The star

 She was a star before she truly knew who she was.

At nineteen, Alya’s voice had already taken her from smoky talent shows to renowned amphitheaters and glossy magazine covers. A modeling contract followed a viral video—her soulful rendition of an old R&B classic melted millions online. Her image became a brand: “She’s Next!” She knew exactly how to pose for the camera, how to caption her posts just right, how to deliver just enough vulnerability to keep her audience hungry for more.


But behind the filtered perfection, Alya was unraveling.


The more followers she gained, the more distant she felt from herself. She began to second-guess the songs she loved, worried they weren’t "on trend." She dyed her hair for a campaign she hated, smiled through interviews that painted her as a carefree icon, and posted “authentic” moments carefully crafted by her PR team. At night, she’d scroll through comments dissecting her appearance, her voice, her worth—until even her mirror seemed to reflect back a stranger.


One evening after a red carpet event, still in her designer gown, Alya sat alone on her kitchen floor, singing softly to herself—an old lullaby her grandmother used to hum. No cameras. No hashtags. Just her voice, raw and trembling.

It was the first time in years she felt real.


In that moment, she realized that fame had made her visible to the world but invisible to herself.


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