Chaeryeong was fourteen when the spotlights she’d entrusted her life to turned their back on her for the first time. Fourteen. Old enough to be realistic about her slim chances of making the team. Naive enough to have thought that she could, anyway. Nevermind that he thought what the team needed was a strong dancer. Nevermind that he looked past Chaeryeong on stage to pick the final member out from the crowd.
Ryujin was fifteen when she saw Chaeryeong cry for the first time in real life and not over a television screen. Chaeryeong cried like she had been left alone in the world: pathetically, and with every inch of her small, hunched body. Ryujin was always the first one to find her after every evaluation, eyes swollen, voice wet and self-deprecating. Always the one to get her water and a steady flow of napkins, when the comfort of her you did fine’s and they were being too harsh’s proved to be insufficient. Ryujin understood, even if she wasn’t the one shedding half her body weight in tears. Every single comment they got felt like a postmortem, a dissection into the death of their non-careers as singers.
Ryujin is sixteen when she finds out how cold the stage is when the spotlights are turned against her. Sixteen, when she finds out exactly how it feels to be told that the dream she thought was a step away from fruition, so tangible she swore she held it in her hand, was never in reach in the first place. The live broadcast is over. Her parents fetch her home. She skips a late dinner to tuck herself into her bed and mistakes the weight of her duvet to be that of the world on her shoulders. They had been counting on her and she wasn’t enough.
She is sixteen when she answers Chaeryeong’s call, crying into herself, inconsolable and incoherent. Chaeryeong lets her talk anyway, making a mess all over the microphone. She listens despite the unfamiliarity of this situation. This position they’ve found themselves in where the comforter has become the comforted.
She is sixteen when she tells Chaeryeong that she wants to give up on this stupid dream. Let it go before she becomes like any of those unnies on the show, addicted to the pain of trying, trying, trying, and holding onto any speck of hope they can find. Glimmers so small they might as well have been dust flecks illuminating under the conical beam of light they all covet so badly.
She is sixteen when she realises that Chaeryeong needs her as much as she needs the stage and the spotlights. Sixteen, when she realises she needs Chaeryeong, too.
She is sixteen when she calms to the sound of Chaeryeong’s breathing over the phone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice,” Chaeryeong says, after a while.
[FILL] the world keeps turning
Tags: canon comp, post-sixteen, post-mixnine
Permission to Remix: Yes
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Chaeryeong was fourteen when the spotlights she’d entrusted her life to turned their back on her for the first time. Fourteen. Old enough to be realistic about her slim chances of making the team. Naive enough to have thought that she could, anyway. Nevermind that he thought what the team needed was a strong dancer. Nevermind that he looked past Chaeryeong on stage to pick the final member out from the crowd.
Ryujin was fifteen when she saw Chaeryeong cry for the first time in real life and not over a television screen. Chaeryeong cried like she had been left alone in the world: pathetically, and with every inch of her small, hunched body. Ryujin was always the first one to find her after every evaluation, eyes swollen, voice wet and self-deprecating. Always the one to get her water and a steady flow of napkins, when the comfort of her you did fine’s and they were being too harsh’s proved to be insufficient. Ryujin understood, even if she wasn’t the one shedding half her body weight in tears. Every single comment they got felt like a postmortem, a dissection into the death of their non-careers as singers.
Ryujin is sixteen when she finds out how cold the stage is when the spotlights are turned against her. Sixteen, when she finds out exactly how it feels to be told that the dream she thought was a step away from fruition, so tangible she swore she held it in her hand, was never in reach in the first place. The live broadcast is over. Her parents fetch her home. She skips a late dinner to tuck herself into her bed and mistakes the weight of her duvet to be that of the world on her shoulders. They had been counting on her and she wasn’t enough.
She is sixteen when she answers Chaeryeong’s call, crying into herself, inconsolable and incoherent. Chaeryeong lets her talk anyway, making a mess all over the microphone. She listens despite the unfamiliarity of this situation. This position they’ve found themselves in where the comforter has become the comforted.
She is sixteen when she tells Chaeryeong that she wants to give up on this stupid dream. Let it go before she becomes like any of those unnies on the show, addicted to the pain of trying, trying, trying, and holding onto any speck of hope they can find. Glimmers so small they might as well have been dust flecks illuminating under the conical beam of light they all covet so badly.
She is sixteen when she realises that Chaeryeong needs her as much as she needs the stage and the spotlights. Sixteen, when she realises she needs Chaeryeong, too.
She is sixteen when she calms to the sound of Chaeryeong’s breathing over the phone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice,” Chaeryeong says, after a while.
Come back to me, Ryujin hears.