Chapter 26: "Curtains Open"

The gymnasium at Westview University had never looked so alive. Paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, whimsical glow over the polished wooden floors. Balloons floated lazily in clusters near the bleachers. A student DJ spun tracks from a makeshift booth on the stage, blending Afrobeats, K-pop, and indie pop like it was his life's calling. The event was called Fusion Night—an annual tradition where students showcased performances that celebrated different cultures, talents, and stories.

Lily wasn't supposed to be on the performance list. She had signed up to help backstage, moving props and guiding performers on and off the stage. But somehow, amid the chaos of sound checks and last-minute rehearsals, someone overheard her humming while adjusting a microphone. That someone—Jasmine from the music department—grabbed Lily's wrist like she'd discovered a rare gem.

"You need to sing. No arguments."

Lily laughed it off at first, shook her head, and pretended she had too much work to do. But Jasmine persisted. And then Eli walked over, raising an eyebrow in his quiet, charming way. "I think you should. You have the voice of someone who feels things deeply. And that's rare."

She almost told him no. Almost. But the way he said it—the way he looked at her like she mattered—stirred something inside her.

So, she said yes.

Now, she was in a borrowed dress that shimmered with every step, standing behind the curtain, clutching the mic with sweaty palms. Her heart thumped against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

"Next up," the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, "we have someone special making her Fusion Night debut. Please welcome Lily Burnett!"

Applause. Whistles. Then silence.

Lily stepped onto the stage, her eyes catching Eli's camera lens in the crowd, then darting to a group of girls she vaguely recognized from her literature class. She could barely breathe.

The music started—soft, piano-driven. A stripped-down acoustic version of Sia's "Unstoppable."

Lily closed her eyes. And sang.

At first, her voice trembled. But by the second verse, it had grown stronger. The melody filled the space, wrapping around everyone like a secret. Her voice soared, dipped, rose again—raw and real.

She opened her eyes halfway through the chorus and saw someone in the audience wiping tears. Someone else filming. Eli grinned at her, mouthing, "You got this."

And in that moment, she believed it.

When she finished, the room erupted. People stood. Clapped. Cheered. Someone shouted, "Encore!" But Lily only bowed, her cheeks burning with disbelief.

Backstage, Jasmine hugged her tight. "Told you. You're a star."

But Lily didn't feel like a star. She felt like herself—finally, unapologetically herself.

Later that night, Lily sat outside the dorm with Eli, sharing a bag of salt and vinegar chips under the pale light of a lamppost.

"I'm still shaking," she said, giggling.

"You're glowing," Eli replied. "Not from nerves. From joy."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I forgot how much I loved performing. I used to sing all the time, back home. In my room, in the shower, even in class when I thought no one was listening. But then... I don't know. I stopped."

"Why?"

She hesitated. "Because I started thinking I needed to be small to be accepted. Not just physically. In every way. I muted myself. Made my light dimmer so other people wouldn't find me too much."

Eli nodded slowly. "I get that."

She tilted her head. "You do?"

He crumpled the chip bag slightly, then set it on the bench beside him. "I used to play piano. I mean, I still do, but not for anyone else. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a composer. I'd write these cheesy little melodies and play them for my parents, thinking I'd grow up to score movies or something."

"What happened?"

"My dad said music wasn't a real career. Said I needed to be practical. So I picked up a camera instead—something quieter, something I could hide behind. And I got good at it. But sometimes I still hear those notes in my head, you know? Melodies that never got finished."

Lily looked at him for a long moment. "You hide behind the camera?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, glancing down at his hands. "It's easier to frame the world than be in it. But tonight… when you sang… it reminded me that there's something powerful about not hiding. About standing in the middle of everything and just… being."

Her throat tightened. "I think I've been hiding my whole life."

"You weren't hiding tonight," he said softly. "You were blazing."

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the night settle around them. A moth flitted past the lamppost, casting tiny shadows against the wall.

"Promise me you'll keep singing," Eli said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lily looked up at the stars. "I will. And you… maybe you should start composing again."

He chuckled. "Maybe we'll make something together someday. You sing. I score."

She smiled. "Deal."

The next few days felt different. People stopped her in the halls to compliment her performance. Someone even asked if she'd join the acapella group on campus. She politely declined—for now—but her chest swelled with a quiet pride.

It wasn't about being seen. Not anymore.

It was about seeing herself.

She danced more, too. In her room, in the lounge, sometimes even on the sidewalk when her headphones were in and the sky looked just right. She found joy in the movement—in the way her body responded to rhythm, not rules.

One afternoon, walking back from class, she passed a group of students dancing to a Bluetooth speaker near the quad. Without thinking, she joined them—twirling, laughing, losing herself in the beat. Someone handed her a bubble tea, and she sipped it like she belonged.

Because she did.

It wasn't all perfect. There were still moments—quiet ones—where doubt crept in. When she stood in front of the mirror and questioned herself. When she compared her body to someone else's. When an old insecurity whispered in her ear.

But now, she had a weapon.

Music.

When the voices in her head got too loud, she'd press play on her favorite playlist, slide into socks on the wooden dorm floor, and spin like the world was hers.

And in those moments, she felt unstoppable.

One evening, while scrolling through her messages, she saw Joe's name again. No new texts. Just the old ones.

She didn't feel the urge to reach out anymore.

Not out of anger. Just... clarity.

He had been a chapter. Not the whole story.

And she was writing something better now.

The semester moved fast. Midterms, group projects, late-night snacks, inside jokes with Jess. She even started helping Ava write lyrics for a comic-themed musical they'd made up over a call. Her mom called more often, always ending the calls with, "I'm proud of you."

Lily started keeping a small journal—not for calorie counts or to-do lists, but for little joys. A compliment from a stranger. A moment of peace. A new dance step. A lyric that stuck in her head.

And slowly, the pages filled.

So did her life.

One Sunday, she stood in front of the mirror—not sucking in her stomach, not adjusting her shirt to look smaller. Just... looking.

And smiling.

Not because she looked different.

But because she felt different.

Free.

And that—she realized—was the real glow-up.

Not the weight loss.

Not the makeup.

Not the clothes.

But the freedom to be herself.

Unapologetically. Loudly. Joyfully.

And as she hit play on her favorite song, Lily Burnett twirled in her room, her voice rising with the music, her laughter echoing off the walls.

No audience.

No performance.

Just her.

And that was enough.

More than enough.