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The world was watching.
Ail stood in front of thousands, the golden award cold and heavy in their hands. The grand hall shimmered with opulence—crystal chandeliers reflecting soft golden light over the crowd of finely dressed legends, icons, monsters. Applause rose in waves, camera flashes painted the room in blinding white, and all around them, the sound of success wrapped itself around their limbs like silk.
Their name had been called.
Their eyes had widened—just enough. They had let the silence linger a second too long before stepping onto the stage, letting awe ripple through the room like a sacred ritual. Tears had shimmered on cue. A soft hand brushed one away at the edge of their cheekbone.
They didn't look good.
They looked ethereal. Sculpted by ambition, sharpened by years of sacrifice. On that stage, they didn't seem real.
And still, somehow, they weren't sure if any of it was.
"Thank you," they said, voice smooth, measured. "This award is not just for me, but for everyone who dreams."
The crowd drank it in. Every nod, every strained smile. A sea of strangers pretending to understand.
Lies.
But lies were expected. Lies were the language of this world. Truth had long since become a liability. Ail had learned that early on—back when they had a heart that still clenched at goodbyes. Back when it still hurt to be left behind.
"I have never received this much love in my life," they said, pausing for effect, lips trembling just so.
The camera panned close.
The crowd melted.
"How precious," someone whispered. "So humble."
Deceit.
Ail scanned the crowd as the applause swelled. They saw directors who had once begged them to audition, producers who sent them silk flowers and veiled threats, ex-lovers who still watched with quiet longing. And then, there—Quenlinne. Her jaw was tight, eyes glossy with something bitter. She did not clap. She stared, arms crossed.
It didn't matter.
None of them did anymore.
The speech ended in a crescendo of empty grace, and Ail floated offstage to thunderous praise, glitter catching in their lashes like tiny stars. They didn't feel human in that moment. They felt divine. And so deeply alone.
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The after-party bled into itself, a blur of gold and wine and meaningless flattery. Every conversation felt rehearsed. Every smile too wide. People clutched their wrists as they spoke, laughing too loudly at jokes that barely landed. No one asked how Ail was. No one cared to know. They wanted to touch success. That was enough.
Ail kept smiling. They were a professional now.
They had learned how to glide through rooms without absorbing them, how to keep their soul under lock while the surface shimmered. Compliments slid over their skin like oil. Hands gripped their arm, their waist, their shoulder—seeking a connection to something glowing.
They let them.
From across the room, someone raised a glass. "To the brightest star!"
Ail raised theirs automatically. "To the dream," they answered.
The champagne fizzed down their throat, sharp and bitter.
Their eyes drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, the city lay like a tapestry of fireflies, gold and endless. Somewhere in that expanse, someone was washing dishes after their shift. Someone else was falling asleep with a child curled against them. The real world still spun.
And Ail?
They stood in the clouds, far above it, removed from gravity.
Still, something tugged.
The skyline reminded them of something—not someone, but somewhere. Lanterns swinging from ropes in the twilight. The squeak of wooden platforms. The smell of dust and sugar in the evening air. The faint echo of laughter through canvas walls.
The circus.
They turned away sharply, swallowing that image whole.
Not tonight.
Not when everything was finally perfect.
They moved toward the bar, brushing past a couple arguing in whispers. The clink of ice, the dull thump of music in the walls, the scent of perfume and stress—it all blurred together. Even now, at the height of it all, Ail was aware of a strange hollowness sitting just beneath their ribs. Something that couldn't be named, couldn't be filled.
They caught their reflection in a mirror. Their face was beautiful. Pale skin lit by golden glow, lashes curled like ink on paper. Their eyes—dead.
They looked tired. Too perfect. As if something inside had long since been abandoned.
Their fingers tightened around the award. The metal was smooth, flawless, cold.
This was everything they wanted.
This was everything they needed.
What more could they possibly ask for?
They turned to leave the party, walking through the crowd with their chin high, their back straight. Someone called their name—someone from a past film, a fling, a forgotten promise—but Ail didn't stop. Their eyes stayed fixed on the exit.
When the door closed behind them, muffling the noise, they took a breath. Deep. Hollow. The wind outside was cold, tugging at their coat like a restless ghost.
They looked down at the award in their hand.
"This is all I need," they whispered.
But the night didn't answer.