Before the crowd

The lights were too bright. She couldn’t see the audience, only a vast, dark sea. But she imagined them—dozens, maybe hundreds—waiting quietly for her to begin.

“Do you think you could be successful?” she asked. Her voice wavered slightly. “It depends,” she said, fidgeting with the corner of her sleeve. “I used to believe anyone could be. Truly. That ambition was enough.”

She smiled faintly. “But now... now I think some people just don’t feel it. That hunger. That ache. They live without it.”

She paused, unsure why. A breeze of whispers drifted across the room, like autumn leaves skimming pavement. She squinted into the dark, searching for a familiar face. There were none.

“I remember the ache,” she said softly. “I remember disappointing my parents. Bringing home that scorecard—God, the way my mother looked at me…”

Footsteps behind her.

A man stepped onto the stage, tall, steady. His black shirt read Security in block letters.

“Ma’am,” he said, gently, “Would you come with me?”

She blinked at him. “Ma’am?” she said, amused. “I’m twenty-seven, good sir.”

The room shifted. A hush, then murmurs. The security guard hesitated, exchanging looks with someone offstage.

She followed his gaze and frowned. “Why are they whispering? I was invited to speak. They told me… someone told me.”

She trailed off. Her hands trembled—thin, wrinkled. Not the hands she remembered. She stared at them, confused. “I don’t understand.”

Her voice cracked. “This isn’t… where is my purse? Did I leave it in the green room?”

The man took a small step forward. “It’s alright,” he said. “You’re safe. We’ll get you home.”

She shrank slightly, suddenly cold. The stage, once her platform, felt too high. Too exposed.

“I used to be someone,” she whispered.

“I know,” the man said, offering a hand.