we remember things, so that they can be used in the future.
— b. sanderson
★
( + idol star athletics championship. )
it’s moments like these that remind her why she hates being an idol---so goddamn much. the heat, the crowdedness, the sweating---it’s a form of a culture shock, really, for a girl who’s lived her whole life in isolation, within walls of disinfectant marble and pearlescent cages.
she’s out of her element, if the fact isn’t already obvious enough; for her wearing designer sneakers that definitely aren’t suitable for any sort of physical activity is dead give-away, and, though she’s expected to experience embarrassment---to cower in the cover with bowed knees and fiddling fingers---she stands tall, head high and back straight as she strolls across turf to locate other sunshine-colored (and garish) teammates.
she flaunts her wealth,
for it’s the only thing she knows how to do well.
maybe she should’ve gotten herself out of this, surmised some sort of haphazard excuse to fester pity from those necessary and involved---but her manager insists, claims it’s an opportunity to take a step back and breath; he’s often found wandering into their dormitory’s kitchen late at night, witnessing her desk lamp still brightly-displayed through crack in bedroom door. mina lays next to her, sleeping soundly, whilst hyera silently persists away through dozens of pages of script for tomorrow’s reading, for tomorrow’s filming. for tomorrow.
there’s always a tomorrow;
ahem, there’s always something to do tomorrow.
and in that regard, she can understand his sentiment, wordlessly express her gratitude in the nod of head and suppressed smile she sends him while stepping off company van to enter the arena; he’s worried, understandably, that she’s working too hard---can notice her dark circles growing gloomier with every sleepless night, her exponentially increasing fatigue and decreasing weight.
yet, she remains inarticulate, unable to properly explain to him that she’s okay, (surprisingly) agrees to the suggestion of such a time-inefficient event simply because of his pleading---for, as merciless as hyera appears to be, even she doesn’t have to courage to turn him down, to say no, to retort that she has better things to do than wait in the aching sun and running for some competition that, in the long, won’t even matter to her career---no, instead, she sits hushed, ever so often glancing to the side to him chatting away with other colleagues; sometimes, their eyes catch, and he laughs with a wave to which she meekly responds with her own.
is this what it means to throw away one’s pride for the happiness of the other?
because, as much as her manager’s company pleases---as much as he exists to be one of the seldom staff members in their agency she can actually tolerate---she doesn’t have enough heart to confess that she wants it; all her life, she’s wanted this.
a purpose, a passion; so many claim that money can buy happiness, but oh, how wrong they truly are---for hyera, a girl whose bank account could easily fulfill the dreams of many, has yet to discover one of her own ... until now---a dream, a goal, one worthy of striving toward with determined gaze and leveled head; to become a successful actress has undoubtedly become more important than to become a successful idol.
and so, it’s moments like these that remind her why she hates being an idol---for it emphasizes the act of her wasting time; because, believe it or not, ban hyera has work to do.
don’t let go too soon, but don’t hang on too long.
--- m. albom
★
( + april schedule ; peek-a-boo promotions. )
she’s light-headed, finding herself losing her breath quicker and easier---is the world spinning, or is that just her head?---than usual. she’s dizzy, eyes rapidly blinking to fend off the invasive and obnoxious rays of stage lights that beat away at aching headache.
fifty-two schedules in nearly a week, and she only has twelve hours of sleep notched onto her belt to prove it---the success, that is, the overcompensation. the dedication. her eyelids are heavy, struggling to remain open when falling into unconscious seems so tempting at such an inconvenient time as this one.
her mind scoffs at such a suggestion, though.
you can sleep when you’re dead, hyera.
only a mere seven days have passed since the release of their single; a peak at the top third position on the charts, and still steadily rising with each second that passes. her lullabies are the increasing numbers in views, listens, streams---her happiness relies on the multiplication of social media shares and music show nominations. do they realize it, the hard work? the long nights and exhaustive mornings of recording studio and practice room sleepovers?
you’d think that she’d be giddy, would be proud.
instead, she is just tired.
exhausted, even.
she forgets the last time she’s enjoyed the soft comfort of her own bed, draws a blank on whether or not she’s even had a shower in the past fourty-eight hours; douses her roots with enough dry shampoo and leave-in conditioner to persuade herself otherwise. fills her stomach with the empty fumes of caffeine pills and water, convinces herself that, in an industry like this, being hungry remains an immense benefit in more ways than one.
peek-a-boo
a fox who wants to have fun, that’s me
she’s lost count over how many times she’s sung such words in such a short time period, has long dismissed the idea that knowing lyrics are a such a necessity when they’re so engraved into her mind, ingrained into her very being for the next couple of months or so. her voice is hoarse, eases itself into the safety of silence and slumber with every performance; she’s sure they’ll notice her lip-syncing, her mismatched mouth movements with tone and pitch---though, she cares not when her energy is best spent in efforts elsewhere.
her muscles ache, joints sore---to extent, she’s guilty, yes, for lacking that same air of vigor at the time of their comeback---has she even smiled once in the past three minutes? and with such a microscopic gaze on her, with those cameras and microphones, she’s practically asking for a death wish if it were so)---nearly drops from exhaustion once the fade of the music and the eruption of claps and cheers fill the familiar auditorium.
and so the routine continues---catches her breath, bowes to the audience, peels at the tape sticking onto her cheek the second she steps off the stage---adds in the slight divergence of stumbling on the steps on her way down. others gasp around her, wonder if she’s okay, and she waves them off; for she’s far too busy to worry herself with such concerns like these.
she’s tired, yes, but she’s not dead.
and, thus, onto the next.
