You've gained weight.

  The words sliced through the air, dry and merciless, like a punch to the stomach. I didn't need anything else to wake up—those words jolted me out of the numbness I was in, still dazed from the night before. We were in a cold, impersonal meeting room, the walls made of glass, reflecting a perfect image of myself that I no longer recognized. The large screen in front displayed a collection of my photos—perfect blonde hair, a rehearsed smile down to the bones, that sweet look that somehow sold me to the world.

  Robert zoomed in on an image. He didn't need to zoom for everyone to see, but he did it anyway. In the center of the photo, a slight curve in my abdomen, almost imperceptible, but enough for him to exploit as a sign of weakness.

  My hands, almost by reflex, touched my abdomen. I ran my fingertips along the thin fabric of my shirt, feeling the firm muscles but also an invisible weight, a burden that wasn't just on my body, but on my spirit. I mentally went over everything I'd eaten in the past few days, trying to find the culprit. Was it the dessert at the party? Or that dinner with my "boyfriend," when I ate more than I should have to seem normal?

  I didn't want to think about it. I wanted to focus on what really mattered. But, in that moment, my image was everything.

  ...

  The night before, I had felt like everything was out of control. The dress they had chosen for me was shorter than I imagined, more revealing than I wanted. But I smiled, of course. I smiled for the paparazzi, as rehearsed, and let myself be guided by my "boyfriend"—Tom, an up-and-coming actor with whom I hadn't exchanged more than a few words in months, but who had become the perfect piece for the media to feed its fantasies about a fiery teenage romance. The story my publicist loved to sell.

  He kissed me in front of everyone, and the flashes captured the passion that wasn't there. I just wanted to hide, but I played my part. We walked together to our seats, as if the world were perfect. As if happiness were an accessory I could wear, like the gown.

  I was running on autopilot. Smiling at everyone, telling jokes, laughing, greeting the other nominees. But inside, there was a storm. Every smile I gave, every word I said, was a reflection of something I wasn't. I was there, waiting, anxious, the palm of my hand sweaty, feeling the weight of every second that passed.

  I hadn't achieved anything yet. No significant victory. Honorable mentions and a platinum album, yes, but the truth was I felt I needed something more. I needed that statuette, the symbol of the single of the year. I needed to prove that my place was there. I deserved to be among the greats.

  When my name was called, I almost fainted from emotion. For the first time that night, a genuine smile escaped my lips. I couldn't deny that, in that moment, tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. I was being embraced by my "scene partner," all that perfect show. Despite the falseness of the hug, I genuinely felt happy. Finally, I was in the right place.

  I climbed the stage, trembling slightly with emotion, with a wide smile almost as dazzling as the lights bathing me. I was getting closer to the statuette when I heard footsteps approaching the stage. Confused, I found myself facing Lucca—the trap star everyone loved to hate—there, in front of me, taking the microphone from the presenter's hand with an arrogant smile.

  Without hesitation, Lucca looked straight into the camera. His voice sounded low, filled with poisonous irony, but with a tone of certainty that made me tremble inside.

  Sure, for the pop princess, the single was okay. But my wife created the greatest masterpiece of the century. Funny how a blonde slut always seems to outshine any black talent, right?

  Those words cut through me like a blade. I didn't know what to feel first: the heat of shame burning my cheeks or the fear of seeing the audience's reaction. I could hear the murmurs and boos, but everything seemed so distant, as if I were watching it all through a fog. My eyes closed for a moment, and everything around me blurred. I forced a confused smile, as if that were an appropriate response, but inside, the pain was an avalanche.

  The security guards arrived quickly to remove him from the stage, but the humiliation had already been done. What he said echoed in my mind, over and over again. The world seemed to be collapsing in front of me, and I didn't know how to react, how to recover.

  I saw the expressions of the people—they were looking at me with disapproval, with hatred, or worse... with indifference. I wanted to disappear.

  With tremendous effort, I pulled myself back enough to hear my name being called. A distant echo, as if I were outside my own body. Mechanical. Just continue what you started. I took the award with trembling hands, saying thank you words I didn't even believe. Every syllable sounded false, every movement, a farce. I didn't know anymore who I was trying to convince.

  As the muffled applause still echoed, I hurried off the stage. The tension seemed to tighten my chest, and I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They started to fall rapidly, uncontrollable, burning my face with the frustration and pain of something I had believed to be real until that moment.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. Every face around me seemed distant, as if I were seeing the world from the outside, without really being a part of it. The conversations around me were just muffled noises, as if everything were being filtered through a layer of glass. When I returned to my seat, I found my fake boyfriend waiting for me. His eyes were full of genuine pity, and he wrapped me in a gentle hug. The gesture was unexpected, as if he really cared.

  He was an asshole, Han. Don't let it get to you.

  I nodded without knowing what else to do, still hesitant under the curious gazes of everyone around. People came up to congratulate me, but everything sounded empty. I just wanted to disappear at that moment.

  This had been our most genuine exchange in months. The closest thing to a real moment between us, and for some reason, I almost felt like a friendship could blossom from there. But I knew it was just a fleeting moment. Like everything in my life, those little interactions were ephemeral, fragile as glass.

  For a second, the chaos in my mind calmed. He looked at me with a softness I hadn't expected, and a part of me wished it were different. That the hug were real. That he wasn't just another actor playing a role that pleased the public. However, I soon realized that what he was offering was just another version of himself serving the image we both fed. Like me, he was playing a part, and the script was never what it seemed.

  When the night finally ended, I felt more exhausted than ever. Not from physical exhaustion, but from the feeling of being torn inside out. As if what was left of me was just a distant reflection of who I used to be. I sat in the car, staring out the window as the city passed by quickly, a blur of lights and shadows. The last thing I heard was the sound of the door closing behind me, a muffled click that echoed in my mind like a scream.

  In the quiet dawn, the feeling of powerlessness still weighed on my chest. I turned in bed, trying to escape the echoes of Lucca's words, but they clung to me, as if I were stuck in an endless nightmare. When I finally fell asleep, my body was exhausted, but my mind didn't know how to rest. I knew that tomorrow, the weight of the shame would come.

  The phone rang before I had a chance to really wake up. The sharp sound cut through the morning silence, and I knew immediately that the consequences of the fiasco the night before wouldn't take long to arrive. An emergency meeting with my PR team and my manager was on the way, and I already knew it wouldn't be pleasant.

  I sighed, feeling the weight of the poorly slept hours dragging through my body. I got up from the bed and quickly got ready, trying to mask the exhaustion. I knew my mom would already be in the living room, ready to take me. Since we started living together in Nashville, this routine had become a part of us. She always accompanied me, always there, but the relationship between us had soured long ago. No matter how much she loved me or supported my dream, there was something that could never be said. Something that formed between us with each sacrifice she made.

  At the beginning of the previous year, when I signed with the label, it became clear that moving to Nashville would be inevitable. My father stayed on the ranch with my brothers and the family business, and my mother came with me. We moved into a small, shabby apartment in the city center, and the idea that my career would become a string of glamorous moments quickly faded. I dropped out of school without thinking twice, and soon the studio became my second home. I spent more than 12 hours a day there, between recordings and writing lyrics. Each chord, each verse, was an expression of what my young, dream-filled heart wanted to say, laden with anxieties—the fear of failing, the desire to be recognized—and the hope for true love. When night came, and I finally laid my head on the pillow, I felt mental and physical exhaustion, but also the sense that, no matter how difficult it was, this was the only path.

  When the emergency meeting began, my mind was far from where it should have been. So, imagine my shock when I heard the casual comment about my body. They zoomed in on each photo as if they were looking for something wrong, something that justified what had happened. My smile was too fake, the dress too tight, my expression, incredibly tired, beyond the camera lenses. The truth was, I was tired of it all, but they couldn't see that.

  I knew the tabloids were blowing up with news of what happened the night before. By some miracle, few seemed to agree with Lucca, but that didn't mean we didn't need to act fast. Pamela, our image strategist, had already scheduled a series of morning interviews on the most popular shows, along with a planned meeting with Tom later that day—a desperate attempt to keep the "shiny" relationship going, as if everything were fine amidst the chaos. The pressure was overwhelming. I was already on the brink of collapse, and the comment about my body was the last straw. I needed to get out of there.

  Do you still want to be America's sweetheart? – My manager's sharp voice filled the heavy silence of the room. His serious, penetrating face was there, evaluating me as if I were a product no longer meeting standards. – Because you're not looking like it with this mess. Where's the star that was on tour last month? Where's the passion in your eyes? You and Tom look like two corpses!

  My stomach churned with his words, but I kept control. The criticism was like a sharp blade, and the pain it caused was almost physical. His tone, accusatory and relentless, made the anguish I was trying to hide turn into cold anger. The "America's sweetheart" image seemed so far from me now. I could feel my castle crumbling, and I had no idea how to fix it.

  When I finally found myself free from those executives, I was filled with a sense of relief mixed with anguish. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight in my chest, and headed to the local gym, just a few blocks from my house. The mechanical motion of my steps was comforting, a small refuge amid the chaos.

  I still didn't need an escort; only a discreet bodyguard accompanied me, and at that moment, I felt almost... normal.

  I ran until my vision blurred, feeling the rapid beats of my heart echoing in my ears. The sensation of heavy breathing, the pain in my lungs, all of it gave me a false sense of control. I needed to burn off the damn extra weight. I needed to feel that there was still something in my life I could control. My stomach growled, but I knew it wouldn't be a day for food. Not today. I couldn't allow myself that. No one wants to see a fat star, right?