It's been a while since I've been stuck in the role of me. There is no spotlight on my face, yet the light of the sun is just as unforgiving as a disgruntled light technician. Around me, there are charred remains of a world I used to stand atop of. On my back, I carry a backpack stuffed with supplies that will only last me another week. Before the end, I used to have anything at my fingertips with just a text or a quick call. Now, I spend my days scavenging around for things that will help me survive, hoping that I’ll run into someone that won’t crave my flesh and will engage in a conversation that’ll end in a harmony of laughter.

I don’t know how much time has passed. And I think a part of me doesn’t want to. When I go back in my memories, I see my childhood best friend, Laila, singing in the passenger’s seat of my car as we ignore the paparazzi trailing us not knowing that hours later the world would end. Hours later, I’d hold her hands in mine, and try to pull her out of a mutated person’s iron-clad grasp but I’d fail. I could still hear her screams, feel my cowardice as I scrambled away, desperate not to share her fate. I still fight to live but I’m not sure what I’m even living for.

Right now, I walk cobbled streets in high heels without heels because I used them to pierce some mutated monster’s eyes. My face is bare from makeup, but dirty from sweat and stained from soot, after raiding a burnt down house streets ago. I’m still in designer clothes, dressed in the exact preferences of my long-gone stylist. The clothes are impractical and look like an experimental fashion disaster that’d end up on at least ten worst dress lists. When I catch my reflection, I don’t see the graceful flawless-looking woman who advertises skin care on posters plastered in ravished stores. Instead, I see a splintered version of her, I can’t seem to glue back together.

Interviewers used to describe me as someone who seemed to know all the answers as if I didn’t carefully rehearse them. Now, no one’s feeding me lines or giving me questions beforehand instead life’s become both unpredictable and predictable at the same time. It’s predictable because of the chronic monotony I experience. Yet, there are times I encounter a mutated creature or end up getting less supplies than I need and it’s a struggle to survive the next week. Sometimes, I pretend I’m back before facing the problems past me experienced. I’d read an old magazine at the checkout lines, chowing down on a box of cookies as I grumbled while reading an article that speculated on my love life.

Apparently, I’ve dated my bodyguard, every single one of my co-stars, including ones that have played my father, oh, and just about every guy I’ve been seen speaking to. My friendships weren’t safe from rumors either because if I wasn’t publically seen hanging with my friends in months then we’re clearly on the outs. One thing I don’t miss is society’s vast obsession with analyzing me just so they can have a valid reason to tear me apart. If I lose weight, it’s because I got work done, but if I gain it, well, it’s because I’m letting myself go. I couldn’t even be caught with food in my hand because there’ll be a bunch of altered photos and comments mocking me for gaining weight even if I always kept a steady one. The only weight I ever gained was muscle and I couldn’t gain too much of that because then I wouldn’t be attractive enough. Whether it was the media, the public, or a head studio boss, I was always reminded that my body wasn’t mine to use as I please. Everything about me, every movement, every projected thought had an audience. Now, it’s just me, walking around this deserted burnt-down scenery full of silence that’s killing me like a tea laced with poison.

I miss the sound of people. The chaotic laughter of my friends as they read out ridiculous leaked rumors about me. The sound of an adoring crowd after I gave them a performance I put my all in. Most of all, I miss the chatter ignited on sets as I passed by and I took my place and immersed myself into someone or something new. There’s no one to pay attention to me now. No crowd, no friends, no anticipating chatter as I prepare to perform. Only silence. And me. Just me.

What’s a world without an audience?

It’s not much of a world at all. Everyday, I navigate life on autopilot, waking up and going on an immediate search for food and supplies, seeking out new locations as I try to evade the mutated monster's hunger with an endless emptiness inside. I scan my surroundings, anxious to get out of my own head. To my side, I see the most beautiful sight one could see, a theater. Like all the buildings on this street, it’s burnt down but I jimmy the lock and break in. As soon as I’m in, a beam falls overhead and I jump away, falling hard on the ground.

My breath’s come out harsh but eventually go back to its usual rhythm and I pull myself up. I take careful steps further in and soon I come upon its firmly intact stage. Half the seats in the theater were melted together but the stage stood firm, anticipating a performer to utilize it and let a story unfold. I walk to the stage, hoisting myself up and throw my backpack on the ground once I’m standing on it. I look at the empty melted seats in front of me and imagine them restored.

I see a vibrant audience with anticipating looks on their eyes as they wait to see what I’ll do next.

“Welcome, to the show,” I announce with a wide smile. “I’m Winnie Day, your star.”

I hear the imaginary applause fill the room, the sound of whistling, the loud ground-shaking cheers lift me up like I’m a leaf caught in the wind. I douse my hopelessness, my doubt, and I add kindling to the fire of my dream. I’m not alone in this world. There are others out there. I know it. I know my audience awaits, searching the world for their fallen star.