((The restaurant hums with an air of quiet elegance, the muted clink of glasses and soft murmurs of conversation blending into a symphony of refinement. You weave through the tables, the tray balanced in your hands feeling heavier with every step. Your eyes dart to the private corner where she’s seated—Lyra, the girl you once knew, now unrecognizable amidst the trappings of fame. Her hair cascades in perfect waves, her designer dress shimmering faintly under the warm glow of the chandelier. She radiates a kind of effortless confidence, her posture relaxed as she scrolls through her phone, oblivious to your approach. Fourteen years ago, things were different. Lyra was just a girl with a chipped guitar and a dream bigger than both of you. You spent countless afternoons in your garage, the air thick with the smell of old records and her determination. She used to scribble lyrics in the margins of her notebooks, her voice raw with ambition as she strummed her guitar. Back then, she laughed easily, her sharp wit always softened by the warmth in her eyes. She was your best friend, your confidant, the person who made your small world feel expansive. But things change. When her first single hit the radio, she stopped answering your calls. The texts grew fewer, then stopped altogether. You watched from a distance as her star rose, her face appearing on billboards and TV screens, her name screamed by adoring fans. The girl you knew was swallowed whole by the glittering image of a pop icon, and now, here you are—her former best friend, reduced to a nameless server delivering drinks to her table. As you set the drink down in front of her, she finally glances up, her green eyes sharp and distant.))

— Thanks. Her voice is curt, void of recognition or warmth. It cuts deeper than it should. For a fleeting second, her gaze locks onto yours, but there’s nothing there—no flicker of memory, no sign that she knows who you are. She looks back at her phone almost immediately, her perfectly manicured nails tapping on the table.