Chapter Text
I used to think fame was like a door you could just walk through, and walk out of at any time you wanted. Like, you could open it, and everything would make sense. That's the lie they sell you. What it really is, is a hallway. Long and narrow. Fluorescent lights that hum SO loud, you cannot hear yourself think. Every door you pass is labeled with something you didn't agree to. Opinion. Expectations. Ownership. I didn't know that, yet. In 2018, I thought I was finally doing something right. I posted a song. One song. Nothing revolutionary. Just me, a beat, and the audacity to believe that maybe this time, people would hear me.
And boy, did they hear me. That was apart of the problem, actually. You don't get famous all at once. It's not fireworks, or champagne. It's your phone ringing while you're brushing your teeth. Every day. All day. It's numbers going up while you're still in your pajamas. It's strangers using your first name like they've earned it. I will never cringe more than when people called me Gabrielle. It's waking up to yourself, and going to sleep as a headline.
No one tells you that the version of you they fall in love with isn't you. It's a screenshot. A soundbite. A moment you didn't realize would outlive you. And once they decided who you are? Good luck changing their minds. If I could go back in time and talk to that girl, the one refreshing her notifications, heart racing, telling herself 'this is the real start', I wouldn't have warned her. Because warnings never work. People never listen. I wouldn't have listened. I didn't. Instead, I'd just tell her this: you never know what you're getting in for. You just think you do. And by the time you realize the cost, you've already paid for it. You're a sitting duck, waiting for their aim.
I had woken up before my alarm, the same way I do now. There's a thin strip of light cutting through the blinds, landing across the white washed walls. The apartment is quiet in a way that feels intentional. No roommates, no pets, no background noise except the hum of LA bleeding through the glass. For a moment, I lied still in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I let the weight of being awake settle into my chest. Today was going to be a long day. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, but I didn't reach for it right away. It took me about ten minutes of just existing before I was ready.
When I did, it was out of habit more than curiosity. Notifications stack on top of each other, replies, mentions, opinions already arguing with opinions. The Fine Bros React video about my song had been posted today, and I got to explain my side a little bit more. It was filmed nearly a month ago, and I was just glad that people were perceiving it nicely. Antisocial Media sat pinned at the top of my mind like a bruise. My first real song. My first real step outside of the box I'd been shoved into. I scrolled without absorbing nay of it, my thumb moving faster than my brain could process. Praises blur into criticism, and excitement into suspicion. It all looks the same before coffee.
I swung my legs out of my bed and made my way into the kitchen to get a cup. I picked a cutesy mug a fan had given me during my Drop The Mic tour. The apartment is modest but, just like the rest, intentional. There were clean lines, neutral colors, and nothing loud enough to demand attention. I booted up the Keurig and popped a pod in, and started brewing a cup. When the coffee finally brews, the smell filled the room. I take my mug and I sit by the window in the dining area. Outside, Los Angeles is waking up in fragments. Cars pass through intersections. Someone walks a dog. A delivery truck idles for too long. Life continues, blissfully.
I watched it all with a distant expression on my face, which I could see in the reflection of the glass. Dark circles under were under my eyes, and my hair was messy and unbrushed. I looked like myself. Unfiltered, and unperforming. Both felt comfort, yet terrifying. My phone buzzed again from the kitchen, so I walked over and collected it. There were multiple messages from multiple friends. 'You okay?', 'Want to come over later?', 'Saw the song drop, proud of you!', 'Call me when you get a minute' They all read out. I read each one carefully, and yet, I didn't reply to a single one.
My chest tightened with a familiar pressure, a mix of gratitude and fatigue that I couldn't quite untangle. I knew I should answer. I know how it looked. Distant. Ungrateful. Cold. I had been called all of these things before, and I still am to this day. My fingers moved as if I was going to type, but I stopped. What would I even say? 'I'm fine', felt like a lie. 'I'm not fine,' felt like an invitation I didn't have the energy to host. Every response comes with a follow up I did not want to answer. I locked my phone and set it face down on the table as if that might quiet the noise.
The apartment felt smaller without the glow of the screen. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets thoughts echo. I curled into myself on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tight like I was trying to hold myself together. It isn’t that I don't care. It’s that caring takes more from me than I have left to give. For a moment, I considered picking the phone back up. Calling someone. Anyone. The thought flickers, briefly. But the words don’t form. They stall somewhere between my chest and my throat, stuck behind years of being misunderstood, misquoted, misused. The moment passes.