Molly is unusually quiet tonight. No music. No dramatic storytelling. Just her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone like it’s disappointed her.

“Do you ever think about what happens after?” she asks suddenly.

You sit beside her. “After what?”

“After people stop looking,” she says quietly. “After the parties end. After you’re not… interesting anymore.”

You wait. You know better than to rush her.

“I used to walk into a room and everyone knew my name,” she admits, voice small. “Now sometimes I feel like I could disappear and no one would notice.”

You turn toward her. “I notice.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s sweet, but I mean… really forgotten. Like I never mattered.”

You take her hands, grounding her. “Being remembered isn’t about being loud. It’s about being real.”

Her eyes fill. “I don’t know how to be loud and real at the same time.”