Aesthete | Luxiem ?

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Lost In The Spotlight
-angst-

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Settings
Stage | 4:57 PM

Characters
Vox Akuma
Marie as you

Status
Edited | Published

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Vox Akuma had always loved the stage. The thrill of performing, the energy from the crowd, the way the spotlight seemed to erase everything but the present moment—it was intoxicating.

He built his career around that feeling: chasing bigger audiences, grander stages, and louder applauses. His life had become a series of performances as each one outshined the last.

But tonight, something felt different.

As he stood backstage, preparing for the biggest performance of his career, Vox couldn’t shake the anxious feeling gnawing at the corner of his mind. His gaze drifted to a familiar face standing near the stage entrance, partially hidden in the shadows.

Marie. She was his oldest friend, the one who had been there before the fame, before the fans, before all and everything he had now.

She had been his anchor一his reminder of where he’d come from and who he’d been before the spotlight claimed him. She had cheered him on at his first open mic, had believed in him when he doubted himself, and had stood by his side through every struggle and triumph.

But lately, he realized he barely had a moment to see her, to talk to her, or to even remember she was there. The fame had taken up all the space he used to share with her.

He took a deep breath, forcing a smile as he approached her. “Hey, Marie. Glad you could make it tonight.”

She returned his smile, though there was a sadness in her eyes he hadn’t noticed before. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Vox." A momentary paused. "You know that.” Her voice was soft, as if carrying a weight that Vox couldn’t quite place.

He opened his mouth to ask her if something was wrong, but just then, his manager appeared and gestured him to the stage. The moment briskly slipped away and got lost in the hustled noise.

Vox gave her one last glance but she had already stepped back into the shadows, her figure blending into the crowd of backstage staffs and equipments. He shook off the uneasy feeling and stepped into the spotlight, readying himself to give the performance of a lifetime.

The stage lights blazed down on him, the audience’s cheers filled the air. Vox dove into his act. His voice strong, his movements flawless, every gesture and word perfectly timed. This was what he lived for一what he had always dreamed of. But somewhere in the middle of his performance, as he looked out over the vastly of faces, a strange emptiness washed over him.

The cheers suddenly felt distant and the applause hollowed. And in that brief moment, he realized he couldn’t see Marie. She was out there, somewhere, but she felt as unreachable as if she’d been a thousand miles away.

When the show finally ended, the crowd’s roar faded and Vox found himself alone in his dressing room. He expected Marie to come by, as she always did, to congratulate him, to share a laugh, to remind him of all the reasons he’d started this journey. But the minutes passed by and she never appeared.

The room felt frozen solid, the silence was deafening. He grabbed his phone, scrolling through missed messages, calls一anything that might explain her absence. But there was nothing—only the last text from her, a simple “Good luck,” sent hours before the show had even started.

Feeling a surge of panic, he left the dressing room and wandered the backstage halls to search for any sign of her. Finally, he found one of the stagehands who had been around during the performance.

“Did you see Marie?” Vox asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

The stagehand shook his head. “I think she left a little while after the show started. Sorry, man.”

The words hit Vox like a punch to the gut.

'She left?' he whispered, as if talking to himself.

Marie had never left one of his shows before. She was the one constant in his life一the one person who had never faltered, who had never fleeted in moments like this. And now, it felt as if she were slipping away, just like he’d been slipping from her life, one ... performance ... at a time.

His stomach formed knots. Heart ached. The realization hit him hard. He’d been so consumed by the spotlight, so lost in his pursuit of fame, that he’d let the people who mattered most drift away.

Marie had been his biggest supporter, his best friend—and he had taken her for granted, assuming she’d always be there, waiting in the shadows.

For the first time in years, the stage felt like a cage, as if trapping him in a life that had made him grow, alone. He sank onto his chair and felt the weight of every missed conversation, every unreturned call, every promise he hadn't fulfilled.

As he sat there, lost in thought, he realized something he should have seen long ago. The spotlight had been his dream but it had also become his prison for it hindered him to notice the people who had made that dream possible. And now, the one person who had truly mattered was gone and he didn’t know if he’d ever get her back.

In that moment, Vox made a decision. Fame was fleeting but true friendship—the kind Marie had shown him—was rare and precious. And he was done taking it for granted.

Pulling out his phone, he typed a message, hoping it wasn’t too late.

“Marie, I’m sorry. I’ve been so lost in this world that I forgot what really mattered. If you’ll give me a chance, I want to make things right. I wish I had known then what I know now. Please, let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

He hit send. The weight of his words felt heavy but hopeful. He didn’t know if she’d respond or if he’d ever get the chance to fix what he had broken. But for the first time, he was ready to step out of the spotlight to find his way back to the person who had been there from the start.

As he sat there, waiting in the silence, he felt a slight of hope that maybe he could find his way back—not to the fame or the applause but to something real, something worth holding onto.

But when he glaced back at his phone, his whole body froze, unable to move an inch.

He just stared.

Sorry.

And stared.

You have been blocked by this user.

And stared. And stared. And stared.