By the time the city woke up, I was already tired of it.
Sirens stitched the morning together like loose thread, and the bodega downstairs argued with the sunrise using neon lights and burnt coffee. I stood on the fire escape outside our apartment, phone in hand, watching my name trend for the wrong reasons—again.
Well, not my name-name.
Nova Reyes.
Sixteen. Three million followers. One viral song.
And a whole city that loved me just enough to hate me louder.
"Girl, you gonna fall or you gonna come eat?" my mom yelled from inside.
"I'm coming," I said, even though I didn't move.
The comments kept rolling.
She thinks she's hood but lives like a princess.
Industry plant.
She fake.
I knew her before the fame—she was nobody.
Nobody stung the most.
I'd been somebody on these sidewalks long before the blue checkmark showed up.
I slid the phone into my hoodie pocket and climbed back inside. Our apartment smelled like hair grease and toast. Mom was already dressed for her morning shift, scrubs creased sharp like she needed armor.
"You got school," she said, not looking at me. "And don't start that face."
"I'm not starting anything."
"You always say that right before you start something."
She handed me a plate. Toast. No butter. We were running low again.
"Mom," I said quietly, "they're waiting outside now."
That got her attention.
"Who?"
"People. Phones. Opinions."
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You wanted this, Nova."
"I wanted music," I said. "Not surveillance."
She softened then, just a little. "Keep your hood up. Go straight to school."
As if straight was ever an option in this city.
---
The block was already buzzing when I stepped outside. Kids cutting class. Old men arguing over dominoes. Someone blasting last summer's drill track from a cracked speaker. And across the street—three girls I used to know before I became a headline.
They didn't wave.
They stared.
I walked past them like I didn't notice, but my chest tightened anyway.
Back when my name was just Nova, not that Nova, we used to sit on the stoop and write rhymes on notebook paper, dreaming about stages that felt a million miles away. Now I had the stage—and they had the distance.
"Yo, Nova," one of them called. "Sing something."
Laughter followed.
I didn't turn around.
Because if I did, I might remember who I was before the world decided it owned me.
---
School was worse.
Urban Arts Academy used to feel like home. Murals on every wall. Teachers who let you bleed into your work. Now it felt like a cage with good lighting.
Whispers followed me down the hallway.
"That's her."
"She don't even write her own songs."
"My cousin said she rude in real life."
I slid into my seat in English just as the bell rang. Jada dropped into the chair next to me, chewing gum like it owed her money.
"You alive?" she asked.
"Barely."
She leaned closer. "You see the diss video?"
I groaned. "Please tell me you're joking."
She wasn't.
Some local rapper—nineteen, angry, talented—had posted a whole track tearing me apart. Called me a corporate puppet. Said I forgot where I came from. Said I sold the city out for streams.
The video had half a million views already.
Hatred moved faster than love ever could.
"That's not fair," Jada said. "You didn't do anything."
I stared at my desk. "That's never stopped anyone before."
---
Lunch was rooftop-only territory for me now. Fewer phones. More sky.
I sat on the concrete, knees pulled in, headphones on.