"Ariana Larken, you're up!" the teacher said, grinning.
Her voice echoed through the room — and I watched it all using memories that rose like smoke, forming shapes, faces, and moments I no longer belonged to.
Young Aria stood, small and nervous, clutching her note like it was a lifeline. I remembered this moment, of course… but watching it now felt different. Like I was seeing a girl I used to know, not someone I still was.
She walked to the front, hands trembling, and I noticed the smirks from the girls who thrived on making her feel small. Their whispers floated around her like tiny stings.
But she kept going.
"Good day, everyone," she began with a shaky smile. "My name is Ariana Larken—"
"We know!!! Get to the point already, LOSER!" Jasmine shouted, laughter exploding behind her.
I flinched as though I'd been struck. Young Aria flinched too — just for a second — but she didn't break.
The teacher scowled. "That's enough, Jasmine. You had your turn." Then she looked at my younger self with a soft, encouraging smile. "Go ahead, Ariana."
Young Aria's voice wavered as she began again. "Hi… I'm going to talk about Evelora Sainthill… and how she changed the world. Or at least… my world."
She glanced at her note, breathed in deeply, gathering courage I didn't realize I even had at that age.
"Evelora Sainthill is a singer, a model… honestly, she's everything. She's the kind of person who can make people smile even when their world is falling apart."
Her voice trembled, but I saw the strength beneath it. The quiet, stubborn strength I hadn't recognized back then.
"When I was five… my parents used to fight a lot. And one night, I heard my dad say something I'll never forget. He said… 'no one will remember you, and that little girl.'"
The classroom went silent. I felt the weight of it again, but this time as a witness, not the girl frozen in that moment.
"My mom cried a lot that night," she whispered, "but then she played one of Evelora's songs… and she smiled again. Like she remembered who she was."
Young Aria blinked fast. Trying not to fall apart.
"That's why I love Evelora Sainthill. Because her music healed someone I love. And one day… I want to be like her. I want to help people remember they matter. I want to be remembered for that."
The room held its breath.
And for a moment, watching her — my younger self, small but brave — I felt something I hadn't felt in years:
Pride.
Real, aching pride for that girl who still believed she could change everything.
The applause started slow, then grew, rising around her like a wave.
She smiled — a pure, radiant smile — and I realized my own face was wet with tears I hadn't noticed. I shivered as if the memory itself had reached inside me.
The teacher's voice broke through softly. "Beautifully said, Aria. You have a gift — don't lose it."
A gift.
I remembered how that word made me glow. Watching it again felt like touching a memory I'd left behind for far too long.
When class ended, young Aria gathered her books. Marie rushed over, enveloping her in a hug.
"Aria, you NAILED that," Marie said, laughing through tears. "Did you see Jasmine's face? Priceless."
"Thank you, you also did great," young Aria replied, her smile soft but genuine.
A few kids stopped by.
"That was really good, Aria," one said.
"You actually made me tear up," another whispered.
She thanked them all, but her eyes lingered on the board and so did mine— her name still written in chalk, slightly smudged but stubbornly there.
At first, I thought. This was how it began for people like Evelora — with a name that stayed.
But I knew better.
It wasn't greatness I saw in that moment.
It was the hunger for it.
Later that night, when young Aria replayed the day in her mind, she couldn't remember everyone's faces — the ones who clapped, the ones who smiled. All she could remember was herself — standing there, glowing in their eyes.
Watching her now, I felt the ache of it.
The desire of wanting to be seen.
To be remembered.
To never fade.
"You'll see, Dad," she whispered, still believing it. "One day, you'll be proud of me."
I flinched, my chest tightening as the memory threatened to overwhelm me. But as I watched that girl — hopeful, shining, unaware — I wished she knew that.
That belief…
would soon become the very thing that would ruin her.