17 of 50 Songs and Chapters Dedicated to the Friend I Lost Too Soon

The lights of fame are blinding. I was aware of that before I came here, but I think I have the right to say that it's a lot harder for me than it would be for other people. For other people starting to get a taste of fame, though there are several cases that it happens overnight, it's usually gradual. There's zero to support you, until there's ten, and then twenty. One hundred, a thousand, a million, a billion -- depending on the circumstance.

But it was different for me. The flashing lights of cameras facing me from behind a long white table aren't really here for me. They're here for Jewee, and yet the first time I step foot into this glory and this attention, the eyes of his fan base know me. They don't care to see me. They want the man to my right to sign their shoes, their poster, their book copy, their boobs -- I don't know.

We're honestly a very proudly crazy fandom. I was one of them at one point. I didn't think that my life would lead me to be up above them on a stage, left to comprehend that this crowd of people here that are about to purchase my work and my emotions don't care about my work or my emotions. They're praying some sort of Wattpad story moment is going to occur, when they graze hands with my illustrator. Yes, they're praying that after this is all over, they'll be able to get Kyler to pay them monthly child support if they wanted to.

That's not going to happen. It's just basic questions and answers. Questions and answers that are giving me heart attacks before they've even been said. Question and answers that nobody is going to listen to when I speak, but that people will be all ears for when Jewee speaks.

I can see that already, because I'm still a nobody, and he's not. He's already left his mark on the world, and here we were, a very mismatched team creating a book with an uncountable amount of copies staring back at us, markers at bay for when we need them. Or more like when he needed them.

They want his signature. Not mine. They want him. Not me, and yet here I am, enduring through it as if they were. And people wonder why I used a pseudonym when I first started my online work, but with a sad story, they wanted a face for people to pity. Obviously, if I would have stuck to it, none of this would've happened:

"Jewee Kyler, how do you feel about this project?"

"What was the process like?"

"Will Pulseless Heart be renewed for another season?"

"Tell us about your illustrations! How did you come up with them?"

"Do they have dual or deeper symbolic meaning?"

"What was your inspiration?"

And he basked in the glory it brought. He always knew what to say, or how to make people laugh. He made the event lighthearted and fun, to the point it drew people in that were passing by. People came to the event to have a good time and to forget about their hardship for a while, and honestly, he was everything I wish I was able to be.

But all I am is a pity story and publicity, for the most part. I'm a filler to an otherwise exciting novel.

"I have a question for Jaiva," someone announced, and the sources of light turned to face me, making me squint until I was able to adjust, which took longer than I'd like to say. My posture straightened out of nerves to the growing attention, especially since I'd just wrongly persuaded myself that all I would need to do is smile and wave. This was the kind of thing I told myself a while back I would be ready for once it came, and now that it was here, I wasn't. Not even a tiny bit, and it didn't matter what the question was.

Relevant or irrelevant, I was anxious.

I'm the one giving myself false hope and expectations. It's not even any one else's fault besides mine. It's stupid of me to think highly of myself -- enough that I'd be automatically good at something I've never done before.

"Yes?" I sat at the edge of my seat, hands folded formally on the table. I eyed the pile of books left to be signed, unable to locate the man or the woman that had called out my name. Making eye contact at a random person in the crowd felt strange, since I recognized not a single person.

"Where are you from?"

I refrained from rolling my eyes, biting my tongue hard in its place, hard enough that blood pooled in the center of it. I was near to regretting doing that too. Mixed bloods always get this sort of question, and by now, I think I've learned what they actually want to hear, but it's only another way for me to be outed from the life I've better known. If that factor was all that was being considered, I would've shown attitude, but I have a career on the line and so many people acting like they cared.

If you have ears, a comparison of my questions to Jewee's make it quite clear they didn't care about me.

I cleared the lump from my throat, or tried to at the very least. "Denver, Colorado. Born and raised," I replied. I wasn't prepared for what was coming. I never will be, in the limelight or in the darkness, but I knew what it consisted of. I've been enslaved to it ever since I could talk.

"Yeah, okay, but I mean, where are you from?"

There it is. What I was expecting, came. Typical. Should I insist on it one more time or is this a waste of time? I promised Jewee I wouldn't tell a lie. Wouldn't saying otherwise technically be lying?

"I'm from Colora--."

"Yeah but--."

"My mom's side of the family is Japanese, and my father's is from Ireland."

I sighed after giving in to what they wanted. I haven't been to Japan or to Ireland in my lifetime, but my features giving me away as a person with mixed blood automatically connects me to such places, and of course, this is what makes them content. Everyone shuts up, besides the few fans that are still enthusiastically chanting Jewee's name.

I think about how this occasion must be near to over, and how it's practically over with for me. That the one question that I'm going to get is the kind that I've confirmed to most people that I passed by on the street and those I worked with. I think about how this is all I'm ever gonna get. This is the furthest I'm allowed to be, and it's already stretching it.

And honestly, I wasn't assuming that I'd end up feeling this way, but I wish that was true. I wish it was done. I wish I didn't have to put up with anything else.

"Miss Ikari-Lane?" Another voice piped up, saying what no one could have guessed, since it had nothing to do with Jewee. This person I did find in the crowd. It was a man. He was dressed nicely, and very formally -- something that a lot of people would say points to him having a good first reputation, and I think at some period of my life or another, I was one of those people, but it wasn't true here. He went to prove that clothes definitely aren't everything, because despite the professional manner in his dress, his vibe; it was up to no good. I was instantly uncomfortable looking at him. It's as if he was here to cause trouble for me and nothing else.

I nodded him on. I don't know if I had option to do otherwise. He continued proudly.

"Isn't it true that you were able to meet Jewee Kyler as your last wish while you were in the hospital? You met because doctors decided there wasn't hope for you and because your parents scrounged around to make your last moments memorable?"

My foot tapped beneath the table. Where could this be going?

"Yes. That's true," I admitted, nervously. It would be nice to be able to tell the future in times like this. If it was what I was thinking, I'd be fleeing out the back doors, but I could be overreacting. I could most certainly be wrong.

"So why -- and I mean this in the nicest way possible -- why aren't you dead yet?"

"Well," I attempted to speak as fast as possible, in hopes that more incorrect suspicions wouldn't have the chance to leak into the atmosphere we shared, but I couldn't manage. Not when there was a block of ice stuck in my chest. The inconsideration got the best of me. "Well, I don't know to be honest. I'm happy everyday to still be alive. Isn't that what counts?"

"Sure, Miss, but is it unreasonable for us to believe that the entire illness was staged in order to get Kyler's attention? Could you go into detail about your disease if it's real and explain what you're going through? It would be a good thing anyway. You could be an advocate for what you're going through if you're telling the truth. Because otherwise, it really does seem like a hoax that you put up to draw him in, which is wrong to do, isn't it? So what illness do you have, Miss Ikari-Lane?

The further he went on, the further I had this extreme urge to lie. It's the truth that I don't know what sickness I have. No doctor has been able to say so, but nobody was going to believe that. Memories came back when the thought of it came up, and it made me want to double over into a ball and hide away in a corner.

Jewee was right. Even the most straightforward and real people in stardom tell lies. They hide parts of themselves that the cameras will never show, and that they don't want the cameras to show, and that's because words are an easy thing to twist.

The moment you're looking out at a crowd of people and you feel the pressure of the eyes that are on you so badly it gives you the urge to lie, he had said, promise me that you'll look at me and tell me one thing on the spot. That I helped you to get where you are.

And I promised him. I promised him I would do what he said.

I took a glance at him. He appeared to be horrified himself with what the situation became -- he did feel sorry for what came up, but this innocent glint in his pupil knew what was going through my head and he was basically waiting for it. He knew what this was coming down to, and what I would have to do.

"Jewee," I whispered to him, unable to say it louder if I wanted. "You helped me get where I am."

Hearing it, he stood up abruptly, he didn't waste a second to smirk or to tease. At the movement, everybody in the audience couldn't help but to react to the sound. They shifted focus.

"We can't touch base on that sort of topic. It's intended in the mean time to be kept private," he began, standing far taller than everybody. It gave him extra authority whether he needed or wanted it or he didn't. "I do tell you all truthfully though, my label and I look thoroughly into matters before agreeing with them. Jaiva Shyne does have an illness, and we met on real reasons. I assure each and everyone of you."

On the edge of nearly everything -- bursting out in sobs, in laughter, in trembles, in gratitude, I sat as frozen as I could, praying that I could save the drama for when this was over. I was determined not to cause a scene on my very first day that the world could observe my face like a school textbook.

Officially, I thought of this man in a new light. I understood him, and I understood that the life in the spotlight wasn't as easy as I've told myself it was.

I understood that I should be thankful for everything he's done for me.

Sometimes, walking away from a fight is how you win it, and that was going to have to be me with this. I'd rather have him on my team than against me.