought, they turned away.
They had more important things to do.