Lily pov :
"LILY, YOU'RE GOING SOLO NOW. IRIS HAS BEEN DISBANDED."
The words echoed in the silent, empty practice room, ringing sharper than any high note I'd ever sung. My breath hitched. "What...?" The water bottle slipped slightly in my hand. "W-What about the..."
I couldn't bring myself to say it. But the manager's next words filled the void with chilling finality. "They've all decided to go their own ways. All of their contracts have been terminated."
I looked down, feeling the heavy burden of the news settle over me. My reflection was a girl with wide, frightened eyes behind round glasses, her hair pulled into a neat, desperate bun. A crushing thought arose from the silence: "...How is it possible... that I'm the only one left...?"
A flood of memories, and a current of self-doubt, washed over me.
I wasn't as good at singing as Seora...
...And I wasn't as good at dancing as Ha-rin.
I wasn't like Chaewon, who the members could rely on.
I looked at a mental image of the four of us, linked arm-in-arm, smiling brightly, clutching a trophy I barely felt I earned. We were a team: Iris. Now, only a phantom warmth remained where my groupmates used to be.
The truth, a bitter pill I had to swallow every day, surfaced: I was just lucky enough to catch people's eyes... and that's how I was the last one to survive.
Suddenly, a dazzling new image of myself flashed in my mind—pigtails, a bold black choker, and a coy, confident smirk, bathed in a bright pink and yellow glow. This was my new public persona, the one that sold albums and packed venues.
I know my talent is simply being an idol, I thought, suppressing a grimace. I know I'm not as gifted as they are.
And sometimes, in the harsh, isolated spotlight, I felt the limitations of performing alone... and I would STAGGER, physically and emotionally.
But then the cheers would come, the dazzling light would hit, and I would raise my arms, a forced, ecstatic smile plastered on my face, clutching the latest success.
"THANK YOU, FLOWERS!!"
I was Lily. And now, I was an army of one. The show, somehow, had to go on.
The transition from a four-member group to a solo act was brutal. I was in the elevator, my head bowed, trying to steady my racing heart. I saw the reflection of the two people staring at me from inside. I could hear their hushed whispers, even with the faint music playing.
"Huh? So she's really the only one left?"
"I guess so. The rest of them are gone."
Every sideways glance and muttered comment felt like a tiny, sharp blade. I knew what they thought: She must be the most talented to survive, or worse, She was just lucky. But the words that cut the deepest were the ones I imagined them saying: "It's going to be impossible for her to do well on her own." They were right. Being alone meant the void on stage was impossible to ignore.
My manager, the one who broke the news about Iris disbanding, stepped into the practice room and handed me a drink. His face was a mask of cold professionalism.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his tone clipped. "I heard you got really emotional."
I gripped the glass, unable to look him in the eye. "It just feels... unfair," I whispered.
He didn't soften. He just looked at me, his gaze unreadable, and then delivered the next punch. "It's the reality, not a lie. The entertainment world is rough. This is just the beginning." His words felt like a warning, not encouragement.
The next time I stood on stage, it was different. No backup. Just me, the bright lights, and the roaring crowd.
I looked out and saw a sea of faces, a sea of "FLOWERS"—that's what we called our fans. They were still there, cheering for me. I gave them my brightest, most magnetic smile, but inside, I was wrestling with the truth.
I'm talented, yes. I'm an idol. But I was never the main vocalist, never the lead dancer. I knew I had shortcomings. That's why I felt a sudden urge to just stand still and say, "Truthfully, I'm... not as good as the others."
But I couldn't. I had to perform the role I was cast for.
The song started, and I moved. I gave them power, a dazzling intensity that didn't leave room for weakness. I was all fierce confidence and sharp choreography.
And then, I hit my signature move. I closed the song with a dramatic, heartfelt hand-to-the-chest pose, completely out of breath. The crowd's reaction was immediate and overwhelming. They were screaming my name.
"LILY IS THE BEST!"
"WE LOVE YOU, LILY!"
They didn't see the fear or the exhaustion. They saw the star.
I stood there, panting, eyes wide with the adrenaline and the genuine shock of their devotion. The noise was deafening, a physical wave of love and admiration.
Ah... this overwhelming attention...
The sensation was terrifying and exhilarating. They had chosen me. They had elevated me. My face, my name, my music was everywhere. I finally understood what the manager meant: this was the reality now. It was a terrifying reality, but it was mine.
The applause was intoxicating, a drug that kept me moving. On stage, I was "LILY," all smiles and vibrant energy, shouting, "HAHA, I'M ALRIGHT!! LET'S PLAY THE NEXT SONG!!"
But underneath that brave exterior, I knew the chilling truth: the reason I could stand here alone... is because I had to step over the other girls to be up here. In surviving, I felt relief...
But that relief was instantly poisoned by guilt... and the anxiety knowing that I could end up just like the others... and disappear.
I stood on the stage, the dazzling lights blinding me, and confessed to myself: I didn't get to where I was because I was talented. I just got lucky, so I had to work harder.
All I know is that I have to work hard just to survive. I don't know what makes me better than the others... and I don't know... why people love me.
But even surviving is hard enough.
That's why I tried so hard. I pushed myself relentlessly, clinging to my position. I remember seeing my own frantic notes: "Tally: I have to work harder. If this is how I have to live..."
🎬 A New Path: Acting
One day, the manager—a different person this time, a man in a cap—approached me with a script.
"It's time for you to start acting."
"Me, act?" I stammered, surprised. "I don't know if I can do this..."
He held out the script, titled Working Girl And The Salaryman. "It's the leading role in a drama."
My eyes widened as I stared at the name on the cover. A lead role?
"Who knows how long you can last as an idol?" he said, his voice flat and practical. "You can build acting experience and prepare for a pivot to acting."
I had received acting lessons before, but I'd always thought it was all for the stage, for my idol persona. Because like I said, it was hard enough trying to survive as an idol.
He didn't need to elaborate. The entertainment world chewed up and spit out idols every day. If I wanted a long career, I needed a backup plan, a whole new identity.
I gripped the script, the panic starting to set in. The manager was telling me that my efforts as an idol might not be enough anymore. My worst fear was articulated: ...if I've come to a place now where my efforts aren't enough... then what do I do?
The thought sent me into a desperate, silent scream. I covered my ears, tears streaming down my face. The spotlight felt like a trap, and the acting script felt like a whole new impossible mountain to climb. The terror of failure, of vanishing entirely, was crippling.

The acting studio was a foreign, brutal environment. The bright, focused light that was once my friend on stage now felt like a harsh, interrogating spotlight, trapping me. The cheerful, confident "LILY" from the stage was nowhere to be found, leaving behind a terrified girl crouched in the corner, trying to hide.
AFTER THE FIRST EPISODE AIRED, I BECAME MORE WITHDRAWN, AND MADE MORE MISTAKES.
The camera crew, the director, the entire set felt like a gallery of critical eyes. I was supposed to be the lead, but I was failing.
"CUT!!!" the director's voice boomed, sharp and infuriated. He stepped forward. "LILY! WHAT'S WITH YOU TODAY?"
I snapped out of my daze, adrenaline spiking with shame. I quickly stood up and bowed deeply. "I'M SORRY... I'M SO SORRY..." I repeated, feeling the familiar burn of tears in my eyes beneath my cap.
"Hmph... LET'S GO AGAIN," he sighed, turning away.
I could feel my body SHAKE as I tried to regain my composure. The producer, a kind older man, tried to offer a little encouragement. "WE'RE ALMOST DONE, SO LET'S JUST GET THROUGH THIS SCENE, OKAY?" His voice was strained, clearly trying to hold his patience. I could only manage a quiet, desperate sigh.
A Familiar Face and a New Struggle
As I gathered myself for the next take, I saw two figures talking quietly by the side of the set. One was a tall man, and the other was a woman with long, dark hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. I recognized her immediately. It was Lisu, a successful actress I knew from industry events.
Lisu looked pale, her eyes filled with a desperate anxiety that mirrored my own. I watched as she spoke to the man.
"I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE... LISU..." she whispered, her voice cracking.
She stepped closer to me, her eyes meeting mine, and offered a soft, knowing look. "...I'M SORRY..." she mouthed, though I wasn't sure what she was apologizing for—her own struggle, or the shared misery of our careers.
It was a strange, unsettling moment of connection. Here was someone who seemed to have successfully transitioned from idol to actress, someone who appeared to have achieved what my manager wanted for me. Yet, she looked just as broken, just as terrified as I felt.
This world doesn't allow anyone to rest, I thought, adjusting my glasses and trying to wipe away the dampness from my brow. Even when you pivot, the pressure just changes shape. I was so focused on being a better actor, on trying to survive the failure of my idol career, that I was now failing in this new endeavor. The fear of disappointing everyone was suffocating.
The director, a man with a harried, tired look, finally relented. He let out a great "SIGH," then announced to the crew, "Then we'll go again after a break."
I sat in my corner, my head bowed, trying to stop the shame-induced shaking. The producer, Haedo, came over and crouched beside me. Instead of comfort, he offered a chilling rebuke.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY ACTORS WANT TO BE WHERE YOU ARE RIGHT NOW?" he demanded, his voice low and intense. "YOU'VE TAKEN AWAY ROLES FROM PEOPLE ACTUALLY WANT THIS, AND YOU'RE CRYING OVER SOME MEAN COMMENTS."
His words were a punch to the gut. The guilt I already carried—for surviving the Iris disbandment, for having a famous face instead of genuine acting skill—intensified tenfold.
My former groupmate, Lisu, was there, still standing with her friend.
"HAEDO...!" Lisu's friend, a woman with long hair and a weary but concerned expression, stepped forward. "YOU'RE BEING WAY TOO HARSH. HAVE YOU ALREADY FORGOTTEN, MYEONG?"
I froze, listening. Myeong. It was Lisu's friend's name.
Myeong ignored her friend, her gaze burning with resentment towards me. "IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE LIKE THIS, YOU SHOULD JUST QUIT." Her eyes raked over my bowed figure, her voice dripping with disdain. "SH*T, WE'VE GOT A PRINCESS ON OUR HANDS."
The Price of a Famous Face
It wasn't just Haedo and Myeong being cruel. It was the entire system. Myeong's friend, still trying to defend me, spoke the bitter truth about my situation and Lisu's.
"This whole time, you've been an unknown actor because of people like her," Myeong's friend said to Lisu.
Myeong, however, was focused on the injustice of it all. "Because of those damn ratings... they pick any old famous person as the lead, and shoot a school play." She let out a sharp, disgusted sound. "TSK. WHAT A WASTE OF FILM."
I sat there, hunched and defeated. I was a puppet, a ratings stunt, taking away work from actors who had dedicated their lives to the craft, all because I was a famous idol. I was hated by the crew and failing at the job.
I raised my head to look at Lisu. She just stared blankly, a familiar exhaustion in her eyes. It seemed like both of us were struggling to keep our heads above water in this brutal industry. But Lisu was hated for being a skilled actress, while I was hated for not being one. The truth was, neither of us could win.
I was just lucky enough to catch people's eyes... and that's how I was the last one to survive. That luck felt like a curse now, burdening me with expectations I couldn't meet. The stage had been a terrifying high wire act, but this film set was a minefield.
Haedo's words, and Myeong's bitter gaze, were knives twisting in an old wound. They confirmed every fear and doubt I'd ever had: that I didn't deserve to be here, that my success was built on a fragile foundation of luck and publicity, not true talent.
I listened to Haedo's tirade. "HAEDO CAN BE INTENSE WHEN IT COMES TO ACTING..." I knew that. But as he spoke, Lisu's hunched figure in the corner suddenly took on a new meaning. I looked at her, then down at my own trembling hands, and a startling question cut through the shame. "CAN I HONESTLY SAY THAT I TRIED HARDER THAN THIS GIRL?"
The answer was a resounding no. Lisu was hated for her skill, I was hated for my fame, and yet she was still here, still trying, still suffering. It hit me that Myeong's criticism was just an extension of my own self-doubt, amplified by the resentment of the industry.
Myeong spoke again, her voice tight with anger. "THIS WHOLE TIME, YOU'VE BEEN AN UNKNOWN ACTOR BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE HER." She was talking to Lisu.
Lisu's reply was quiet, resigned. "...DON'T TAKE IT TOO PERSONALLY."
I realized I COULDN'T SAY ANYTHING to defend myself, because BEFORE, I WOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING SIMILAR TO HAEDO. I had been judgmental of others too, in my own fear.
But when I heard what Haedo said, I REALIZED ONE THING.
No matter how I got here—whether through luck, or stepping over my old groupmates, my SEONBAES—I was here now. And the guilt and the pressure were my burdens to carry.
I clenched my fist until my nails dug into my palm. "I HAD TO STEP OVER OTHER PEOPLE TO GET HERE..."
I took a deep breath, pushing the shame and fear into a tight, hard core of resolve. I slowly pulled myself up, STANDing tall for the first time that day, and looked directly at Lisu, then at the rest of the crew.
The words came out as a fierce, sudden declaration, surprising even myself.
"I'M NOT GOING TO QUIT!"
I wouldn't let their resentment, or my own paralyzing fear of failure, defeat me. I was Lily, the last survivor of Iris, and if the only way to escape the fate of disappearing was to pivot, then I would pivot.
I turned to Myeong, my voice steady now, and bowed, acknowledging her standing in the industry. "...THANK YOU, MYEONG SEONBAE."
I had to keep going. "I WANT TO BE AS GOOD... EVER!!" I was desperate to prove to them, and to myself, that I was more than just a famous face. "...AND I WANT TO DO A GOOD JOB SO I WON'T BE ASHAMED... BUT IT'S NOT GOING THE WAY I WANT IT TO."
The struggle was clear, and it was brutal, but I would face it head-on. If I had been lucky enough to be the last one left, then I would use that luck to fight for a place where my effort finally mattered.
My sudden defiance—the firm refusal to quit and the small bow to Myeong—didn't erase the deep-seated problem: I was failing. The confidence I projected with my words crumbled the moment I turned away from the crew.
The break was over, and I was supposed to be preparing, but I was still shaking. I knew I couldn't do it alone.
I saw the actresses Lisu and her friend Myeong walking away, and desperation overcame my fear. I ran after them, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I found them and stopped, my head bowed in a desperate plea. I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes, but this time, I wouldn't hide them. I had to admit the truth: I was drowning.
"EVERY TIME I STAND IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA, I FREEZE UP." The confession was barely a whisper, thick with shame. "I... I don't know what to do."
I looked up at them, my vision blurred. I had to swallow my pride, the last remnants of the fierce idol persona. I didn't want to disappear—the fear of ending up like the rest of Iris, a forgotten memory, was a cold, constant terror. "I DON'T WANT TO DISAPPEAR LIKE THIS."
My hands clenched into tight, white knots. I looked at Myeong, the actress who had just called me a "princess" and a "waste of film." I looked at Lisu, the actress who knew this pain all too well.
I looked at Lisu's friend, the one who had tried to defend me. Her name wasn't Myeong; Myeong was the one who had chastised me. I had bowed and thanked Myeong, the one who hated me, because her scorn had ignited my resolve. But now, I needed genuine help.
I looked at the sympathetic face of Lisu's friend, and then at Lisu herself. I took one last shuddering breath and forced the words out.
"PLEASE HELP ME. ...I... ...WANT TO SURVIVE."
I had finally articulated my deepest desire. It wasn't about being the best or the most talented; it was about sheer, desperate survival. I had to claw my way forward, and I couldn't do it without the knowledge of those who had mastered this craft. My idol fame had gotten me the role, but only genuine acting skill, the kind these two possessed, would allow me to keep it.
TO BE CONTINUED