The spotlight was warm, but my hands were ice.
I could hear my name echoing in the auditorium, followed by the sound of clapping — not polite claps, real claps. The kind that hit in waves. The kind that said, She's not just here, she's good.
I stepped up to the podium.
The debate theme? "Social media does more harm than good."
I was arguing for the affirmative.
But this wasn't about the topic anymore.
This was about me.
My voice.
My place.
My turn.
---
I took a breath and spoke.
Not too fast. Not too soft. I'd practiced this, but it didn't feel like practice. It felt like release.
Every point I made felt like reclaiming something I'd been holding inside for years — every statistic, every example, every line crafted with the edge of a girl who had spent way too long not being heard.
And when I finished, there was a pause.
The kind of pause people give when they've just been hit by truth.
Then: applause. Real, thunderous applause.
I stepped back from the mic, and for a moment — I swear — everything stopped.
---
After the winners were announced (I did win, though it felt like a blur), people started filing out of the auditorium. Everyone was talking at once. Congratulating me. A few even asked to take pictures.
But in the back corner of the room, I caught Christabel.
Still.
Alone.
She wasn't clapping anymore.
Just watching.
And for the first time, I couldn't tell what she was thinking.
---
Later that evening, I slipped out before the after-party crowd formed. I wasn't in the mood for noise. I just wanted… quiet.
But he was waiting for me again.
Dami.
Leaning against the side of the building like some teen-movie cliché. Jacket half-zipped, eyes steady, smile lazy.
"You disappear fast for someone who just made history," he said.
"I don't like being the center of attention," I replied.
He arched a brow. "You fooled us all, then."
I rolled my eyes, but he kept looking at me — not like I was a mystery, but like I was something he wanted to understand better.
"You were brilliant today," he added, softer this time.
"Thanks," I said.
But he didn't move.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
I nodded.
He leaned in slightly. "When did you get so… sure of yourself?"
I looked at him, really looked — the soft brown eyes, the quiet curiosity in them, the way he wasn't asking to flatter me. He meant it.
"I think," I said, "I was always sure. I just stopped asking for permission."
He smiled at that. "Dangerous."
"Maybe."
A pause.
Then — his hand brushed mine. Just lightly. Not bold. Not demanding.
But enough.
Enough to feel like the beginning of something.
---
I was still thinking about that moment when I opened my phone later and saw the message.
Christabel:
> So that's it?
You win something and suddenly I don't exist?
I stared at it.
Not anger. Not heartbreak. Just that hollow, sick feeling that comes when something finally breaks all the way through.
Christabel:
> I clapped for you.
I sat in the front row for you.
But you didn't even look at me.
And she wasn't wrong.
I hadn't.
Not once.
---
I didn't reply.
Not right away.
Instead, I sat in the dark with Dami's words in my head and Christabel's silence crumbling into pieces inside my chest.
I'd stepped into the light.
But now the people I loved were burning in its heat.
And I didn't know how to stop it.
---