The fest didn't end when the stage lights went off.
It followed them.
By the next morning, Riverline College's social media pages were flooded.
Clips of performances.
Photos of crowds.
Reels of dance battles.
And one video that kept getting shared.
Ananya on stage.
Mic in hand.
Laughing when the sound failed.
Speaking when the crowd quieted.
Someone had captioned it:
"This girl doesn't host. She holds the space."
By noon, Ananya's phone wouldn't stop vibrating.
Unknown follows.
Unknown messages.
Unknown tags.
A second-year student ran up to her near the library.
"Hey, are you the fest anchor? My cousin works with a youth media startup. He wants to connect."
Ananya blinked. "Connect… how?"
"Like— internships, features, stuff."
She smiled politely, but her stomach tightened.
This wasn't part of the plan.
In the canteen, people stared more openly.
Some smiled.
Some whispered.
Some recorded.
Pihu leaned close. "Congratulations. You are now officially 'that girl.'"
Nandini observed quietly. "Attention is a language. Not everyone speaks it kindly."
Ananya nodded.
She could already feel it.
Being watched didn't feel powerful.
It felt… exposed.
That evening, Kabir met her near the café.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I feel like I accidentally stepped into someone else's lane," she said.
He studied her. "Or maybe into your own."
She looked at him. "I don't want to become noise."
"Then don't," he replied. "Become signal."
She smiled.
He always said things like he wasn't trying to be remembered.
And somehow, they stayed.
Across the city, in a car that smelled like leather and control, Meher sat silently.
Her mother's voice filled the space.
"You embarrassed our people yesterday."
Meher looked out of the window. "By being nineteen?"
"You were seen," her mother said sharply. "Not curated. Not managed."
Meher finally turned. "I was happy."
Her mother's jaw tightened. "Happiness doesn't run companies."
The words settled like dust.
Meher didn't reply.
But something in her hardened.
Not rebellion.
Decision.