3 years later
Everything looks the same now.
The streets I walk every day, the buildings that once felt familiar—they've all blurred into the background of a life that hasn't moved forward. Nothing has changed, and in many ways, neither have I. Not since the rejection.
LOP Entertainment's email arrived like a quiet ending.
Polite. Impersonal. Final.
I read the words over and over, hoping they would change. But they didn't. And something in me broke. Not in a dramatic, storm-of-tears kind of way. It was quieter than that—more hollow. Like a door closing somewhere inside me that I couldn't find my way back through.
I stopped caring.
About music.
About how I looked.
About the version of myself I had been working so hard to become.
Some people would call it depression. Maybe it was. For me, it felt more like a slow erosion—like motivation had been washed away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but routine.
I stopped singing. I stopped dressing the way I used to—no more carefully chosen outfits, no more makeup or effort. Just oversized clothes and hair pulled back out of the way. I avoided mirrors, but when I did catch a glimpse, I barely recognized myself.
The weight gain was gradual but noticeable.
At first, I ignored it. Then one day, standing in front of a changing room mirror under fluorescent lights, I saw it clearly. Not just the physical changes, but the disappointment in my own eyes. I didn't like what I saw. Not because of numbers or expectations—but because it reflected how far I'd drifted from the person I once was.
There was a time when I carried confidence like a second skin.
Now it felt like something I was borrowing.
After that, I did what was expected of me.
I stopped chasing dreams and started following the path laid out by my parents. I enrolled in the College of Science—my mother's choice, not mine. I traded sheet music for lab reports. Lyrics for lectures. Music became exactly what she always said it should be: a hobby. Something occasional. Background noise to a more "responsible" life.
And on the outside, I was doing fine. My grades were good. My schedule was full. I was checking all the right boxes.
But inside, I felt like I was fading.
The friends I used to spend countless evenings with—singing, dancing, and chasing dreams beneath streetlights—had all moved on.
We gradually drifted apart after middle school, each of us pulled in different directions. Here, school usually ends after ninth grade, and from there, we move on to further education colleges — choosing the paths we want to follow next.
But unlike me, both Yarin and Camila pursued their passions without hesitation.
Yarin pursued art and enrolled in a creative academy. I'd occasionally scroll through her Instagram, watching her laugh through paint-splattered moments, surrounded by color and expression. Her world looked vibrant, alive. And quietly, I wished I had gone there too.
Camila followed her love for dance. She joined a performing arts school, where she trained in every style—from contemporary to hip hop—and even competed internationally. Watching videos of her performing on global stages felt like watching someone live the version of life I once imagined for myself.
It has been almost a year since i have last seen them. I told myself it was because I needed to focus on school. The truth was harder to admit: I pulled away because I didn't want them to see me like this.
My new friends were kind, intelligent, thoughtful. They talked about fantasy novels and future careers and academic achievements. And while I appreciated their company, it was never quite the same. They didn't understand music. Not in the way I needed them to. They didn't feel it like I did. The rhythm, the freedom, the fire.
They didn't see the part of me I'd buried.
And honestly, I wasn't sure I did either anymore.
Every now and then, though—when I hear a certain song, or walk past a stage, or catch an old video on my phone—I feel something flicker.
Something small.
Something stubborn.
Something that reminds me I used to be more than this.
And sometimes, late at night, I wonder:
What if that part of me is still in there?
What if I'm not done yet?
But none of that seems to matter now—not when final exams are tomorrow. These tests will determine whether I can get into medical school or not. And not just any school—the top university in the city. The campus itself looks like something out of a fantasy novel, almost magical in its presence. It reminds me of Hogwarts, with its towering buildings, ivy-covered walls, and a garden bursting with vibrant flowers that fill the air with the scent of spring.
Everyone expects me to get in. My mother. My relatives. Maybe even the neighbors. Failing isn't an option—not in their eyes. If I don't make it, my mom will be furious, and the disappointment from half my extended family will be deafening. Some might call it a classic case of pressure from "typical Asian parents." But to me, it's a weight that never leaves.
Going home was always quiet—and as usual, I was alone. My friends often stayed behind after school to study together, while I had to head straight home to take care of my younger sisters, finish my chores, and study late into the night.
It was never easy being the middle child—especially a daughter. Somehow, all the responsibilities seemed to fall on me. My mother worked tirelessly, even on her days off, and I had no contact with my father, which only made the weight heavier.
Still, I can't blame her. She carries more than anyone should have to. But some days, I couldn't help wishing for a softer life—a life with a little more time to breathe, and a little less pressure to be everything for everyone.
By the time I finish all the chores—washing the dishes, helping my sisters with their homework, tidying up the apartment—it's already dark outside. My body feels heavy, but I know the night isn't over yet. That's when I sit down at my desk, open my notebook, and begin the second half of my day: schoolwork.
I start with math—my least favorite subject and the one that always takes the longest. The formulas blur together, and no matter how many times I reread the steps, they never come easy. I scribble notes, redo problems, and double-check my answers until the numbers begin to make some kind of sense.
Next is English, which is a bit easier. I go over vocabulary, review grammar rules, and write a short essay, even if my thoughts feel scattered. After that, I move on to chemistry—where equations, reactions, and elements demand a different kind of focus—and finally, biology. That part is smoother; I've always liked learning how the body works. It reminds me of why I'm even doing all of this.
By the end of it, my eyes sting, and my back aches. But my notes are clean, my revision is complete, and my textbooks are closed with care. I guess I'm ready for the final exam and if everything go smooth i can finally let go of everything.
After exam
It had been nearly three weeks since we took the final exam—the one that would decide everything. Our grades, our futures, the colleges we'd get into. Three weeks of waiting, overthinking, and praying for a number that could change everything.
Funny how the number three always felt unlucky to me. My first rejection from LOP Entertainment came after three weeks. And now, again, three weeks later, the results that could open—or close—the door to medical school were finally being posted.
The hallway was already crowded when I arrived. A tight cluster of students stood in front of the results wall, eyes wide with hope or already bracing for disappointment. The air was tense, thick with whispered guesses and silent pleas. My heart thudded so loud I was sure others could hear it.
I pushed my way through slowly, each step heavier than the last. My palms were cold, my throat dry. Somewhere in the crowd, I heard someone gasp in joy, another let out a defeated sigh. That wall held all our dreams—and all our fears.
I finally reached the front.
There it was. A white sheet pinned neatly, names printed in bold letters, one after the other.
Only the top 20 would be accepted into the medical university I had worked so hard for. I scanned the list from the top.
1... 2... 3... my eyes moved faster.
10... 15... 18...
My name wasn't there.
I bit my lip, willing myself to keep reading, even though I already knew.
And there it was.
Seline Reyes
Just one spot below the cutoff.
Just one step too far.
My vision blurred for a moment. The hallway buzzed around me, but everything felt muted, distant—like I was underwater. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I just stood there, staring at the number
Number 21.
Not good enough.
Not this time, either.
Well, I guess music wasn't the only thing I got rejected from—now medical school, too.
So what does that mean for me? What is my purpose if nothing ever works out? Sometimes I wonder if I was meant for nothing more than failure. Is my future just... drifting through life, maybe marrying rich just to survive? But even that seems laughable. The way I look now—tired eyes, a body I barely recognize in the mirror—who would even notice me?
Not that it matters. I've never been the kind of girl who craved attention or fell in love easily. But deep down, I've always longed for a connection—something real. Someone who would understand the parts of me I can't explain.
Sometimes I imagined that person would be someone in the public eye. A fellow artist. A kindred soul I'd meet once I made it. I used to believe that once I was on stage, living my dream, that kind of connection would find me. It was a quiet hope I carried—even in my wildest dreams, even in the ones where Cylus appeared and it all felt strangely real.
But maybe that's all it ever was. A fantasy. And fantasies rarely end well—at least not in real life.
The bus ride home felt longer than usual. Each stop stretched out like time itself was mocking me. The noise of traffic, the buzz of conversations around me—they all faded into the background. All I could think about was the list. My name sitting quietly at number 21. One spot too low. One step away from what I'd spent the past year working for.
I didn't know how I'd tell my mom.
Every time I imagined the conversation, my chest tightened. Her face flashed in my mind—the disappointment, the silence, or worse, the yelling. I couldn't decide which would hurt more.
When I finally got home, the house was quiet. My little sisters were already asleep, their soft breathing echoing from the next room. The hallway light flickered slightly, the way it always did. Familiar, yet heavy tonight.
I didn't go to the kitchen. I didn't even change out of my clothes. I just sank onto the edge of my bed, still wearing my school bag like it could hold me together. My fingers trembled slightly as I took out a book—an old fantasy novel I had read a hundred times. Not because I was eager to read it again, but because I didn't know what else to do.
I needed to disappear—just for a moment.
I had only flipped a few pages when a quiet buzz came from my phone. A notification. I almost ignored it, thinking it was another college email or reminder I couldn't emotionally handle. But something about the title caught my eye.
"Tonight: Peak of the Falling Stars – Best View at 11:43 PM"
I paused.
Falling stars.
I hadn't made a wish since I was fifteen—the night I sent in my audition to LOP. After that rejection, wishing felt pointless. Naïve. Like asking the world for something it was never going to give.
But tonight... I had nothing left to lose.
So I stood up, grabbed a hoodie, and quietly slipped out the door. The air outside was crisp, and the streets were almost completely empty. Most people didn't bother with things like this. Natural events like falling stars were too slow, too silent for a world obsessed with noise.
The hill near the old park had always been my favorite spot. High enough to see the sky clearly, far enough from the streetlights to let the stars shine through.
When I reached the top, I wasn't alone.
A guy stood there—tall, quiet, his hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, and his hood was pulled just low enough to shadow his eyes. The stars were bright, but not enough to reveal much else. His features were blurred in the dark—and I knew mine were, too. I kept my hoodie up, half from habit, half from something I couldn't name.
Without my glasses, his features blurred at the edges, making him seem almost unreal—like someone pulled from a half-forgotten dream.
Anyone with common sense would've turned around. Walked the other way. Maybe even run. But I didn't. I couldn't. At that point, fear wasn't something I had the energy for. If this was the night something bad would happen—if this was how it all ended—then maybe that was fine too.
Because honestly? I wasn't sure what I was still holding onto.
Anyone with common sense would've turned around. Walked the other way. Maybe even run. But I didn't. I couldn't. At that point, fear wasn't something I had the energy for. If this was the night something bad would happen—if this was how it all ended—then maybe that was fine too.
Because honestly? I wasn't sure what I was still holding onto.
He didn't say a word when I arrived. Just stood there, head tilted to the sky.
The silence stretched on.
Until I broke it.
"What did you wish for?" I asked softly, not expecting an answer.
After a pause, he said, "Peace."
His voice was low but calm. Steady, like he'd been waiting a long time to say that.
I smiled faintly, eyes still on the stars. "I wished for the same. Or at least... something close to it."
He turned slightly toward me, but still said nothing.
"It's funny," I said softly, my eyes still on the sky. "When I was younger, I used to wish for things that felt impossible. But now... even peace feels out of reach. I just want to figure out who I am. I just want to find my way."
He chuckled lightly, just once. "That's the hardest wish of all."
We stayed there for a while, watching the sky as streaks of light cut across the darkness. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't magical in the fairy tale sense. But it was quiet. Real.
Just before he turned to leave, he hesitated. Then, almost casually, he pulled a pen from his coat and scribbled something on the back of a bus ticket he'd been holding.
"Here," he said, holding it out.
I took it.
A number.
He gave a small nod. "In case you ever want to talk again."
And just like that, he walked off into the dark.
I stood there long after he disappeared, my breath forming clouds in the cold air. For the first time in a long time, I felt... not fixed. Not healed.
But open.
And maybe, that was a start.