I don’t look much different from everyone else, yet I somehow feel ostracized. I grip the sink with both hands and stare down at my black fingernails. My perfect skin and the flawless makeup on my face as my jet-black hair falls in easy waves down past my shoulders.
I have a crop top on with a pair of joggers and black Jordans. I’m trying to go for the cute-but-casual look for this audition.
My seventh.
I’ve yet to make it into a group, and with the audition only two days away, I need to work harder than I’ve ever worked before.
It’s been my dream since I was five and saw my favorite K-pop group on TV. I became obsessed and begged my parents for voice lessons, dance classes, and everything and anything else that would help me.
Once we moved back to Korea, I finally saw my chance.
Five years later, I’m still waiting for it.
At nineteen, I almost feel like my dreams are out of reach, mainly because I’m getting older, and it seems everyone else is getting younger. They always pass me by because I lack something that everyone else seems to possess. I get good marks, people love my dancing, they love my singing and raspy voice, and they even love my hard-working attitude. I just don’t get why I can’t actually make it. I’m fluent in both Korean and English—and now I feel like I’m bragging in my head. But it’s so frustrating. The only thing I can think of is that I’m not as small as everyone else, which makes me want to cry even harder.
I miss burgers.
I take a deep breath and leave the bathroom, head held high. Tons of trainees run down the halls and stop at one of the practice rooms to the right.
I almost laugh because I don’t even need to peer into the window to know it’s SWT, one of the biggest K-pop groups in the world. They always have people watching them, copying them, dying to meet them, touch them, lick their sweat off the floor.
I trained with their youngest, Sookie, for a year before they picked him up, and he debuted with them.
His tattoos are probably stressing the entire label out. Add in the new piercings, and I’m sure the higher-ups are on full DEFCON mode. His squeaky-clean image no longer looks so squeaky clean…then again, he’s the one who got me drunk on my birthday.
I make a mental note to text him later. He’s been pretty busy, but he always has time for his friends. I respect that he goes against the grain and that he’s his own person, not controlled by the label as much as the rest of the trainees and groups are. He’s beautiful. Talented. Amazing.
And one of the nicest people in the industry.
I keep walking as the trainees wall-stalk members of SWT and go to the next practice room. It’s empty, which is exactly what I need.
Practice.
I open the door and let it click shut behind me, then grab my cell. Linking it to the speakers, I put on a song from Blackpink and start to dance.
The music comes over me as I move, roll my hips, and practice everything I’ll need for my final audition Friday.
Final.
Shit, it really does feel final, doesn’t it? Because if I can’t debut now, what will I do? Take my exams? Work? Go to college? Would I even get in with sub-par test scores?
I stumble through the last few bits of choreography then collapse onto the floor.
Clapping sounds around me.
I look over my shoulder.
It’s him.
My nemesis.
Haneul.
One of the most hated guys in my universe.
The one who’d told me he’d never kiss someone like me, let alone touch me, after we were both trying out for the same acting gig for a small romantic role in a K-Drama. I obviously didn’t get it, and neither did he, but I still remember the poisonous words at the audition when I was already super nervous to even be there.
Ever since then, I’ve held a grudge—okay, like a huge grudge, even two years later—for him being such a giant dick to me. I may have shoved him and embarrassed him in front of the other trainees auditioning at the label, which he clearly never forgave me for.
Rumors spread about our hatred, and while I always felt guilty for reacting that way, he’d hurt my pride, and I figured I’d hurt his. There was no way I would stay in the same room with him, let alone breathe the same air, unless he was on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness. And I had a small suspicion he thought the same about me.
He’s beautiful, though. Like a poisonous flower from Alice in Wonderland that promises you’ll get everything, only to leave you dead.
I loathe him and everything he represents in the industry. With his rich parents and good looks, he could do anything.