The Call to Leave

____________________________________________________________________________

The world outside the circus is quiet at night.

The dirt path leading away from the tents is uneven, its edges frayed with weeds. Ail steps lightly, their breath steady, their heartbeat a quiet drum in their ears. The night is cool, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke.

They shouldn't be here.

They know this, but their feet keep moving.

For as long as they can remember, the circus has been their world—bright, strange, and inescapable. But something beyond the rusting caravans and dimming stage lights has always called to them, something shimmering in the distance like a dream just out of reach.

Tonight, they answer that call.

Town is different from the circus—sharp corners instead of soft, familiar edges, the hum of electricity instead of the distant melody of an old calliope. The buildings stand tall, windows glowing like golden eyes in the dark. Ail moves carefully through the streets, their breath slow, steady.

And then, they see it.

A cluster of newspapers, stacked unevenly at a street corner. A headline in bold, demanding ink.

"NEW FILM AUDITIONS OPEN – THE SEARCH FOR THE NEXT STAR!"

The words hit Ail like a blow to the chest. Their fingers tighten around the edge of the paper, their pulse hammering in their throat. The world tilts. The lights of the town blur.

This is it.

The thought blooms fast and hungry. The stage, the applause, the recognition. The world sees them—not just as an acrobat, not just a performer trapped in a fading circus—but as something greater.

Their hands shake.

Somewhere deep inside, they've always known they weren't meant to stay in the circus forever. They love it, yes, but love has never been enough. Not for them. Not for the life they want.

Ail exhales sharply and folds the newspaper, tucking it under their coat before slipping back into the night.

The walk back to the circus feels different. The tents look smaller, the air heavier. The voices of the performers—once comforting—seem distant now, like echoes from another life.

Inside their tent, they pull out the hidden compartment beneath their bed, pushing aside film magazines to make room for the newspaper. They run their fingers over the headline, tracing the words like a promise.

"The next star."

They close their eyes, picturing their name in lights, their face on the silver screen.

A whisper escapes their lips, a thought that has been growing inside them for years, finally given shape, finally spoken into existence:

"I was born to be more than this."

The idea has already taken root.

And there is no turning back now.