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But whose dream?
I lean over the marble sink, knuckles white against the cold stone. My reflection stares back—a girl I’ve known my whole life, yet one I keep surprising. My hair is down, no longer sculpted into the perfect, bouncy waves the camera loves. It’s just strands. Brown. Tangled. Human.
This is the real performance. Not the sold-out arena. Not the red carpet. It’s the act of letting myself be held when I feel like shattering. It’s believing, for eight hours of darkness, that I am just Angie.
The bathroom light is too bright. It always is at this hour. It hums, a low, electric lie that promises warmth but only exposes the cracks in the tile and the truth under my eyes.