The Superstar Thinks I Died
Chapter 1: Ghosts of Maple Heights
When I switched schools senior year, the rumor mill in my hometown spun out of control. By the time the dust settled, folks were whispering that I’d left because of leukemia.
That’s the kind of story that sticks in a small town. One day you’re just gone, and next thing you know, the story’s grown legs and is sprinting through every corner of the school—cafeteria, football bleachers, even the Dairy Queen parking lot. Suddenly, my name was whispered in hallways I’d never walk again.
Not long after, the cynical slacker who always slouched in the back row suddenly got quiet. He dropped his rebellious act, threw himself into his studies, and got accepted to the top music conservatory in the country.
I still remember him slouched in the back row, doodling band logos on his desk, eyes half-closed. The idea of him in pressed khakis would've made us all choke on our cafeteria pizza. Back then, no one expected much from Ryan Carter—he was more likely to get detention than a diploma. So when he started pulling all-nighters in the library and trading his ripped jeans for pressed khakis, it was like watching a storm settle over a calm lake. Teachers started glancing at him twice, like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
Nine years later, he was famous, topping the charts, a household name.
His name was everywhere—on billboards downtown, in every Target aisle, playing through the crackly speakers at a diner on Route 66. Even my grandma in Arizona knew his face.
During a livestream, when someone asked about his love life, he looked lost and sad.
“She’s not here anymore.”
“If I’d known, I never would have wished for her to stay eighteen forever.”
He looked like he was carrying every year he’d lived right there on his shoulders. Fans tried to cheer him up in the comments, but that hollow look didn’t budge.
Wearing a mask and holding a camera, I happened to pan past his phone’s lock screen—and froze.
Oh.
Is that... me?
For a second, the world shrank to the size of that tiny glowing rectangle. All those years apart, and I was right there, pixelated and permanent on his phone.
