It's been almost four month since we last spoke.
We never called. Not even once. At first, we texted — almost daily. But even in those early messages, I could tell we weren't the same kind of texters.
He was brief. Simple. Sometimes vague.
I, on the other hand, was always the one sending longer texts. Full sentences, details, even little jokes or emojis. I always wanted to make the conversation feel alive, even if I was the only one trying.
Me: How's Korea?
Him: Good. Cold now.
Me: Are you planning to do something fun this weekend? 👀
Him: Not really. Got some work.
Me: What kind of work?
Him: Just regular stuff.
I remember staring at that "Just regular stuff" message for a while. I didn't know what to say next. Everything I typed felt either too clingy or too boring. Eventually, I just replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
He didn't respond.
The next day, I tried again.
Me: Hello! 😊
Him: Hi.
That was the last conversation we had.
He never followed up. Never asked how I was doing. Never apologized for being distant. Just... silence.
At first, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was adjusting to life back home. Maybe he was overwhelmed. Maybe his phone broke. Maybe he was going through something.
But as the weeks passed, and then months, the excuses ran out.
I didn't delete the chat. Not because I was holding onto something — or maybe I was, in a small way — but mostly because I didn't want to seem petty. I didn't want to give off the impression that I cared more than I should. And honestly, I wasn't even sure if I did. I mean, I had only met him twice. A few hours spread across two nights. A handful of texts, none of them particularly deep. And after all the dry conversations and the silence that followed, the chances of us ever seeing each other again felt close to zero.
But it's fine.
I've changed since then. Maybe for the better, maybe not — I'm still figuring that part out. But I stopped obsessing over medical school, and eventually I realized that studying biomedicine wasn't the end of the world. It's not thrilling, but I can do it. And if I'm lucky — really lucky — maybe I can convince my mom to let me move out. My friend has a spare room near campus, and if I frame it as being better for my studies, she might say yes. How cool would that be? Living on campus, waking up without hearing her yell about breakfast or asking what I'm doing with my life. I could breathe. I could actually feel like a person.
That's where I'm at now — quietly building something that feels stable. Not exciting. But safe.
Still, sometimes I catch myself scrolling back through that chat. Reading our old messages, even though there weren't that many. I don't know what I'm looking for. Maybe proof that he ever cared. Maybe proof that I didn't.
Or maybe just a reminder that I didn't imagine it all.
I stood by the window, watching the sky deepen into that perfect midnight blue—the kind of color that wraps the world in quiet calm. The city lights were just starting to flicker on, and the soft spring air carried a faint scent of sakura blossoms drifting from the trees outside. For a moment, everything felt still, like the world was holding its breath.
Maybe a walk wouldn't hurt.
It had been a long time since I'd taken one, and right now, with the sky painted in those colors, it felt like the perfect time.
I stepped outside, the cool spring air hitting my skin gently. The city was starting to quiet down as evening settled in. Streetlights flickered on, casting soft pools of light along the sidewalks. Above me, the sky was a deep midnight blue—the color I always loved—stretching wide and clear.
My footsteps slowed, matching the easy pace of the night. The pavement was scattered with fallen cherry blossom petals, soft and pale, crunching lightly beneath my shoes. The faint scent of sakura mixed with the fresh air, calm and familiar.
I put my headphones on and pressed play. Lana Del Rey's "Cinnamon Girl" filled my ears—slow, smooth, and perfect for this kind of walk. The music settled over me like a blanket.
The branches above moved gently in the breeze, their shadows flickering on the ground. Occasionally, petals drifted lazily down, swirling softly in the air.
In the distance, the city lights blinked on, quiet and steady. I liked this spot—close enough to the city to feel connected, but still surrounded by nature.
I kept walking, letting the music guide me. The city sounds faded into the background, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional distant hum of a car. The sidewalk curved gently along a row of cherry trees, their branches stretching over the path like quiet guardians.
With every step, the petals underfoot crunched softly, and the cool evening air filled my lungs. I felt the tension in my shoulders slowly ease. It had been a while since I'd taken a walk like this—just for myself, without a plan or a destination.
Up ahead, I caught sight of a small group of people standing near the corner of the street. At first, I didn't think much of it—just some strangers out enjoying the evening. But then I heard laughter, a familiar, unmistakable sound. It was the kind of laugh that stuck in your memory, loud and bright, the one I used to jokingly call "donkey laugh" when we were younger.
My heart skipped. Could it be them? The friends I hadn't seen in so long?
For a moment, I froze, unsure what to do. Part of me wanted to stop and say hi, to catch up and bridge the distance time had put between us. But another part of me hesitated, worried about how they'd react to me disappearing without a word.
I took a breath and tried to keep walking, hoping they wouldn't notice. But the sound of their footsteps quickened behind me.
"Hey!" one of them called out, her voice warm and surprised. Definitely Yarin. "Wait up!"
Before I could respond, they were beside me, their faces lighting up with recognition. "It's been ages," Camila said, smiling. "Why did you just disappear like that?"
I swallowed hard, the weight of their questions settling on me. I hadn't planned on this meeting, hadn't rehearsed any answers. But here they were, standing right in front of me—real and solid and reminding me of everything I'd missed.
They didn't give me much time to answer. "Come on," said Camila, grabbing my arm with a grin that brooked no argument. "You're coming with us. We need to catch up properly."
"I—" I started, but the others had already fallen into step beside me, their energy pulling me along like a current I couldn't resist.
"No debates," said Yarin with a playful smirk. "We're dragging you to that new coffee place down the street. You'll tell us everything—or at least try."
I hesitated, the old nerves creeping in. But honestly? I hadn't seen them in so long, and the idea of sitting down somewhere warm, with familiar faces and the hum of conversation around me, suddenly sounded pretty good.
We crossed the street and walked past glowing shop windows, the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods drifting toward us. The evening had cooled further, but the streetlights cast a cozy glow, making everything feel softer somehow.
The café was small but inviting—soft indie music playing in the background, mismatched chairs, the rich smell of espresso hanging thick in the air. We found a corner booth, and the moment I sat down, a wave of relief washed over me. The tension in my chest loosened just a little.
They didn't waste any time. Camila leaned in, eyes searching mine. "Okay, seriously—what happened? You just vanished on us. Always avoided meeting ups, and ignored our texts."
Yarin nodded, folding her hands on the table. "We've been worried. It's not like you to just disappear."
I looked around at their expectant faces, the concern mixed with patience. For a moment, I hesitated, the words tangled up inside me. But something about being here—with them, in this warm, quiet corner—made it easier to finally say it.
So I took a deep breath and began. I told them everything—the pressure, the expectations, the disappointment, the distance growing between me and my mom, the uncertain future. I didn't get into every detail, but I laid it all out in the way that felt true. No sugarcoating, no hiding.
When I finished, the silence wasn't heavy. It felt like space being made—space for what had been bottled up, and maybe for what could come next.
Then Camila shook her head with a half-smile and said, "I can't believe you thought we were only hanging out with you because you were fun." Yarin laughed softly, adding, "Yeah you are funny and all but we've always been here for you — not just for the good times." Their words hit me in a way I hadn't expected, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I really belonged.
I looked down for a moment before admitting, "Maybe I was jealous too. You all went after your dreams, and I didn't—I just gave in to disappointment."
Yarin reached out, her eyes steady. "It's never too late, Seline. Where there's passion, there's always a chance for success."
Camila nodded, smiling gently. "We believe in you. You just have to believe in yourself. Not to mention, we still listen to the songs you send us."
Yarin chimed in with a grin, "Yeah, seriously. Your songs are amazing. We play them all the time."
Her voice had that easy, confident tone that made me want to believe her. For the first time in a while, I felt like maybe I wasn't alone in this.
Their words felt like a spark—small but real—lighting something inside me I thought had faded long ago.
I hesitated for a moment, then said, "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's not too late for me after all. Could you send me the songs I made? I want to work on them some more."
They pulled up the songs on their phones, and we listened together. The melodies filled the quiet coffee shop, warm and familiar. I found myself nodding slowly. "You're right. It's not too bad. Maybe I was being too harsh on myself after the rejection."
Yarin smiled and said, "Yeah, with a little touch-up here and there, these songs could be really great."
Camila nodded eagerly. "Exactly. And you know, there are a few free studios around town you could use—places where you can work on your tracks without worrying about cost."
I looked at them, surprised. "Free studios? Really?"
"Yeah," Yarin said. "You just have to ask around. We can help you find some. It's not as impossible as you think."
Their support felt real, like a door opening a little wider than before.
I saved their numbers back into my phone carefully, making sure not to mix them up or lose them again. Seeing their names pop up on my screen — Camila, Yarin, and the others — felt oddly comforting, like reconnecting a thread I hadn't realized was still there. It was a small but meaningful step, a reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this.
As I started walking home, the late evening air was cool and just crisp enough to keep me alert without biting at my skin. I slipped my earbuds in and hit play on the song I had sent them months ago. Listening to it now, in the quiet rhythm of my steps against the pavement, it was almost like hearing it for the first time. I caught little things I hadn't noticed before — a note that dragged too long, a lyric that stumbled awkwardly, moments where my voice wavered. But beneath those flaws, there was something real. Something worth fixing. Worth chasing.
Their words about the "little touch-ups" rang in my head, and I could almost see the changes I could make — smoothing out the edges, tightening the melody, breathing more life into the chorus. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe I had been too hard on myself after that rejection, letting my doubt drown out everything else.
As I walked, the steady rhythm of my footsteps mixed with the soft murmur of the city settling into evening. The song played gently through my earbuds, its melodies threading through my thoughts like a calm stream. My mind kept returning to what they said — how everything meaningful in life begins with passion. Maybe they were right. Maybe the reason I hadn't gotten into medical school wasn't failure, but that I wasn't finished with music yet. What if I'd been running from my true passion so long, it had finally caught up with me?
Back home, the apartment was quiet — dim light pooling from the hallway, the hum of the fridge in the distance. My mom was probably on night shifts today, and for once, the silence didn't feel heavy.
I needed to move out, not only for less pressure but freedom.
But moving out meant money. Rent. I glanced at my chipped keyboard, the one I'd been using since I was fifteen. It stuck sometimes, and the sound quality was... honestly awful. If I wanted to take music seriously again — really seriously — I needed better tools. A decent keyboard. A reliable mic. Maybe even a small interface. None of that came cheap.
My fingers hovered over my phone screen for a second before I tapped open the group chat with Camila and Yarin and started typing.
Me: hey... quick question..
do you guys know like... any legit job sites? part-time stuff?
i wanna move out soon
also kinda need money for a new keyboard + maybe a better laptop
i feel like if i don't do this now, i'll just keep putting it off forever
I hit send without overthinking it. There was no hesitation this time — just the facts. I wanted more, and I was ready to do something about it.
Camila replied almost immediately.
Camila: there's a site i used last summer — it's called JobNest. It's actually really good.
Yarin: I used it too! You can filter by industry + schedule. It's super easy. We can help you look if you want!
I smiled, reading their messages.
Me: Thank you! This means a lot
Camila: Now go get that job girl! Keyboard 2025 era loading 🔥
Yarin: Manifesting a lil midi controller & studio mic in your future.
I laughed. It felt natural. Like something had finally clicked into place.
I sat up straighter, opened my laptop, and typed it in: jobnest.co
The site loaded fast — clean layout, light gray background with soft blue accents. No clutter, just a search bar waiting for me to type something real.
I hesitated for a second, then typed:
"Creative part-time" then clicked "Search"
Dozens of listings filled the screen — barista gigs, assistant roles, freelance design. Most were standard. Decent pay, flexible hours.
But one caught my eye.
_____________________________________________________
🌀 HIRING ASAP – PT Assistant / On-Site Helper
Employer: NOVA Talent Management
Client: Confidential (famous all-male group, active touring schedule)
Looking for a highly organized, quick-on-their-feet assistant to help with daily errands, backstage prep, travel organization, food runs, wardrobe checks, and personal assistance (non-medical). Must be discreet, adaptable, and okay with long hours. Bonus if you know basic music tech.
Perks: Access to rehearsal spaces during off hours, exposure to the music industry, flexible scheduling around class/studies.
Location: Nova Talent HQ, 35 Jamestown Road. Camden Town. London NW1 7DB
Duration: 2 weeks
Start Date: Immediate
_____________________________________________________
Application Deadline: This Friday
I blinked.
NOVA Talent Management.
I'd heard of them before — they handled major celebrities and rising stars. The listing didn't name the group, but "confidential" and "famous male group" said enough. This was big.
I reread the post twice, letting the words sink in.
Food runs. Wardrobe checks. Backstage prep.
Basically... a glorified servant. But also?
Exactly where I wanted to be.
Inside the industry. Close enough to learn everything they don't teach you in school.
And maybe, just maybe, near the kind of world I used to only dream about.
I copied the link and dropped it in the chat
Me: Guys this is king of insane but also weirdly perfect??
Camila: Hold up NOVA TALENT??? Girl that's legit.
Yarin: That's the place with the band thing right?? Please tell me you applying
Me: i mean yeah?? it's like... flexible hours and they said you can use the studio when it's free👀
also, running errands for a band > office job
Camila: Sounds like a deal to me!
Yarin: Personal assistant but make it ✨vaguely cool✨ also i expect gossip updates weekly!
Me: Noted lol i might actually send in my app tonight
Camila: Yes!
I smiled, not because I was nervous, but because this actually felt like something real.
I clicked Apply.
Filled out the form — fast but careful. Attached a short cover letter, listed my language skills, music background, flexibility. Added a note about being a biomedicine student with a passion for songwriting. Polished it, then hit Send.
A soft chime confirmed it: Application submitted.
I sat back, staring at the screen.
Maybe I'd just applied for a job that would have me picking up matcha lattes and untangling mic cords for some arrogant boy band.
Or maybe — just maybe — I'd found the crack in the wall.
The one that leads to everything.