She forced herself to dial Mr. Peterson's number. He answered on the first ring.
"Maya, thank God. Have you seen the video?"
"Yes, I just woke up and saw it. Mr. Peterson, I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. Someone must have been recording and I didn't even know—"
"Sorry? Maya, do you have any idea what's happening right now?" He sounded stressed, but not angry. "Our phone has been ringing off the hook since 6:00 this morning. News outlets wanting to do stories. Event planners asking if you're available to play at their functions. The owners of the estate are getting calls from everyone. And Richard Westbrook's office has called three times already."
"I don't understand. Am I in trouble?"
"Trouble? No. Maya, you're... you're famous. This video is everywhere. Everyone wants to know who you are and how they can book you or interview you or... I don't even know. The owners want to meet with you. They want to talk about your future here."
"My future?" Maya's head was spinning.
"Look, I need you to not talk to any press until we figure this out. Okay? The estate's PR team is handling media requests. Just stay home today. Don't answer calls from numbers you don't know. We'll sort this out."
After hanging up, Maya sat in her bed staring at her phone as the notifications continued to pour in. Her email inbox was full of messages from addresses she didn't recognize: booking requests, interview requests, people claiming to be talent agents or managers, someone from a major television network asking if she'd be interested in appearing on their morning show.
She opened her laptop and searched her own name, curious to see what was out there. The results made her head spin even more. Someone had identified her, found her old conservatory records, dug up an article from the school newspaper about her winning a competition 5 years ago. They'd connected all the dots, creating a narrative: talented music student forced to drop out due to financial hardship, now working as a waitress, vindicated by a single performance.
It was accurate, mostly, but seeing her life story reduced to a headline shared and discussed by strangers felt deeply unsettling. These people didn't know her. They didn't know about the nights she'd cried herself to sleep, missing music. They didn't know about the guilt she'd felt leaving school, feeling like she'd failed. They didn't know about the small joys she'd found in her life despite everything, or the relationships with coworkers, or the way she'd learned to find meaning in simple things. They only knew the story, the narrative, the viral moment.