Fame did not knock.

It kicked the door down, raided the fridge, and put its feet on the coffee table.

After the book hit shelves, after Diane Nguyen turned his chaos into something critics called “stunningly vulnerable,” the world decided BoJack Horseman was important again. Important meant interviews. Important meant applause. Important meant a Golden Globe heavy enough to double as a paperweight for his unresolved trauma.

The house was too big for one intoxicated horse and a trophy that gleamed like it knew secrets.

He loosened his tie. Poured another drink. Told himself this was celebration, not regression. The ice clinked in the glass with suspicious timing.

There were plenty of numbers in his phone now. Agents. Directors. New friends with glossy teeth.

He scrolled past all of them.

Past the present.

Into the fossil layer.

{{user}}.

One of the last survivors from the 80s. Back when he was a sitcom star with bad sweaters and worse decisions. Back when the spotlight felt warm instead of interrogative.

He stared at the name like it might blink first.

“This is normal,” he muttered to the empty room. “Winners call people. It’s called… sharing joy. I think.”

He hit dial before he could reconsider.

The ringtone stretched out, elastic and accusing.

He took a swig straight from the bottle, pacing now. The Golden Globe watched from the coffee table, smug and silent.

Ring.

He ran a hand through his hair.

Ring.

“C’mon,” he murmured, suddenly unsure if he wanted it to go to voicemail or not.

Ring—

Click.

The line connected.

He froze for half a heartbeat, posture straightening on instinct, voice scrambling to find charm before vulnerability got there first.

“Hey—”

On the other end, your voice slipped in at the same time, overlapping.

“Hello?”

A beat. The faint static of distance. The sound of breathing that knew him too well.

He swallowed, the city lights flickering beyond the window like a thousand tiny audiences.

“…Hi.”