It began with a missing coffee.
Nova Reyes ordered the same thing every morning — an iced caramel synth-latte from the café near school.
It wasn't just habit. It was branding.
The owner knew her by name, tagged her on their story every day, even offered her a "Creator Discount."
But this morning, when she walked up to the counter, the barista barely looked up.
"Order name?"
"Nova," she said automatically, smiling.
He typed something into the holo-register, paused, and frowned.
"Uh… says your discount's expired."
Her smile wavered. "That can't be right. I'm a Verified Partner."
The guy shrugged, already turning to the next customer. "System update, maybe. Happens."
Nova forced a laugh, pretending she didn't care, but the tightness in her chest said otherwise.
By the time she got to school, her hands were shaking — not from caffeine, but from fear.
---
In the world of FameNet, losing your score wasn't just about numbers.
It meant losing *everything.*
No more priority seating in cafés.
No more free event passes.
No more sponsorship boxes filled with things she never needed but loved to unbox on camera.
When her FameScore had been 8.1, life felt easy — the world opened doors before she even knocked.
Now, hovering at 6.3, doors were beginning to close.
Literally.
When she reached the student lounge, the biometric scanner flashed red.
> **ACCESS DENIED — MINIMUM SCORE REQUIRED: 7.0**
Her reflection glared back at her in the glass.
A week ago, this door had greeted her with, *"Welcome, Nova Reyes — Trending: Positive."*
Now she was just another face in the crowd.
---
She tried not to show it.
At lunch, she sat with her old crew — the ones she'd brought up with her during her viral rise.
But even their laughter sounded different now.
Tighter. Forced. Like they were performing friendliness.
"Hey," she said, setting her tray down, "did you guys see the new FameNet challenge?"
Two of them nodded vaguely. One didn't even look up from her phone.
Nova caught the reflection in her friend's lenses — her own name in a trending tag.
**#FakeNova**
Her throat tightened. "Is that—?"
"Oh, it's not bad," her friend cut in too quickly. "Just… people saying you're doing, like, social experiments now."
"People love to twist stuff," another added, smiling a little too wide.
Nova felt the world shrinking around her.
---
By afternoon, her inbox was empty.
No brand deals. No event invites.
Not even automated "Congrats, you're trending!" messages.
The silence was worse than hate.
She scrolled her sponsorship dashboard:
**Pending: 0. Active: 0. Expired: ALL.**
A single red line blinked across her screen:
> *Account reevaluation in progress.*
---
She tried messaging her manager, Reina — a sharp, stylish woman who once called Nova her "golden algorithm."
"Hey, just checking in," Nova typed. "FameScore bug maybe? All my partners dropped me overnight."
The reply came an hour later:
> *Sorry, babe. The system's just adjusting. Maybe lay low for now. You've gotten… controversial.*
Controversial.
The word hit harder than it should have.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned off her phone and stared at the wall.
---
By evening, she was in the school library, trying to hide between aisles of dusty books.
It was one of the few places left that didn't track engagement metrics — where silence was still allowed.
Eli found her there, sitting on the floor with her back against the shelves.
He crouched beside her, studying her expression. "Bad day?"
She let out a dry laugh. "Bad algorithm."
He tilted his head. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Nova gave a humorless smile. "My sponsors ghosted me. Even my ride-share account downgraded me. Do you know what it's like to go from premium seating to *general queue*?"
He shrugged. "Sounds… normal."
She glared. "It's not normal when you've worked for everything. My Score isn't just numbers — it's my identity."
"Maybe that's the problem," Eli said softly.
Nova rolled her eyes. "You don't get it."
"I do," he said quietly. "You think your worth depends on how much people see you. But what if being unseen isn't a curse? What if it's freedom?"
"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You don't even exist online."
"Exactly."
---
They sat in silence for a while.
Outside, rain drummed against the windows, tapping in soft rhythm.
Finally, Nova said, "When I was little, my mom told me I could be anything. She just didn't tell me I had to *trend* to get it."
Eli looked at her, really looked at her — past the lashes and filters and carefully rehearsed charm.
"She was right, though," he said. "You can be anything. You just forgot you already were."
Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten.
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that fame mattered, that the system worked — because admitting it didn't meant everything she'd built was hollow.
But she couldn't.
---
The next day, the collapse continued.
Her personalized cafeteria meal plan — gone.
Her digital wardrobe sponsorship — revoked.
Her online store partnerships — suspended.
Even her smart lenses glitched, flashing:
> *FameScore verification failed. Certain features may be limited.*
"Limited," she muttered bitterly. "That's what I am now. Limited."
In the hallway, whispers trailed her like a shadow.
> "That's the Reyes girl. Lost half her sponsors."
> "Didn't she fake that art thing?"
> "Algorithm flagged her for lying."
She tried to ignore them — until she walked into the bathroom and saw a QR code plastered on the mirror.
It linked to a meme: her crying during a livestream last year.
Captioned:
> *When your lies stop paying rent.*
Her reflection blurred. She blinked fast, furious tears threatening to fall.
---
After school, she went back to the café.
The same one that used to save her seat.
This time, the table was occupied.
No one looked up when she walked in.
She tried to order again, but her card declined.
The barista didn't even pretend to hide the smirk.
"Guess your score dropped too low for Creator Perks," he said.
"I can pay full price."
He scanned her wrist chip.
"Sorry. System says 'non-priority user.'"
Something cracked inside her.
She left without saying a word, rain splashing across her shoes, cold and heavy.
---
By the time she reached the old greenhouse behind the school, Eli was already there — sitting cross-legged, sketching something under the faint glow of a battery lantern.
She stood in the doorway, soaked, shivering.
He looked up. "You look—"
"Don't," she snapped. "Just don't."
He nodded, set down his pencil, and waited.
Finally, she said it: "I think I'm disappearing."
He frowned. "You're still here."
"Not really," she whispered. "The world's erasing me one privilege at a time. No one wants to be seen with me anymore."
"Then stop letting them decide what you're worth."
She laughed bitterly. "That's not how it works, Eli. You can't just—opt out. This system *is* life."
Eli stood, closing the sketchbook. "Then maybe it's time to live somewhere else."
Nova blinked. "What do you mean?"
He handed her the sketchbook. Inside was a drawing — of her.
Not the perfect, filtered version from her posts.
Just her — messy hair, tired eyes, human.
Below, he'd written one line:
> *Offline looks good on you.*
She smiled faintly, tears mixing with rain.
For the first time, she didn't know if she wanted her Score back.
---
That night, as she lay in bed, her FameNet notifications glitched one last time — a final message before her feed went dark:
> ⚠️ **Account Visibility Suspended. Pending Review.**
And then, silence.
For the first time in years, there were no alerts, no numbers, no noise.
Just her heartbeat.
It felt terrifying.
And free.