Track Eight — Echoes in the Studio — goes live in the morning, and it feels exactly like what it is: a late‑night confession whispered into a microphone. Soft. Raw. A little lonely. A little brave.
I’m proud of it.
And apparently, the universe is proud of me too, because I get a burst of inspiration and immediately update my lot traits:
- Private Dwelling — because I need space
- Great Acoustics — because my voice deserves it
- Convivial — because I like people, even when I pretend I don’t
Then I spend some of my hard‑earned satisfaction points on aspiration perks:
- Frugal — because bills are rude
- Free Services — because convenience is a lifestyle
- Incredibly Friendly — because it’s true
- Shameless — because I’m done apologizing for existing
- Antiseptic — because I don’t have time to get sick
It feels like leveling up in real life.
Then I check my phone.
And there they are.
Pictures from dinner at Chez Llama.
Me and Thorne.
Laughing.
Talking.
Walking out together.
My stomach drops.
I should focus on singing and streaming and being a responsible adult who does not get photographed with married celebrities on Love Day.
So I decide that today I’m staying close to the house.
And I actually do it.
Until 10:30 am when my phone rings.
Thorne.
I stare at the screen.
I know what I should do.
I answer anyway.
“Hey,” he says, warm and familiar. “I’m grabbing lunch. Want to join me?”
I should say no.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
It’s just lunch.
Just a friendly meal at a quiet café.
Just two artists talking about music and work and the weirdness of fame.
Just a few hours of easy conversation.
Except for that one kiss.
But nothing else happens.
When lunch ends, he walks me to the curb, smiles, and heads off to wherever he goes when he’s not here.
I go home alone.
Track Nine — Gravity Can’t Hold Me — goes live in the morning, and honestly? It feels like a declaration. A little bold. A little dramatic. A little “I’m rising whether the world is ready or not.”
I’m halfway through my warm‑ups when my doorbell rings.
Kelsi.
She’s still a teen, so she had to wait for a break from classes to visit. She practically launches herself at me the second I open the door.
“Noelle! You’re famous!”
“I’m not famous,” I say, hugging her tight.
“You have a star,” she counters. “That counts.”
Fair.
We spend the afternoon catching up — her school drama, my music drama, her crushes, my… complicated situation. She doesn’t push. She just listens. That’s why she’s Kelsi.
I wasn’t planning to go out tonight.
I really wasn’t.
But Kelsi wants to see the sights before she has to go home, and there’s only one place that feels right.
Orchid A Go Go.
The bouncer waves us in — which makes Kelsi gasp — and the place is buzzing. Warm lights, soft chatter, the hum of performers tuning instruments.
And, of course, Thorne.
He’s on stage, guitar in hand, like he lives there. He looks up, sees me, and smiles. Then he sees Kelsi and gives her a polite nod.
I introduce them.
Kelsi is starstruck.
Thorne is gracious.
I am trying very hard to act normal.
I sing a little.
Kelsi cheers like I’m headlining a stadium.
I drink a little — nothing wild, just enough to feel warm and loose.
Thorne performs a comedy set.
Kelsi nearly falls off her barstool laughing.
I watch him the way I always do — carefully, quietly, trying not to feel too much.
We stay for a while — long enough for her to soak in the lights, the music, the energy of Del Sol Valley. Long enough for her to see the version of me I’m becoming.
And then we head home.
Track Ten — Two Nights Running — goes live in the morning, and it feels like a little time capsule. A reminder of those first chaotic days in Del Sol Valley when everything was new and fast and a little overwhelming. It’s rhythmic, breathless, honest. Very me.
Kelsi and I spend the morning together — breakfast, gossip, a little tour of my half‑finished house. She keeps saying things like “You’re so grown up now” and “I can’t believe you live here” and “Do you think Thorne Bailey remembers my name?”
He does.
But I don’t tell her that.
I let her have the magic.
She has to head back home after lunch.
School tomorrow.
Real life.
Normal life.
We hug for a long time at the door. She smells like strawberry shampoo and teenage confidence. She promises to visit again. I promise to call more often. She waves from the sidewalk until she’s out of sight.
And just like that, the house is quiet again.
I take a deep breath and slip back into my rhythm.
First: my next neighborhood video.
The drone hums around the streets, catching little slices of Del Sol Valley — the palm trees, the sidewalks, the way the sunlight hits the pavement in the late afternoon. I’ll edit it later, give it a title that’s half‑poetic, half‑ridiculous, and upload it to my shiny new professional accounts.
Then: my next track.
I pick a beat, warm up my voice, and fall into the work.
Layer by layer.
Line by line.
Breath by breath.
By the time dinner rolls around, I’m tired in that satisfying way — the kind of tired that comes from doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing.
I crawl under the covers early, listening to the soft hum of the city outside my window, and let myself drift.
Track Eleven — Signed — goes live in the morning, and it feels like a milestone. A declaration. A reminder that I belong to a label now, that I’m not just making music in a vacuum. I’m part of something bigger.
And then something even bigger happens.
I finish my singing lessons.
Mastery.
Actual mastery.
I stand in my studio afterward, hands on my hips, breathing hard, feeling like I’ve just climbed a mountain I’ve been staring at since childhood. My voice feels strong. Clear. Mine.
So of course I want to try something new.
I heard a rumor — that you can sing outside Studio PBH and maybe get noticed. So I head over, stand on the sidewalk, take a deep breath, and—
Nothing.
No audience.
No tips.
No spark.
Just me, the pavement, and a very confused tourist walking by.
Fine.
I convince the bouncer to let me inside — which takes more charm than I expected — and head straight to the bar. I order a drink, something fruity and fizzy, and try to shake off the awkwardness.
And then I hear it.
My song.
When Sims Cry.
On the radio.
I have a drink to celebrate.
Then another.
Then another, because apparently hearing your own voice in public is a lot to process.
The bartender
I’m warm, tipsy, happy — until the bartender says something mean. Not devastating, just rude enough to sting. Something about “wannabe singers” and “overnight fame.”
And because I’m tipsy and feeling bold, I say:
“You should be careful out at night. A vampire might decide you’re a tasty snack.”
He does not find this funny.
I am asked to leave.
Fair.
I head to Orchid instead — my comfort zone, my home base, my sanctuary. I order bread rolls and another drink, something I don’t bother naming. The lights are warm, the music is soft, and for a moment, I feel okay again.
But then the restlessness hits.
I decide to walk it off.
The night air is cool, and the city feels alive in that way only Del Sol Valley can. I wander to Starlight Boulevard, where the celebrity tiles line the sidewalk like constellations.
I find Thorne’s first.
I stare at it longer than I should, tracing the edges with my eyes, feeling something twist in my chest.
Then I find Octavia’s.
His wife.
Her tile is beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. Everything she is.
And suddenly that keyed‑up feeling spikes — not jealousy, not anger, just too many emotions in too small a space.
So I walk.
I take my time looking at every star, greeting tourists, smiling for pictures, letting the energy of the boulevard settle me.
By the time I head home, the keyed‑up static has softened into something quieter. Something manageable.
Track Twelve — Left Couch, Right Couch — goes live in the morning, and honestly? It feels like an inside joke with myself. A little wink at the fact that my house is still half‑furnished and I have very strong opinions about which couch is superior. (Left couch forever.)
But today isn’t about couches.
Today I make a decision.
I’m going to start acting.
It hits me while I’m scrolling through my goals for the generation — like a neon sign I somehow missed until now. Acting. I’m supposed to act. I’m supposed to be on screens, not just in headphones.
So I sign up with the Everyday Extras Agency.
I’m still signed with Dinky Beats for music — obviously — but now I have two careers. Two dreams. Two paths. And because of my upbringing, I get to start as an actual Actress even though I have zero acting skill.
Well… except for the one where I pretend I’m not falling in love with Thorne.
That one I’ve mastered.
When I check the available gigs, one jumps out immediately:
Salty Suds Commercial
Requirements: Charisma Level 2.
Perfect.
The audition is tomorrow.
The gig is the day after.
I can do this.
I decide to spend the rest of the day working on my social media presence — uploading videos, editing footage, maybe streaming a little. I fall into the rhythm easily, and before I know it…
I reach mastery of media production.
And then my phone buzzes.
Thorne
He invites me out for a day at the park with a group of friends.
I hesitate for half a second — because I know what happens when I’m around him — but it’s a group outing, and I’m trying to be normal, so I say yes.
We meet at the park.
It’s sunny.
Warm.
Easy.
And almost immediately, the paparazzi show up.
Cameras clicking.
Voices whispering.
Notifications popping up on my phone before I’ve even finished saying hello.
The pictures are already online.
We talk.
We laugh.
We sit on the grass and watch the clouds.
I try not to stare at him too much.
He tries not to stare at me too much.
Everyone pretends not to notice.
For a moment, it feels almost normal.
Until the storm rolls in
Thunder cracks across the sky like someone dropped a bowling ball on the clouds.
Everyone jumps.
Someone screams.
A toddler starts crying.
The paparazzi scatter like pigeons.
We all run for cover — laughing, yelling, soaked within seconds.
And just like that, the day is over.
When I get back to my house, dripping and tired, I collapse onto the left couch — the superior couch — and breathe.
Track Thirteen — Say Everything — is supposed to be about honesty. About saying the things you’re scared to say out loud. About the moment before the moment.
I finish the last mix with my heart still buzzing from the storm, from the park, from the way Thorne looked at me earlier like he was trying not to think something he was already thinking.
I hit Release.
And then there’s a knock at my door.
I know who it is before I open it.
Thorne.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
Like the storm earlier never really left him.
Like he’s standing on the edge of something and doesn’t know how to step back.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I nod and let him in.
We sit on the couch — the left couch, the good couch — and for a moment neither of us speaks.
Then he exhales, long and shaky.
“Noelle… I need to tell you something. Before this goes any further.”
My heart stutters.
He rubs a hand over his face. “Octavia and I… we’re not really together. Not like people think. We’re barely friends at this point.”
I blink. “But you’re still—”
“Married,” he finishes. “Yeah. For our son. For stability. For the image. For everything except love.”
He looks at me then — really looks at me — and there’s something raw in his eyes.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” he says. “Not about this. Not about anything.”
He stands, like he’s about to leave, like he’s giving me space to run.
And I can’t let him.
“Stay,” I say.
It comes out soft.
He freezes.
Then nods.
I take his hand — slowly, like I’m giving him time to pull away — and lead him toward the bedroom.
I open the closet door.
He laughs under his breath. “Really?”
“It’s tradition,” I say, trying not to smile.
He steps in with me.
The door closes.
When the door swings open again, we’re both flushed and laughing quietly, like we’ve shared a secret the universe already knew.
We fall into my bed — clothes half‑straightened, hair a disaster, hearts still racing.
He wraps an arm around me.
I tuck myself against him.
And for the first time in weeks, my mind goes quiet.
We fall asleep like that.
I wake to sunlight and the soft sound of him breathing beside me.
He’s already watching me, eyes gentle in a way that makes my stomach flip.
I make breakfast — because I need something to do with my hands — and he sits at my tiny table like he belongs there.
We eat in a silence that feels full, not fragile.
When I grab my bag for the audition, he stands too.
“I should go,” he says.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
But neither of us moves for a moment.
Then he squeezes my hand — just once — and slips out the door.
I walk into the studio still carrying the warmth of him with me.
And somehow, that steadies me.
I smile.
I charm.
I deliver the lines like I’ve been doing this forever.
And I nail it.
The message hits my phone before I’m even home:
You got the part — Salty Suds Commercial.
Track Fourteen — Solitaire Face — drops in the morning, and it feels sharper than the others. Cleaner. Like a mirror I finally stopped flinching away from. It’s about standing alone, but not lonely. About choosing your own reflection instead of waiting for someone else to define it.
Maybe that’s why the notification hits different.
I get my second star.
Rising Star.
I stare at the screen for a full ten seconds before it sinks in.
Two stars.
And not just that — I have a great reputation. People actually like me. They think I’m kind. They think I’m approachable. They think I’m someone worth rooting for.
I get two new perks:
- CelebSerum — which sounds like something that could either make me glow or turn me into a llama.
- Networking — which basically means I can talk my way into rooms I probably shouldn’t be in.
And suddenly I want to do something with this.
Something big.
Something that says I’m here.
Meet and Greet? Why not.
I check my goals.
“Host a Meet and Greet.”
“Visit a Celebrity Hot Spot.”
Well… Orchid A Go Go is a celebrity hot spot.
And I practically live there anyway.
So I grab my bag, fix my hair, and head out.
Orchid A Go Go — again, but different this time
The bouncer waves me in without even checking the list.
That’s new.
The room feels different too — warmer, brighter, like the lights know my name now. People glance over, whisper, smile. A few wave.
I take a breath.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Let’s do this.”
I pull up my phone and schedule a Meet and Greet right there on the spot.
Family first — of course.
But everyone else?
If they want an autograph, they get one.
If they don’t want an autograph, they probably still get one.
I pose for pictures.
I sign napkins, shirts, a random guitar pick someone swears is lucky.
I hug strangers.
I laugh.
I sparkle a little.
And somehow — somehow — it becomes a Gold Event.
My first official celebrity event.
And I nailed it.
Thorne
He’s there too — not as a celebrity, not as a spectacle, but as someone who’s watching me with this quiet, proud expression that makes my stomach flip.
We don’t talk much.
We don’t need to.
But when the event winds down and I say my goodbyes, I walk straight to him.
He opens his arms without hesitation.
I hug him — fully, openly, paparazzi be damned.
Flashes go off.
People whisper.
Someone gasps.
I don’t care.
For once, I don’t care at all.
I pull back and smile at him.
“I have a commercial to film in the morning,” I say.
He smiles too — soft, warm, knowing. “Go get some sleep, Rising Star.”
I leave Orchid glowing — from the lights, from the attention, from the hug, from everything.
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