Chapter Text
Years Ago…
There were five of us, five trainees, all with varying levels of skill and experience. I was last in every category—looks, talent, even time, since I’d only been at the company for a few months. The common denominator holding us all together was that we were being evaluated that day.
One by one, we stood and presented our singing and dancing. Some of us were better at singing, some of us were better at dancing, and there was only one boy who was good at both. Han Jisung was his name. He was infamous within the company for being talented, but rude and problematic outside of the studio. And unfortunately, I was the one who had to go after him.
I was so nervous that my voice kept cracking. With every strained high note and failed vocal run, I saw another shadow of disapproval cross the faces of the people evaluating us. My dancing wasn’t much better; I kept tripping and making a general fool of myself.
“You may go,” they told me after I finished.
My face was flushed red from horror and embarrassment. I wasn’t an asset to this company and I knew it. Tears pricked at my eyes as I walked down the hall to the dorm I shared with three other people. I wished I could go home, but my home was thousands of miles away. I was stuck here.
Han Jisung was there when I turned the corner. I jumped, startled. He didn’t seem to notice me. He was leaning against the wall, listening to something on his headphones.
I suddenly felt the need to talk to him.
“Jisung?” I said timidly.
He paid no attention. I reached out and tapped him on the arm, flinching when he glared at me and yanked his headphones off.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“You… did really well at the evaluation.” My voice sounded weak, even to my own ears.
“Yeah, I know,” he responded callously. “What about it?”
My confidence was quickly fading. But I forced myself to take a deep breath and look him in the eye. I had already embarrassed myself in front of the people who determined whether I stayed or got kicked out. I wouldn’t ruin my reputation in the eyes of my fellow trainees, either.
“Perhaps we could train together one day?” I shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
He was silent for a while before responding with an “I guess.” He moved to put his headphones back on.
“Wait!” I started to get desperate. “Would you like to be friends? I know we haven’t talked much, but, um, you seem really cool—”
“Can you shut up?” he snapped. “Why would I want to be friends with an ugly immigrant like you? You shouldn’t even be allowed in this company.”
My heart dropped to the floor. After the terrible day I just had, that was the last thing I needed to hear. The worst part is that it was true. I was nothing but an ugly immigrant in the eyes of my company. They made it clear I wasn’t the most valued trainee. But Han didn’t have to say that. He could have kept his mouth shut and maybe it would have been alright between us.
But he didn’t.
“Fine,” I whispered.
Then I turned and left.
Present Day
I walk briskly, the ideas in my head rattling around and begging to be released. I hum a tune under my breath. It’s my own tune, and today I’m ready to put it on paper.
I’ve come a long way from that humiliated trainee. My own little fanbase cheers when I go on tour, and my songs play on the radio and chart on Melon. The company treats me with respect now, and some of my coworkers have even extended their hands in friendship. The old me could never have imagined this.
I push open the door to the studio. My fellow producers give me a nod of greeting.
“You ready?” One of them asks.
I give him a thumbs up and get into the recording booth. My vocals are light and sweet as I sing a pop ballad. Then they turn gritty and dark when I sing a more rap-based anthem.
I hear clapping when I leave the booth.
“Those are probably your best takes yet,” one of my producers enthuses. “Do you want to listen?”
“Of course I do.” I sit on the plastic chair I’ve grown so accustomed to. I produce all my songs. These people help, of course, but I can create a whole song on my own if I want to. I have trained my ear to have perfect pitch, and I catch every beat, every subtle place where I could incorporate a harmony. Music flows through my veins every time I’m in this studio.
The sun is well on its way across the sky when I finally leave that room. I pack my laptop into a small black bag and hoist it onto my back. Then I step into the cool, quiet hallway outside, ready to catch a cab and head back to my apartment.
“Hey.”
I whirl around to see a face I hoped never to see again. Well, maybe that’s a little ridiculous; we are in the same company, after all. But he’d never attempted to talk to me until today.
“Hello?” I say cautiously.
Han Jisung clears his throat and puts his hands in his pockets. Hair flops over his eyes, and his outfit is a mixture of casual and chic that fits well on his slender frame. He’s smiling. Why is he smiling?
“Long time no see,” he greets.
I bristle. “Can I help you?” My opinion of Han since that day has never been favorable. What can he possibly want from me?
“I heard you’re charting on Melon. Do you remember when we used to train together?” He prattles on and on, but a red haze is filling my mind. We never trained together. He always trained separately and behaved like a massive douchebag. And I have no interest in hearing any revisionism.
“Actually, I don’t remember us training together once,” I cut in bitingly.
His eyes widen. “You don’t? We were trainees at around the same time, I’m sure we’ve shared a practice room once or twice.”
“Perhaps I just didn’t care.” I take a deep breath. “But it’s in the past, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Suddenly, he takes a step forward. “Hey, listen. I know it was shitty of me to call you names and reject your offer of friendship.”
“You’re figuring this out now?” I mutter.
“I want to make things right,” he says hurriedly. “I… I want to accept that offer now. Do you want to be friends?” His hands juts out for a handshake. He says my name quietly, and I shudder at the sound of it on his lips.
The truth is, he’s more popular than I am. By a landslide. He does real world tours, instead of just a few places in Korea and China. He charts on Billboard. He has millions of fans to my thousands. He was always more talented, more handsome, simply better than me. And I’m so fucking sick of it. He’s a constant reminder of my shortcomings, and his is the first face I see when I think about my failures.
The feelings from when he insulted me had been shoved deep into my mind, but his presence is bringing them back to the forefront. Rage bubbles in my gut, and in this instant, I need to make him hurt the same way he hurt me.
“I don’t want to be friends with you,” I say stiffly. “Not now, not ever.”
His outstretched hand drops. A rush of satisfaction courses through me when I see the shocked look on his face. The rage simmers down, but a jagged spike of hatred continues to pierce my stomach.
I don’t even offer a goodbye as I whirl around and leave. Good riddance, Han Jisung. Maybe now he’ll leave me alone.