Chapter 2: Fame, Masks, and Old Wounds

Ryan Carter has been in the industry for seven years, won countless awards, and is the perfect idol in the eyes of millions.

He was the American Dream packaged for the digital age—clean-cut, talented, a little mysterious. Kids posted covers of his songs on TikTok; parents bought tickets to his concerts for Christmas.

After so many years, I saw him again.

But this time, he was a guest on a reality show, and I was just the camera operator.

Funny how life works. I was behind the scenes now, blending in with the crew, making sure the stars shone while I stayed in the shadows.

It was Ryan Carter’s first time on a reality show, and his fans were hyped.

Social media was buzzing. People camped out on lawn chairs outside the set, clutching posters and coffee from the gas station down the street. It felt like half the city was holding its breath.

As soon as he showed up, the place went wild, and a swarm of photographers rushed forward.

The air popped with camera flashes and excited shrieks, security trying to keep the chaos contained. I almost dropped my lens cap in the shuffle.

A coworker nudged me. “Ryan Carter’s here.”

“I see.”

I tried to sound casual, but my stomach did a little flip. His presence had that effect, like the first thunderclap of summer.

In the guest hallway, he kept his head down, pulled his baseball cap lower, and hurried past.

Even just the sight of his back made the crowd scream.

He moved with that quick, understated confidence famous people have—like he’d been on the run his whole life. His fans’ voices rose up in a tidal wave.

I quickly switched on my camera and caught his entrance.

Damn, he’s good-looking.

There’s no denying it. Even the harsh hallway lights couldn’t make a dent in his appeal. I had to steady my hands before pressing record.

I could probably sell this footage to his fans.

There were whole online groups dedicated to collecting every candid moment of his life. My inbox would explode if I leaked this.

“Hey, didn’t Ryan Carter graduate from Maple Heights High? You went there too, right? Do you know him?” my colleague suddenly asked.

I paused, and a memory from years ago surfaced.

My heart tripped. It was like opening a dusty yearbook—old photos, half-forgotten laughter, echoes of lockers slamming shut.

Back then, my name was Natalie Chen.

I’d written it in Sharpie on the inside cover of every notebook. Natalie Chen—forever trying to fix what was broken, especially people.

In a pool hall, I clutched a workbook, tears running down my face: “Ryan Carter, stop fighting. Do your homework before you fight, okay?”

I remembered the sticky floors, the tang of cheap beer in the air, the sound of pool balls cracking. My hands shook as I shoved a battered Algebra II book at him, voice thick with frustration and hope.

Blood dripped from the back of Ryan’s hand. He was so annoyed he could barely stand it.

“Natalie, you’re such a pain.”

“Can’t you take a hint? Just leave me alone.”

He’d glared at me, knuckles raw. Even then, I could see the weight he carried—a different kind of pain than mine.

...

I snapped out of it and smiled, shaking my head. “He’s a superstar. How could I possibly know him?”

I put on my best nothing-to-see-here act, voice light, but my palms were clammy on the camera grip.

Once people get famous, they cut off all ties with regular friends to avoid being dragged down by their past.

That was the American celebrity way: clean slate, new narrative, no baggage. Who wants to see old photos of the prom king with zits and braces?

Ryan didn’t have a great reputation in high school, so he probably wouldn’t want to see old classmates.

He’d made it out of the local rumor mill—maybe he wanted to forget we all existed.

Besides, he hated me back then.

That was the truth I carried like an old scar.

I’d be better off just collecting his footage and selling it to fans. Why bother him?

Better to keep my distance, stay behind the lens.