The tour was supposed to be the pinnacle of Maya's year—a string of sold-out shows across the West Coast, interviews lined up in every city, her face on billboards she still wasn't used to seeing.
But after the first few weeks, the excitement began to drain.
Every morning started with a schedule sent to her phone: sound check, radio spot, meet-and-greet, show, afterparty. Repeat. Her voice was raw, her smile mechanical. She sang the same songs night after night, the crowd screaming the words back at her, but inside she felt like she was drifting further from the girl who'd once played for spare change on a sidewalk.
Backstage one night in Portland, she caught her reflection in the dressing room mirror—perfect makeup, sequined dress, the kind of image magazines called "flawless." But her eyes looked dull, as if all the color had been wrung out.
Then came the online criticism.
At first, it was small—a comment about her "selling out," a fan saying she'd "lost her edge." Then more: She's just another industry puppet.Remember when she was real?
She tried not to look, but the words stuck like splinters.
One night after a show, she found Tasha sitting on the floor of a hotel hallway, knees hugged to her chest.
"Rough night?" Maya asked, sitting beside her.
"Rough month," Tasha muttered. "We're not machines, you know? But they treat us like we are."
Maya wanted to agree, but she was too tired. Instead, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. The hallway was quiet except for the hum of the vending machine, and for a moment, it felt like they were far from the noise of the world.
But the next morning, the tour bus rolled on, the schedule pinged on her phone, and the show went on whether she wanted it to or not.