Ava

The stage pulses beneath my feet, heat and light blending into a single, vibrating wave. The final chorus of “Glory Nights” rushes ecstatically from my throat, each note shooting adrenaline straight into my heart. My hair sticks to my sweaty neck, but I feel nothing except this intoxicating weightlessness, this electric connection between me and the crowd. Thousands of illuminated faces scream my name. Hands reach towards me—a sea of euphoria in which I float, weightless.

It's this moment I'm addicted to—the absolute bliss that makes me forget who I am beyond the spotlight.

“I love you!” I shout into the microphone, my voice rough and exhausted, full of love, full of promises I'll never keep. The applause erupts deafeningly once more, then the lights abruptly go dark. Dazed, I stumble backwards into the cool darkness backstage.

Immediately, everything changes. The adrenaline plunges violently into my stomach; my head throbs with a sharp pain behind my forehead. Dizziness overtakes me. I reach blindly for support, collapse onto the nearest chair. My breathing comes shallow and frantic; my heart pounds painfully in my temples. The emptiness rushes in quickly—icy, merciless, swallowing all the brightness.

“Come on, people, faster! Ava has her next set in three minutes! Makeup, water—someone get her ready now!” Beth’s voice cuts sharply and uncompromisingly through the crew’s frantic buzz. My manager seems tense, her dark bob swinging vigorously as she gives orders.

Faces flash past me, hands grabbing urgently. Someone pushes a water bottle into my hand; another hastily pats powder onto my face. I let it happen, just sitting there, staring blankly, while chaos swirls around me.

My fingers tremble as I sip the water; pressure builds inside my chest. Part of me desperately wants to rush back on stage—to return to that sweet poison—while another wants nothing more than to vanish, to become invisible. The contrast is tearing me apart. But I know the moment I'm out there again, everything else will vanish—pain, doubt, emptiness.

“Ava, are you ready?” Beth presses impatiently.

I nod mechanically, forcing a smile onto my face. “Always,” I rasp, pushing myself back onto shaky legs. I breathe deeply, straighten my spine, slip back into my stage mask—and step once more into the dazzling light.

________________________________________

Later I'm lying on my back, stretched out on the absurdly large bed of my penthouse suite. Above me floats a perfectly painted ceiling, immaculate white, just like everything else in my life. And just as empty. The television drones faintly somewhere far away—a dull murmur, half news, half celebrity gossip. It's about me, Ava Monroe, about tonight’s concert, which was apparently “legendary.” But the voices sound distant, distorted, muffled as if wrapped in cotton.

I don't really listen. The world outside doesn't exist right now, or maybe I'm the one who doesn't exist. My body feels heavy and burnt out, as if someone wrung me out and carelessly tossed me onto this bed. I didn't even have the strength to take off my glittering, ridiculously expensive stage clothes. So now I lie here, half dressed, half buried beneath fabric, staring into nothingness.

Beth had talked endlessly earlier. An interview tomorrow, a photo shoot, important people, meetings, contracts. Her flood of words reached me only as meaningless noise, until finally, I lost patience and practically threw her out. Her protesting voice faded behind the door. Now I’m alone with my emptiness.

My gaze drifts slowly around the luxurious hotel room, but nothing touches me. The expensive furniture, the glass walls, the breathtaking view of nighttime Paris—none of it matters. The jacuzzi glitters invitingly in one corner, but my body is far too exhausted to move even an inch.

I close my eyes and try to block out this hunger—for something, for someone. It's pointless. I've tried everything. I’ve been high, drunk, both at the same time; I’ve slept with men other women dream about. But after the second time, they all turn boring and colorless, just like everything else in my life. The **** numb me but don't bring happiness. **** dulls the ache, yet leaves me even emptier. Exercise? Too exhausting, too pointless.

The only **** that works is the stage. Those moments when I feel alive, truly loved. But as soon as I disappear behind the curtain, I fall into an abyss—I'm only shadow and shell, an empty, burned-out husk.

I feel my chest rise and fall, slowly, heavily, unsatisfied. Why isn't this enough? How much louder must the applause become, how many more gold records, luxury hotel suites, desirable men does it take before this hole inside me disappears?

It all started so innocently. I was twelve, sitting in my mother’s bathtub—a silly moment that changed my entire life. Holding my phone awkwardly, balancing a guitar half-submerged, my voice uncertain. I remember the cold enamel pressing into my back, the scent of lavender shampoo, and feeling incredibly foolish. Yet, one click on "Upload," and overnight I had half a million views. "Bathtub Girl sings about the meaning of life," some blog headlined, then a newspaper, then television. Soon the world had discovered me, though I'd never asked for it.

And now? Song after song, city after city, man after man—everything blurs together, interchangeable.

I **** myself up, letting my sweaty stage dress slip carelessly onto the marble floor, underwear and shoes following. Entering the jacuzzi, I feel lighter, sinking into the steaming water, letting it soothe my muscles, calming my pulse.

Automatically, I reach for my phone, opening Pornhub and searching for the exact scenes that ground me. Black men and blonde women, dominant scenes. BBC porn, I guess they call it. It fascinates me—maybe because it's so different from my own experiences.

I've had black lovers—famous, beautiful men with perfect bodies—but each encounter left me disappointed. Not because of them. They were polite, careful—too careful. Nobody wants to disappoint or hurt Ava Monroe. That raw power I secretly crave is something I've only known through the screen.

Such a pity, I think, smiling weakly. Of course, I'd never try this in real life. It would cause a scandal I can't afford. Yet, I indulge in this forbidden fantasy—my small, absurd escape.

The images calm me, relaxing my tense body. My hand slowly slides lower, my breathing deepens. Soon, I hear nothing but my own breaths, the gentle ripple of water, the soft moan escaping my lips. Moments later, a familiar, pleasant warmth spreads through me, soft and comforting. I close my eyes, surrendering to it—a brief, delightful shudder pushing away the emptiness, if only for a moment.

Exhausted, I climb from the jacuzzi, dripping wet, and shuffle back into the bedroom. I collapse onto the bed, rolling into the silk sheets still damp, feeling the gentle pulsing within my body, the tiredness finally settling deep in my bones. Right now, everything feels okay. The emptiness will return—I know it will. But as sleep pulls me under, drifting gently away, things feel bearable, at least for a few hours.