After school, Mi-Young found herself lingering in the hallways, her steps slow and deliberate. She clutched the straps of her backpack, feeling the familiar weight of her books pulling her back to reality, but her mind was elsewhere.
The idea of visiting the Idol Trainee Club had been nagging at her all day, ever since Ms. Kim mentioned it. Despite telling herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t actually join, curiosity gnawed at her. She wanted to see what it was like—what they were like. The girls who could dance and sing without the weight of academic expectations crushing them.
Mi-Young’s feet carried her toward the dance studio almost unconsciously. When she reached the door, she hesitated, glancing up and down the empty hallway to make sure no one saw her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she edged closer, her fingers gripping the doorframe as she leaned forward ever so slightly to peer through the small glass window.
Inside, a group of girls were already warming up, stretching and chatting excitedly. The room was bright, lined with mirrors and bathed in soft afternoon light that made everything seem more relaxed, more carefree. A girl by the stereo was playing some upbeat pop song Mi-Young vaguely recognized. The music filled the space, matching the energy of the room.
She watched in silence, careful not to be seen.
The girls inside didn’t seem to take themselves too seriously. They laughed as they attempted new dance moves, some stumbling or falling out of sync, only to giggle and try again. No one cared if they weren’t perfect. It was the opposite of what Mi-Young was used to—where every mistake in her studies was a mark against her future. Here, it was just about having fun.
One girl caught Mi-Young’s eye. She moved gracefully across the floor, her body fluid and confident, but even she stumbled a bit, laughing at her own mistake. The sight tugged at something deep inside Mi-Young, an old, buried longing to be like them—free to enjoy something without worrying about the consequences.
Her gaze lingered on the group for a moment longer. She wondered what it would feel like to be in there, to be one of them, even just for a few minutes.
But then, just as quickly, she pulled back from the door. What am I doing? she thought, shaking her head slightly. This wasn’t something she was supposed to want. This was a distraction, a daydream. She couldn’t afford distractions. Not with her grades. Not with the pressure from her parents.
Mi-Young turned to leave, but her feet felt heavier now, as though they didn’t entirely agree with her decision. The thought of turning around and walking away made her chest tighten, but she forced herself to push the door—and the temptation—out of her mind.
She walked quickly down the hall, the sound of music from the studio fading behind her. Just stick to the plan, she told herself. There’s no room for anything else.
But as she made her way toward the exit, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, she’d find herself back at that door tomorrow.
In truth, Mi-Young knew how to sing and dance.
It wasn’t something she admitted, not even to herself. When she was younger, she would mimic the moves from the music videos she watched on TV, transforming her small bedroom into a stage. Hours would pass as she perfected choreography, her body responding to the rhythm as easily as breathing. Singing along to the lyrics, she would feel alive, as if this was what she was meant to do.
But that dream had always seemed too far away—too foolish.
Her parents had made it clear what they expected of her. Good grades, a stable career, respectability. An idol? It wasn’t even a conversation worth having. So, Mi-Young learned to bury that part of herself, focusing on her studies, excelling in the subjects that were acceptable.
