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The morning light in Seoul filtered weakly through the dorm windows, a pale gold that never quite reached the farthest corners of the girls’ shared kitchen.
The table was crowded with cereal boxes, fruit bowls, and hastily emptied coffee cups, evidence of six lives constantly in motion.
Megan sat at the far end, shoulders hunched, stirring milk into her bowl, though the cereal inside had long gone soggy.
To anyone glancing quickly, she looked fine, just tired, maybe a little quieter than usual. But Yoonchae sitting directly across from her noticed that Megan’s spoon only scraped the surface of the milk, never actually touching the food.
“Megan, aren’t you hungry?” Yoonchae asked softly, pushing a banana toward her.
Megan startled slightly, offering a grin that wobbled at the edges. “I already ate earlier,” she lied, voice too quick, too bright. “Just keeping you guys company.”
Lara, half-asleep and nursing an iced coffee, didn’t look up from her phone. “You’re gonna crash halfway through rehearsal if you skip breakfast again,” she mumbled.
“I won’t,” Megan replied, tone light but final. Her spoon clinked against the bowl, the sound echoing louder than it should.
Later, at the practice studio, Daniela and Sophia ran through choreography with sharp, easy precision, their laughter occasionally bouncing off the mirrors.
Megan was quieter, her movements just slightly delayed a heartbeat behind every count. Her reflection looked paler than usual, the fluorescent lights drawing faint shadows under her eyes.
Manon caught sight of her through the mirror’s edge. “You okay, Meg? You look wiped out. You sleeping all right?”
Megan hesitated. That same smile flickered up again, tired but determined. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Just didn’t drink enough water, I think.” She reached for her bottle, pretending to take a sip.
What none of them saw was how tightly her hand gripped the plastic, the faint tremor running through her fingers.
When the break finally came, Sophia handed her a protein bar. “You need to eat something,” she said in her usual matter‑of‑fact tone. “You’re running on empty.”
“Thanks,” Megan said, tucking it into her pocket. The bar stayed there for hours, unopened.
Back at the dorm that night, while the others sprawled together on the couch watching a movie, Megan lingered in the hallway.
The sound of their laughter was warm and familiar, but felt distant like something happening in a bubble miles away from where she stood. She pressed her forehead to the cool doorframe, whispering to herself, You just need more control. That’s all. You can do this.
When she finally joined them, Yoonchae scooted close, offering her half of a blanket. Megan smiled again, eyes flickering with exhaustion.
Nobody mentioned how little she’d eaten all day. Not yet. But Manon’s brow furrowed briefly when Megan’s laugh came a second too late as though she was trying to remember how to make it sound real.
______________
Morning came like frost, quiet, fragile, and cold.
Megan lay awake long before her alarm buzzed, her phone dimly lighting the sheets as she scrolled through messages she didn’t have the energy to answer.
The others were still asleep: Yoonchae curled up like a cat, Lara’s soft snore leaking from behind her curtain, Manon’s charging cable humming faintly across the nightstand.
Megan’s stomach churned, that same dull ache that had become her constant companion. It wasn’t quite hunger, more like a reminder. A measure of how well she was doing.
She rolled out of bed carefully so the frame didn’t creak, slipping into her sweatshirt and heading for the kitchen.
Early morning was her favorite time: no mirrors, no makeup, no eyes watching. She drank a glass of water slowly, feeling its cool weight settle heavy and distant in her stomach.
The fridge hummed. Inside sat leftover rice, fruit, and a half‑finished carton of milk. She stared at them for a long time before closing the door again. The sound of it sealing shut felt too loud in the silent apartment.
In the bathroom mirror, she brushed concealer over the faint hollows beneath her eyes. She pulled her hair into a loose bun and studied the reflection critically, tilting her head side to side.
Her face looked sharper not in the way people complimented on stage, but in a way that made her bones stand out too much, like light itself could cut her.
You’re fine, she told herself, forcing a small smile. If anyone asks, you’re just tired. Everyone’s tired.
By the time Sophia knocked on her door, Megan already had her sneakers laced and gym bag zipped.
“Morning,” Sophia said brightly, giving her a once-over. “You look awake for once.”
“Guess I beat you to the coffee today.” Megan grinned back, automatic. Sophia laughed, and just like that, the world seemed normal again… for now.
________
The studio was bright, mirrors gleaming with relentless clarity. Every imperfection showed. Every missed beat.
Megan knew the choreography cold, yet lately, she felt slower, heavier in all the wrong ways. Her movements didn’t match the precision she expected from herself.
Each spin left her dizzy; every landing felt slightly off‑balance.
Daniela called out from across the room. “Megs, pivot your left foot on eight! You’re slipping forward.”
“Got it!” Megan said quickly, forcing enthusiasm. She fixed her footing, ignoring the flash of heat pricking at her temples.
Sweat drenched her shirt, but her pulse felt strange, uneven, like a drum she couldn’t catch up to.
During lunch break, the others sprawled on the floor with their bentos and fruit cups. Manon tossed her water bottle to Megan with a grin. “You need to keep up, girl. Hungry?”
Megan caught it with both hands, trying to act casual. “Not really,” she murmured. “I’m still full from breakfast.”
Daniela rolled her eyes. “You and that line again. If you pass out mid‑routine, I’m dragging you to a restaurant myself.”
Megan laughed, steady but distant. “You can try.”
The others laughed too, and just like that the conversation shifted talk about choreography tweaks, silly fan edits, and a new dance challenge Lara wanted to attempt. Megan smiled when required, nodded at the right moments, but her thoughts had already drifted away.
Later, when no one was looking, she slipped into the restroom, locking the stall behind her. The silence pressed close, the faint hum of ventilation the only sound. She gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening. Bile was in the back of her throat. Saliva pooling in her mouth.
Don’t throw up
Don’t throw up
DON’T THROW UP
Her face in the mirror looked pale under the fluorescent light. She hated mirrors now. They showed too much.
She wanted to cry. She hated herself, sometimes she even wanted to die. Her tears always came without sound, without release. Just silent shaking breaths until she pulled herself back together again.
__________
That evening, schedules stretched long. An interview, a vocal session, a stream recording. On camera, Megan was radiant or at least convincing. The fans knew her as cheerful, sharp‑witted, the girl who gave big smiles and laughs that filled the room.
“Can we get a heart, Megan?” the staff called.
She obliged, grinning brightly, throwing a finger‑heart toward the camera.
The chat exploded with comments. Everything looked perfect. Everything always did.
Inside, her head throbbed faintly from the lack of food, but the adrenaline carried her through. When the cameras went off, she blinked under the harsh studio lights, breathing through the dizziness threatening to pull her under.
Sophia caught her by the elbow. “Hey, careful. You okay?”
Megan nodded, smile intact. “I’m good. Just hot in here.”
Sophia squinted, unconvinced, but didn’t push it. “Let’s grab dinner before we head back, okay?”
“Sure,” Megan said, already rehearsing another excuse.
At the restaurant, Megan pushed her noodles around the bowl, pretending to eat. The others were chatting loudly, Manon teasing Lara about her mispronunciation during the live.
Daniela imitating Yoonchae’s dance move gone wrong. The laughter was contagious, yet Megan felt like a ghost sitting among them.
To distract, she joined in the teasing, poking fun at herself, making them laugh. It worked. As long as they were smiling, maybe they wouldn’t notice that her noodles hadn’t moved.
___________
Back at the dorm, Megan waited until the others were asleep before slipping quietly toward the kitchen again.
The lights were dim; the hum of the refrigerator was almost comforting.
She poured another glass of water and stared out the window at the Seoul skyline, the city glowing faintly under a veil of fog.
Her body ached: a dull, deep heaviness that pulsed behind her ribs.
But she didn’t let herself rest yet.
She sat at the counter, scrolling mindlessly through photos from debut days, the laughter, the excitement, the proud looks on everyone’s faces.
She remembered how happy she’d been then, how sure she felt that she deserved this life, this dream. Lately, that certainty had eroded bit by bit, eaten away by expectations she’d placed on herself.
You can’t slow down now.
You can’t gain it back.
You can’t let them see.
When she finally crawled back into bed, dawn was already breaking. Her body trembled from fatigue, but sleep wouldn’t come. In her dreams, she was always running — away from something she couldn’t name, toward something she couldn’t reach.
_______
In the days that followed, the pattern deepened. None of the others said anything outright, but Megan could feel their glances: that flicker of concern from Manon, Sophia’s quiet watching when she thought Megan didn’t see, even Yoonchae’s hesitant questions about why Megan never finished her lunch anymore.
Megan deflected with practiced ease.
“I’m not feeling great.”
“It’s just stress.”
“I’ll eat later.”
But later never came.
By the end of the week, she could sense the strain in rehearsals her stamina fading quicker than before, her reflection in the mirror wobbling slightly from dizziness. She focused harder, willing her body to obey, to stay in control.
Because that’s what this was really about: control.
Not food. Not numbers. Control over something, anything, in a world that never stopped demanding more.
The cameras, the choreography, the endless reminders of what she should look like they pressed in constantly.
And somewhere along the way, controlling what went in and out of her body became the only thing that made her feel steady.
But even control was starting to slip.
When Yoonchae knocked on her door late one night, Megan nearly jumped.
“Megan?”
“Yeah?” Megan’s voice cracked faintly.
Yoonchae stepped inside, holding two mugs of tea. “You were still awake, so I brought this. You look kind of… I don’t know. You’ve been quiet.”
Megan blinked, touched by the gesture and terrified by how easily someone had noticed.
“Thanks, Chae,” she said gently, taking the mug. “Just tired. You don’t have to worry.”
Yoonchae lingered for a moment, studying her with wide, worried eyes. “Okay. But if something’s wrong, you can tell me, right?”
“Of course.” Megan smiled. “Now go to sleep before Sophia yells at us for staying up again.”
The younger girl laughed softly and left. Megan sat for a long time after that, staring into her cooling tea. Her smile disappeared the second the door clicked shut.
She wanted to reach out — to tell someone, anyone — but the words stuck tight in her throat.
You’re fine, she told herself again. You have to be.
Outside, rain started to fall quiet, steady, and relentless.
__________
The comeback photos dropped on a Tuesday morning.
By noon, the group chat was flooded with messages, stylists, managers, even friends hyping the teaser shots.
Megan’s phone buzzed nonstop, her notifications flooded with hearts and flame emojis.
She should have been happy. She looked at the new images the shimmer of studio lights, the confident half‑smile she’d forced into place.
The photos were flawless. Her silhouette appeared leaner, her face smaller. She almost didn’t recognize herself.
“Wow, Megan, you look amazing here,” Lara said, peering over her shoulder as they scrolled through the shots together.
“Yeah,” Daniela agreed. “You lost weight, huh? It really shows on camera.”
Megan laughed automatically, the sound brittle even to her own ears.
“Guess all that dance practice paid off,” she replied lightly.
They kept scrolling, each praising something about the photo set —lighting, poses, colors. Megan nodded, smiled when needed, added a joke or two. It was routine.
But inside, her thoughts were something else entirely.
__________
She returned to her room after the conversation, locking the door softly behind her. The air felt heavy. She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her palms against her knees, staring down at the soft tremor running through them.
You look amazing.
You lost weight.
The words echoed like a mantra: a twisted kind of reward.
It should have made her proud. But pride didn’t come anymore. Only fear.
Because the voice in the back of her mind whispered:
What if you gain it back? What if they notice? What if you stop being the one who looks “amazing”?
And fear, she realized, was a far more powerful motivator than joy.
She opened her phone again, scrolling through fan comments.
“Megan’s visuals are unreal!”
“She looks thinner this comeback — so gorgeous!”
“Did she change her diet? Whatever she’s doing is working!”
Her thumb hovered over the screen, unable to keep scrolling.
Gorgeous. Thinner. Working.
The compliments tangled in her chest like barbed wire pleasure and shame, guilt and craving until she couldn’t tell them apart.
Because they were noticing. She’d wanted to be seen… but not like this.
At rehearsal that week, people kept telling her how radiant she looked.
The vocal coach said her jawline looked sharper on camera.
The stylist mentioned how her outfits “fit like a glove now.”
Every comment was meant as kindness, but each one sank deeper.
It’s working, a small voice hummed.
You’re finally good enough.
And yet, another voice — thin, tired, quieter — tried to argue:
But at what cost?
The louder one always won.
During breaks, she’d linger at the corner of the studio mirror, pretending to fix her hair while her eyes drifted to her reflection.
The bones in her wrists looked more defined now when she flexed her hand.
Her face had a new kind of sharpness. It read powerful under light, polished the idol look the industry revered.
But when the lights dimmed, that same sharpness looked hollow.
No one noticed how cold her fingers stayed, or how her body sometimes trembled even when she stood still.
_________
Megan’s days became precise choreography not just in dance, but in everything.
Measured portions, skipped meals disguised as errands, steps counted on the walk home. She didn’t think of it as punishment. It was safety. Control.
Each time someone said she looked “healthier,” the irony burned a little deeper.
Because she wasn’t healthy. Her body was a storm she’d learned to silence.
And yet, there was an intoxicating comfort in the structure, something to obsess over, something that belonged only to her.
Everyone could see her smile, her performances, her filtered image.
But no one saw this part.
It was hers.
Sometimes, lying awake at night, she wondered if that was why she couldn’t stop.
Because everything else in her life — her training, her skills, her future — belonged to the company, to fans, to the spotlight. But this one thing, this one secret control, existed entirely under her own hand.
Even if it was destroying her.
Guilt crept in during the quiet moments late at night when the others slept and the sound of Sophia’s steady breathing echoed softly from the next room.
Megan would turn on her side, staring at the ceiling, hearing snippets of memory from earlier that day.
Yoonchae’s worried glance.
Sophia’s gentle “Please rest, you’ve done enough.”
Manon offering to share breakfast.
They were trying so hard not to intrude — which somehow hurt even more.
She wanted to tell them everything. To say, “I can’t stop counting; I can’t eat without feeling like I failed.” But when she imagined their faces — the shock, the pity, the fear — she felt even smaller.
You’ll disappoint them, whispered the voice again.
You’ll ruin everything.
So she stayed silent, swallowing the guilt along with her breath until it sat like a stone in her stomach.
__________
The night before their comeback showcase, Megan found herself alone in the practice room. The others had left hours ago.
Only her reflection remained duplicated six times in the long wall of mirrors, each one sharper, thinner, more distorted than the last.
She turned under the fluorescent light, studying her body’s outline: the slope of her shoulder, the hollow just below her collarbone. Her hoodie hung looser than it had last month.
Something icy threaded its way through her chest.
She ran her hand down her arm, feeling the curve of bone, and for a fleeting second, she didn’t recognize who she was anymore.
The reflection looked robotic — hollow eyes beneath layers of shine. And yet, if she stepped onto a stage tomorrow, everyone would cheer for that same image.
“Beautiful,” they’d say. “Perfect.”
She pressed her fingertips to the mirror, almost pleading.
Do you see me?
Her reflection didn’t answer.
When she returned to the dorm, the living room lights were low. Manon was lying on the couch, half-asleep, earbuds in.
Sophia sat at the table, scrolling through notes. She looked up and smiled.
“You didn’t have to stay that late, Megan. Big day tomorrow.”
“I wanted to clean up the routine,” Megan replied mildly, setting her bag down.
Sophia watched her for a beat longer, studying her carefully. There was something in her gaze — not judgment, not pity, but something that made Megan’s throat tighten.
“You’re working hard,” Sophia said softly. “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
“I won’t,” Megan whispered automatically.
She turned toward her room before Sophia could say more. But halfway down the hall, she paused, fingers tightening on the doorframe. For a moment she wanted to turn back — to say I’m not okay, please stop me.
But the words refused to form.
And instead, she whispered to herself, small and trembling:
It’s fine. They said I look good. This means it’s working.
She lay awake long after the others slept, watching the faint city light spill across her wall. The guilt pressed down so heavily now she could almost hear it breathing beside her.
Yet when morning came and the cameras called her name again, she rose, smiled, and painted on perfection.
Because everyone loved the version of her that was fading the fastest.
__________
Megan learned how to vanish without anyone noticing.
Not all at once but in pieces.
A skipped snack here, a muted laugh there. The girls didn’t realize how her silence stretched longer each day, or maybe they did and didn’t know how to reach her anymore.
At first, she thought she could balance it — keep the mask intact while slowly tightening her grip on the parts she could control. But control had turned into something else entirely: a slipping slope she couldn’t climb back up.
_______
The comeback stage aired on Thursday evening. Their performance trended within minutes, clips spreading across fan accounts and news feeds.
By midnight, the group’s visuals were being dissected post by post.
Megan lay on her bed scrolling through comments under her fancam.
“Megan’s aura this comeback is insane.”
“Her body looks next-level. She totally reinvented herself.”
“The weight loss... she seriously glowed up.”
“I hope she keeps this up; she’s finally standing out more.”
Each line carved another notch into her bones.
Outside validation should have been fuel the lifeblood of an idol career. But right now, every “she looks amazing” sounded like a trap she couldn’t escape.
Keep this up.
The words pulsed in her head like a warning.
She didn’t want to “keep it up.” But if she didn’t… who would she be then?
_________
The next morning, the stylists gathered in the dressing room, arms full of garments. The chatter was casual coffee cups clinking, hangers scraping until one of them held up Megan’s stage outfit.
“This one’s too loose again,” the stylist murmured. “Did we mismeasure?”
Another frowned. “No, the fit was perfect two weeks ago.”
Sophia, who was nearby touching up her makeup, glanced up sharply at that. “Too loose?” she echoed.
The first stylist nodded. “She must be trimming down fast. It’s fine for now the camera loves sharper lines but keep an eye on it, okay? We’ll pin the waist again.”
Sophia’s chest tightened, but she nodded silently. The rest of the members were still joking around, tuning out the background talk.
Only Sophia noticed how, when Megan came to try the outfit on, her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The stylist’s praise ‘It fits like a dream now!’ made her reflection stiffen slightly before she forced another cheerful grin.
“Looks great,” Megan said softly.
But in the mirror, Sophia saw her fingers curling around the hem like she wanted to tug it tighter.
_______
Within days, online discussions evolved into buzz articles — fashion sites calling Megan’s new look “elegant minimalism,” fitness blogs speculating about her “discipline.”
The more they wrote, the more she shrank.
Every compliment felt like a command: Don’t go back.
When she dared to eat normally — a small bowl of rice with Sophia watching — she could feel phantom eyes in the room, whispering in judgment.
Even when no one said anything, she heard them anyway.
Do you really need that?
Remember what they said — “you’ve never looked better.”
By the time dinner ended, her hands were shaking from the war in her head.
________
Weeks blurred together music shows, fan signs, appearances. Megan became a ghost between schedules, moving on autopilot.
She laughed when cued, posed when told, answered interviews with perfectly timed charm.
But when she caught her reflection backstage, she sometimes didn’t flinch anymore because the disappearing act was starting to feel complete.
Her clothes hung differently. Her cheeks were hollowing, her eyes a bit wider, her movements oddly fragile.
The cameras loved it.
The fans called it ethereal
But inside, Megan felt none of it. No glow. No energy.
Just static.
Manon noticed first the way Megan leaned against walls a little longer between takes, her water bottle never empty, her breathing shallow
. She didn’t confront her yet, just slipped an extra juice box into her bag after rehearsal. Megan smiled faintly, pretending not to understand?
The next morning, the juice was still there, unopened.
________
One night, Megan stayed late in the studio after everyone left. The mirrors watched her again, patient and cruel.
She started dancing alone not to practice, but to remember what it used to feel like, what it felt like when the music made her happy.
But the energy wasn’t there. Even the rhythm didn’t lift her anymore.
At the end of the track, she sank to the floor, chest heaving. Sweat clung cold against her skin.
And then the door creaked open. Daniela peeked in, eyes tired but gentle. “I knew you’d still be here.”
Megan forced a laugh. “Can’t sleep.”
Daniela smiled faintly, stepping inside. “You don’t have to kill yourself over this comeback, Meg. It’s already perfect.”
Megan swallowed hard. The word perfect tasted bitter.
“I’m fine,” she lied softly, eyes darting back to her reflection the one that now looked both too much and not enough at once.
Daniela started to say something, but stopped. She didn’t know the right words either. Instead, she simply said, “Don’t disappear on us, okay?”
Megan smiled again, fragile, practiced. “I’m not going anywhere.”
But the moment Daniela left, that sentence echoed back cruelly.
Because somewhere deep down, she already was.
______
The next performance felt like a blur of strobe lights and cheers.
She danced flawlessly, smiled into every camera, posed for every encore. Fans screamed her name, chanting her lines.
When she bowed, light flashed so brightly she almost couldn’t see just colors, heat, sound. It flooded her like a dream.
And for a split second, the high was real.
But once she stepped offstage, the roar faded into nothing. Her legs trembled, breath shallow, tunnel vision creeping in. Sophia caught her elbow instinctively.
“You okay?”
“I’m good,” Megan whispered. “Just— lights. Too bright.”
Sophia nodded but didn’t let go for a few seconds longer than necessary.
In the mirror across from them, Megan barely recognized the girl being fussed over makeup smeared, eyes too wide, body framed by stage glitter.
The reflection didn’t look sick or weak the way she felt. It looked adored.
How could I ruin it now? she thought numbly. They love this version. Even if it’s not really me anymore.
_______
That night, she scrolled through fan edits again slow-motion clips of her smile, the glint of her collarbone, the caption “Megan’s glow-up era!”
The comments poured in by the hundreds:
“She’s finally getting the spotlight she deserves.”
“I want her diet plan OMG.”
“Her face looks so sculpted it’s unreal!”
“She’s the visual center now, no doubt.”
The likes climbed, the validation built and all she felt was fear.
Because every “unreal” meant her current state wasn’t human enough to last. Every “center” made her terrified of what would happen if she stopped being the image they applauded.
She turned off her phone, curling into herself on the mattress. Her heart beat too loud in the quiet.
They loved her more, yet she felt less alive every day.
Megan didn’t notice when she started counting her heartbeats to fall asleep.
She didn’t notice how even her dreams were quieter now, no music, no laughter, just faint echoes of flashing cameras.
And outside, the world kept loving her disappearing act.
_________
The dorm was silent. The kind of silence that was loud, suffocating.
Megan couldn’t sleep; she hadn’t really slept for weeks. The city hum outside their windows always blurred into the same static hum that filled her head.
She sat on the windowsill, knees drawn close, the cool glass pressing against her forehead.
Her reflection looked ghostly in the glass: faint, transparent.
For a moment, she imagined her younger self sitting there too: the version with rounder cheeks, fuller laughter, and none of the control she’d since learned to cling to.
That girl had been louder. Softer. Happier. And easier to hurt.
She was 13 again, back home in Hawaii. The gym smelled of rubber and dust, and her PE shirt clung awkwardly to her skin.
She remembered the circle of other girls comparing snacks after class and how one of them, with a syrupy smile, had said, “You’d be so pretty if you just lost a little weight.”
Everyone laughed. It wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just careless.
But that sentence stayed.
Another time, at lunch, a boy commented on how thick her thighs were and how they bulged like a hippodrome while his friends snickered.
She learned to pretend to laugh too, as though she could join the joke and control it.
When she got home that day, her mom asked if she wanted a snack and she’d said no.
It had started so small — one snack declined, one longer run, one extra hour of dance practice because she wanted to “get better.” But each act of control stacked quietly until it became a language she couldn’t unlearn.
She thought of her parents, of her family.
The words they said to help but instead it ended up hurting her instead.
“Your getting a little chubby”
“You would be such a pretty girl…. If only you took care of yourself”
“I think that’s enough food. Don’t want you gaining more weight”
“Your BMI test doesn’t look good, you have too much fat on those bones. Why don’t you ease up on the desserts”
The way her skin crawled as her aunt lovingly kissed her on the cheek.
GOD She was so fucking sensitive.
It was constructive criticism, it wasn't supposed to hurt.
Kisses were an act of love, she shouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
Her teachers seemed to notice. It showed in the ways her favourite food conveniently appeared in the cafeteria every week, how she was always being offered an extra snack, a piece of candy.
Megan was grateful. Really she was! But the concerned looks she got whenever she declined something always felt too much.
________
When she first moved to LA as a trainee, everything revolved around mirrors: evaluation, feedback, comparison.
She remembered the first day of evaluations, standing beside other girls, the instructor repeating the word “lines.”
Body lines. Dance lines. Precision. Symmetry.
Megan had wanted so badly to belong, to be chosen, to stop hearing the old voices from childhood whispering, “you’re not enough.”
So she pushed harder. Slept less. Ate lighter. Her trainers praised her discipline.
The mirror rewarded her with a leaner form. And for each “you’re improving,” a new tether formed between success and deprivation.
Now, years later, even as applause followed her wherever she went, she realized she was still chasing that same thing: approval. The world had changed; the hunger hadn’t.
_______
She leaned her head back, closing her eyes.
Inside, she was tired of fighting herself of being her own warden and prisoner at once.
The guilt came in waves. Sometimes it was a flash: when Yoonchae offered her cake and she smiled while whispering “maybe later.”
Other times, it came like a flood after long days when she lied to herself that skipping dinner was just routine.
She hated how easy the lies had become.
She hated that it worked.
And she hated that every attempt to fix it only made her feel weaker.
I don’t want this, she thought, pressing her palms against her knees.
But who am I without it?
A younger Megan pirouetted alone after class, her teacher having left the lights on for her. She remembered the echo of her sneakers sliding over worn wood, her breath steady and sharp.
When she stopped, she’d stared at her reflection flushed, glowing, strong and for a moment she’d felt proud.
But then she saw another girl’s image beside hers, leaner, more graceful in her memory. And instantly, pride turned into shame.
She stayed another hour, pushing through the exhaustion, trying to close the gap that only she could see.
It was the first time she’d felt dizzy. The first time she’d thought, Just one more round.
Now, sitting in the dorm a decade later, she realized she’d never stopped chasing that unseen line of perfection.
Every time she reached it, the line moved again.
Tears pricked at her eyes before she even noticed. She brushed them away quickly, ashamed, ashamed of the pain, ashamed of wanting relief, ashamed of crying when she was lucky to live the dream she always wanted.
There was a cruel irony in being called “inspiring” by people who didn’t know what it cost her to look like their inspiration.
Her guilt wasn’t just for herself anymore it was for the team, for her parents, for fans whose praise unknowingly fed the thing she wanted to escape.
She whispered into the quiet, voice shaking:
“I just wanted to be proud of me.”
But the room didn’t answer.
Her thoughts drifted like tides looping, guilt, small regrets pinned to every memory.
She thought of home again, of her aunt’s voice telling her to always be grateful because if she wasn’t then that would be disrespectful to God and she would be thrown into the pits of hell, her mom’s silent sigh of disapproval when she had another piece of cake, the younger version of herself who truly believed joy and worth could be measured in applause.
She wanted to go back and tell that girl the truth:
You don’t earn that love and acceptance you are so longing for.
But the words stayed trapped in her chest.
Now, she pressed her fingers against her ribs, feeling the rhythm of her heart erratic, fragile, horrible, weak,
Just like she was.
Somewhere under the exhaustion, a small, trembling part of her hoped maybe one day, she could stop running from herself.
But the guilt always hurt painfully more than the hope did.
_______
The rain had stopped by afternoon, leaving behind a thin shimmer on the pavement outside the dorm.
Megan stood by the window, tracing invisible circles on the glass with her fingertip, her thoughts looping the way they always did after meals.
She had eaten lunch. A proper lunch — rice, soup, even a few bites of kimchi that Sophia insisted would “wake her up.”
That should have been normal, comforting even.
Instead, her stomach twisted with unease, and the same tired argument played in her head.
You see? You eat. You’re fine. You don’t have one of those problems everyone whispers about.
The thought felt like armor. She repeated it until it sounded right.
She decided to go for a run. The sky was still cloudy, but the air outside was light, the kind that promised escape.
Running had always been her reset button the one place she could outrun her guilt.
Headphones in, she let the music drown her thoughts, body moving on instinct.
The rhythm steadied her: left, right, breath, release.
The ache in her muscles wasn’t punishment; it was control, proof that she could still decide what happened to her body.
People exaggerate, she thought mid‑stride, trying to flatten the guilt forming again. I eat enough. I just like feeling clean afterward. Light. Balanced.
But behind the confidence came the quieter truth she didn’t want to acknowledge: that she didn’t stop when she was tired.
She stopped when she was punished enough to feel safe again.
When the sky turned pink and the city lights blinked on, she bent over, gasping softly. Sweat dripped onto the pavement.
She straightened up and smiled small, private, victorious.
Then almost instantly, regret flooded in.
Why do I always go too far?
Back in her room, changing into dry clothes, Megan studied herself in the mirror without really meaning to.
She pulled her shirt loose around her waist, noticing the way the fabric fluttered.
To anyone else, it might have seemed flattering; to her, it looked like a secret finally showing.
“I eat,” she murmured quietly, almost defensively.
The reflection didn’t argue, only stared back with tired red rimmed eyes.
She sat on the edge of the bed, curling one knee up, her mind still working through the circular logic she’d built for herself.
If she ate, she couldn’t be sick.
If she worked out, she was strong.
If she felt guilty after eating, it was just discipline.
Everyone struggled with that sometimes.
Right?
Her chest tightened. She pressed her face into her knees, trying to ignore the creeping panic that maybe this wasn’t as simple as she wanted to believe.
No, she told herself firmly. You’re fine. You just care too much. That’s all.
The lie soothed her because it sounded logical. The truth always came dressed as logic first.
Dinner was quiet. The girls were all tired, two interviews, another round of rehearsal.
Lara and Daniela joked lazily about tomorrow’s schedule while Sophia and Manon scrolled through their phones.
When Yoonchae offered her half a mandarin, Megan smiled and accepted. After all, that was normal. She could be normal.
She peeled it slowly, the citrus scent filling the room.
Each bite tasted like sunlight and anxiety.
When she was done, she washed her hands carefully, pretending the running water could rinse away the unease pressing deep inside.
And then, almost ritualistically, she stretched — not long, not excessive.
Just enough to keep the thought quiet: You’re balancing it out.
The guilt dimmed, not gone, only silent for now. But the fear remained gnawing beneath her ribs.
_______
Much later, as the lights went out one by one, Megan lay awake listening to the soft sounds of breathing in the dark.
Her own heartbeat felt louder than it should.
She ran through her promises:
She WOULD eat breakfast tomorrow.
She would drink water and rest more.
She would not make a “big deal” out of something as small as this.
These reassurances became prayer‑like, a rhythm that kept her sane.
She didn’t want to be seen as fragile.
She didn’t want pity.
She wanted control, order, peace, even if her version of peace came wrapped in guilt.
Her last thought before sleep pulled her under was a quiet one, a whisper to herself:
It’s not a disorder. It’s just… part of me.
But even as she thought it, the heavy ache continued to bloom under her ribs, the kind that comes from knowing the truth and choosing to look away.