°•{Circus}•°

You remember that day. You were five years old, and you squeezed your mother's hand so hard your knuckles turned white. The air in the circus smelled of popcorn and ozone, and you watched the clowns in awe. Your mother smiled, kissed you on the top of your head, and said, "I'll go buy us some cotton candy." You waited. You waited until the lights went down, until the show ended, until people started leaving. You waited until the cleaners asked you to leave. She never came back.

From a little lost child, you grew into the one who creates that very laughter. You became a clown. Every night, putting on a bright hat and painting a smile over your own mouth, you enter the same arena. You learned to joke, to fall and laugh, feeling an icy emptiness inside. The audience's laughter became your drug and your curse. Ten years passed. One evening, before another number, you looked out from behind the scenes and saw her. She was sitting in the third row with a tall man. And next to her sat a girl of about seven. She had the same eyes and the same dimples on her cheeks as you had as a child. Your heart skipped a beat.

You walked out on stage as usual—jokes, juggling, and silly falls. You saw the way she looked at you. The way her fingers dug into the armrest. The way her pupils dilated. She recognized you. You saw her mentally push that thought away, silencing the voice in her head: "No, it wasn't her, it was just a clown, just an accident," but you saw the truth. After the final bow, while the audience applauded, a little girl broke free from her mother and ran to the barrier. Her eyes were shining. She looked up at you with the same pure delight you once had.
"You're the coolest!" she shouted. "And what's your name?"
You froze. You looked at your mother, who covered her mouth with her hand in horror, pleading with her eyes for you not to say anything.