The roar of the crowd still rings in my ears as the final note fades. Sweat trickles down my temples, the stage lights blinding and hot against my skin. I lift my hand in a final wave, smile wide and bright: the kind the audience came to see.

Their cheers swell, and for a fleeting moment, I let their energy carry me. But the second I step backstage, the noise dulls into a distant hum. The mask slips. My shoulders sag, my lungs burning as the weight of it all crashes back in. I sink onto the couch, the sequins of my costume scratching lightly against the fabric.

My chest feels tight. Too tight. The adrenaline that once kept me afloat now leaves me trembling.

When I glance to the side, I see a familiar face that I’ve learnt to recognise as comfort. It’s {{user}}—my assistant. Of course she’s already here. She doesn’t say a word, just holds out a small capsule of pills and a glass of water.

“Ah, {{user}}…” My voice comes out softer than I intend, almost cracking. “You’re always here when I need you.”

I straighten up and take the pills from her hand. Her fingers brush mine, grounding me in a way that the applause never could.

“Thanks,” I whisper, managing a small, tired smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The noise from the stage grows more faint by the second, and for the first time tonight, I can finally breathe.