Last night, I was on a stage.
Not a small one—a real one. The kind with golden lights that burn like stars and a silence so deep it makes your heart feel like thunder. I couldn't see faces clearly, just a sea of shadows and soft eyes watching. But I wasn't nervous. I wasn't scared. I just... sang. Like it was the only thing I'd ever known how to do.
It didn't feel like a performance. It felt like breathing.
The music swelled behind me, and my feet moved like they weren't mine anymore—caught in a dance that felt ancient and alive, like fire. Every step, every note, every beat felt right. As if this was what I was always meant to do. As if this was who I was always meant to become.
And just as I reached the final note—the one that sits in your chest and doesn't let go—
"Seline, wake up!" my mother snapped, her voice sharp with frustration.
Here we go again.
I muttered under my breath, "It was such a nice dream..."
But even as I sat up in bed, blinking away sleep, I knew this dream wasn't like the others. It felt different. Like a glimpse of something waiting for me. A promise dressed as a memory. A reflection of the future.
I'm only fifteen. Still in school. Still figuring everything out.
But somehow... I know.
I pulled on my usual white hoodie—the one with the black design across the front and a pair of jeans. Nothing special. Just another long day ahead. But the thought of seeing my friends made it a little better. We shared the same love for music and art, the same quiet rebellion in our hearts. And maybe the same frustration.
Our parents—especially our mothers—never saw creativity as anything more than a distraction. A phase. A hobby for when we were bored. But we've always known it's more than that. We've always known who we are. And we're just getting started.
I took the usual train to school—packed, as always. Bodies pressed from every side, and I had to twist and squeeze just to find enough space to breathe. It was chaos, but familiar chaos. And, of course, I was nearly two minutes late.
Two minutes might not seem like much.
But to my mom?
It was a federal offense—especially when the teacher decided to let her know.
"Excuse me!" I called out as I fought my way off the train, nearly tripping over someone's briefcase. With barely a second to spare, I bolted toward the school, the wind tugging at my hoodie as I ran. The weather, at least, was on my side—sunny, crisp, and perfect. The kind of day that made walking home with my friends and music in our ears feel like a movie scene.
I reached the school just as the classroom door was about to close.
"Wait for me!" I yelled, breathless.
Luckily, it was Linda—my favorite teacher. She smiled and held the door open just long enough for me to slip inside. I slid into the seat beside my best friend, Yarin, who gave me that look and shook her head.
"You're always late, Seline," she said, setting her backpack down.
I grinned. "You know punctuality was never part of my personality."
"Of course it isn't," she muttered, rolling her eyes with a smirk.
"I had the craziest dream today," I whispered, still catching my breath.
She raised an eyebrow. "Crazier than the one where you dreamed Cylus showed his abs on stage... and then actually did it the next day?"
"Okay, maybe not that crazy," I laughed. "But close."
We both burst out laughing—quietly, of course—and just like that, the day felt a little brighter.
She always understood me. No matter how out-of-place or wild my dreams sounded, she believed in me. Yarin saw something in me that no one else did. She believed I could make it—if I just gave it everything I had. She never laughed, never doubted. Not once.
Unlike my family.
To them, I was a collection of faults and mistakes, never quite enough. My mother always said, "Your friends won't tell you the truth because they don't care if you fail. But it affects me—because I'm your mother."
But did she ever stop to ask what I wanted?
She decided everything for me—what's best, what's right, what's acceptable. As if passion were some dangerous thing to be kept locked away. As if happiness were something to sacrifice for status and wealth.
They all think I'm meant to be a doctor.
But the truth? I can't even stand the sight of blood.
They call that purpose.
I call it a prison.
They don't see the fire in my chest when I sing. They don't hear the rhythm in my soul or feel the pull of the stage like I do.
They don't understand that being a star isn't just something I want—
It's something I am.
And yet, no matter how many times I told them—no matter how much I tried to explain—it was never enough to convince them to just give it a chance.
After class, after our usual walk to pick up my little sister from school, I headed home in silence. The dream still lingered in my mind. It had felt so real—so close, like all I had to do was reach out, and it would be mine.
School made me happy.
Home made me miserable.
It confused me—how other parents could cheer their daughters on, lift them higher, while mine only cared about what was "useful." My whole life has felt like a one-person journey. Every step I took, I took alone. No help. No support. Just me.
Then, like it was meant to happen, a notification lit up my phone:
"Auditions open – LOP Entertainment."
One of the biggest music companies in Korea. Rumor had it that if you passed, they'd move you to Seoul, give you a place to live, and train you until debut.
It sounded like a fantasy. But maybe it didn't have to be.
There was just one problem:
My mother would never agree.
Unless... I ran away.
That's what Cyrus did. He followed his dream, even if it meant leaving everything behind.
And suddenly, that wild, impossible idea didn't seem so impossible.
That night, I recorded myself singing "Fools" by Troye Sivan. I took a few photos—side profile, front, smiling, serious—and submitted my application.
A few hours later, I got a confirmation:
"We received your audition."
Unfortunately, so did my mother.
She saw the notification. And just like that, everything exploded.
"You were planning to run away?" she shouted. Her voice was sharp, furious.
"You started too late, Seline. Do you know how old idols are when they begin? Five. Six. You're fifteen—do you think that's enough?"
That logic made no sense.
Too late? I've been singing since I was five. The old piano in our house—back in our country—was my best friend. No one taught me. I taught myself. Every song, every chord, every moment came from me. Alone.
Maybe the problem wasn't that I started too late.
Maybe it's that she never bothered to see how far I'd come.
"You'll never believe in me, will you?" I said quietly.
It hit me then—not just the disappointment, but the realization. No matter how many words I throw at her, it will never be enough.
She crossed her arms. "Fine. If you're so sure, let's make a deal. You have three weeks. If you don't hear back, you forget this music nonsense. For good."
"Deal," I said without hesitation.
Three weeks passed.
I could barely breathe as I opened my laptop, heart pounding. I clicked on the email, praying—just a little—hoping maybe, just maybe...
"We regret to inform you..."
I stared at the screen. The words blurred.
I didn't pass.