Today was Monday, May 13 — the day of the interview.
I woke before my alarm — which was rare for me. The light hadn't even shifted fully through the curtains yet, but my mind was already alert. I couldn't quite tell if it was nerves or excitement. Probably both. That strange combination that sits just under your ribs, steady and persistent.
The job wasn't mine yet though today's interview would decide that. And as much as I wanted to act like it was just another meeting, it wasn't. This was the kind of opportunity that could change things.
Which meant I had to show up — sharp, calm, convincing. If I let the nerves show, even a little, it could all slip away.
I moved through my morning slowly. Made tea. Toasted a slice of bread but barely touched it. My body felt a bit outside of itself, like I was trying to catch up to the day already unfolding around me.
The interview wasn't until 2:00 PM, so I had time to get ready. I'd planned the outfit the night before: a tailored navy jumpsuit — minimal and sleek — layered with my favorite black leather jacket. It struck the right balance: polished without being too stiff, comfortable without feeling careless.
I took a long shower, letting the hot water and steam slow my thoughts. My body wash smelled like jasmine with a hint of ocean salt — light, fresh, clean. I'd never been into heavy floral or overly sweet scents; I liked something that lingered softly and stayed fresh.
If they were going to trust me in a fast-moving role, I needed to look reliable — composed, prepared. Even if I was still working out the confidence part internally.
To be honest, I didn't know if I was ready. From what little the job description gave away, it sounded like a blur of logistics, pressure, and high expectations. The kind of job that left you tired down to your bones — but also, maybe, fulfilled in a way that sitting behind a desk never could.
Dreams ask for more than just hope. They ask for time. Energy. Sweat. I was willing to give that.
The apartment was quiet. My mom's door was still closed — she'd probably worked late again. I hadn't told her about the application yet. Not because I was hiding it, but because I wasn't sure how she'd take it. My sister was already at school, which meant the space was mine for now.
I sat at my mirror and did my makeup slowly, intentionally. Nothing dramatic — just a soft, glossy finish, light contour, and a touch of color. A look that felt like me, only a little more refined.
My hair went up into a high ponytail with loose curls falling over one shoulder. Clean, structured, and easy to manage.
When everything was done — the outfit on, the jacket zipped, heeled boots laced — I stood in front of the mirror for a moment. Over the past year, I'd lost a noticeable amount of weight — not drastically, but enough to make me see myself a little differently. For the first time in a while, I didn't mind the reflection staring back at me. I wasn't bad-looking after all; maybe I never had been, I'd just been too distracted by everything else to see it clearly.
My skin had gotten a bit paler too — not surprising after a long winter indoors — but I didn't mind. I'd never been into tanning anyway. The natural tone gave a soft contrast to my dark hair, and with the red cherry tint on my lips and the subtle gloss of my makeup, everything seemed to fall into place.
It was simple, but it felt right. Like I was stepping into a version of myself I hadn't met yet — a little more grown, a little more sure.
I grabbed my bag and headed out the door.
I stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind me, the soft click echoing in the quiet hallway. As I pushed open the front entrance and walked onto the street, the warmth caught me by surprise.
It was warmer than I expected — not quite summer, but close enough that the air felt thicker, sunlit. June wasn't far off, and the city was already starting to shift into its brighter self.
People were out—some in light jackets, others already rocking short sleeves. The sun was bright but not harsh, casting long, gentle shadows on the sidewalk. I pulled my sunglasses down and adjusted my bag strap, taking it all in.
The streets smelled faintly of flowers and something fresh—maybe someone mowing their lawn or a nearby café brewing espresso. The sound of chatter mixed with distant traffic, and a few stray birds called overhead.
I walked at a steady pace, enjoying how the warmth settled around me. The city felt alive but calm, like it was easing into the day without rushing. My nerves were still there, still buzzing in the background, but mostly I just felt... ready.
I took the usual route toward the interview spot — a sleek office building just off Southwark Street, not too far from Borough Market. The glass facade reflected the sunlight, making the whole block shine softly. People streamed past, some grabbing breakfast from nearby stalls, others glued to their phones as they walked.
As I approached, I noticed a small café across the street buzzing with morning energy. A couple of cyclists zipped by, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The city felt familiar, but today it had a different vibe — like it was holding its breath with me.
I reached the building entrance, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
The lobby looked incredible—almost like a hotel. Polished marble floors stretched beneath gleaming gold accents, and sleek modern furniture was arranged just so. It definitely felt like a place for rich people. The subtle scent of expensive candles lingered in the air, and the soft hum of quiet chatter added to the sophisticated vibe.
I took the elevator up to the eighth floor, where the interview was supposed to happen. The doors slid open, revealing a waiting area that was just as fancy—plush chairs, abstract art on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a flood of natural light.
To my surprise, there were only five other people waiting. Most of them looked like they'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine—designer clothes, flawless hair, and that unmistakable air of confidence—or maybe entitlement.
One girl caught my eye right away. She was standing near the window, scrolling on her phone, flipping her blonde hair like she was bored out of her mind.
I glanced around, then leaned a little closer to the girl standing a few feet away. She had on designer boots and carried herself like she was already halfway hired.
"Hey," I said, giving a quick smile. "You here for the interview too?"
She barely looked up from her phone. "Obviously," she said, her tone flat and just slightly bored.
Right. Okay.
I nodded, awkwardly. "Do you know who the group is?"
That at least got her to glance over, like I'd finally asked something worthy of a response.
"No idea," she said. "But my cousin works in PR, and she mentioned something about a stadium tour being planned. So... probably someone major."
"Oh," I said. "Cool."
She shrugged. "Anyway, I'm just here because it'll look good on my résumé. And my friend already works with their label, so..." She trailed off with a pointed look, as if that explained everything.
I gave a polite smile, unsure if I was supposed to be impressed or intimidated. Before I could say anything else, she turned her eyes back to her screen, thumbs tapping quickly, already done with the conversation.
I looked away, back at the elevator.
It wasn't like I was trying to steal trade secrets. And the way she casually dropped connections—it made me feel like I'd shown up to a game without knowing the rules.
What was her problem, anyway? She acted like she was already better than everyone here — like the job was just a formality for her. Maybe she did have connections, but that doesn't mean anything yet. We still don't know who they're going to pick. For all she knows, they could be looking for someone totally different.
I don't know anyone in the industry myself. No cousins in PR, no secret contacts. Just me, applying to be an assistant for a boy band we don't even know the name of. It's not like I'm trying to be their manager or something. And honestly, if they're making decisions based on who you know, I might as well go home now.
But I didn't come all this way to talk myself out of it.
One by one, the others were called in.
The wait dragged on. The hallway was quiet except for the occasional ding of the elevator and the soft hum of air conditioning. No music, no background noise—just the five of us sitting in scattered silence, pretending not to size each other up.
Every time the door opened and someone walked out, they looked... off. Not exactly upset, but not thrilled either. No smiles. Just tight-lipped nods and a quick shuffle toward the elevator. One guy mumbled something under his breath as he passed, shaking his head.
I watched them closely, trying to read their faces. No one looked like they nailed it.
The blonde girl went in before me. Her heels clicked confidently against the marble floor, and she didn't even glance back. I expected her to take her time, maybe charm her way through, but she was out in less than ten minutes.
She didn't say a word as she walked past. Just pulled her sunglasses from her bag, slid them on, and left like nothing had happened. No reaction. No emotion. Like it hadn't even mattered.
I stared after her for a second, wondering if that was her being cool—or if she was just as thrown off as the rest of them.
Either way, she was gone.
And now... it was just me.
A few more minutes passed. Then the door opened again, and a man in a dark polo shirt leaned out.
"Next?"
That was me.
I stood, smoothed down the front of my jumpsuit, and followed him into the room, heart knocking a little harder than before.
I don't know what I expected. Something more formal, maybe—some kind of intimidating panel, or a stiff office space with clipboards and frowns. But the room wasn't like that at all. It was sleek but relaxed, almost minimalist. A long table, a few chairs, soft lighting, and the quiet buzz of a computer fan.
The man who'd called me in gave a small, polite smile and gestured to a seat. "Go ahead and have a seat. We'll just have a quick chat."
I nodded, trying to keep my breathing even.
And then I noticed him.
Sitting across the table, a little to the side, was someone else. Someone I hadn't expected.
He looked... young. Around my age, maybe a few years older. Sharp jawline, smooth skin, and bleach-blond hair that fell just slightly into his eyes. His outfit was casual—oversized hoodie, joggers, sneakers—like he'd just come from the gym and hadn't bothered to change. But the way he sat, calm and quiet, with one ankle resting on his knee and a laptop open in front of him, made him look completely in control.
He glanced up at me for a second.
No smile.
Just a look.
Neutral. Observing. Unreadable.
My mind started to race. Was he part of the group? A member? Or just someone from the team? A manager? He didn't speak, didn't even shift in his seat. Just tapped something into his laptop, eyes flicking between the screen and me.
I tried not to let it rattle me, but it was hard to ignore the way he watched—like he was analyzing every word before I'd even said it.
I straightened my back a little and folded my hands in my lap. The man beside him began asking questions, simple ones at first—my name, where I was from, if I had experience organizing schedules or handling pressure.
I tried to stay focused, to keep my answers clear and steady, but the silence from the guy with the laptop made it hard to concentrate. He hadn't said a single word, just kept typing, occasionally glancing at me like he was reading something invisible between my sentences.
And then, something shifted.
Now that I looked at him a little longer—really looked—something about him felt... familiar. Not in an obvious way, but like a memory that had aged with time. His features were sharper now, more defined, like he'd grown into them. But there was something in the way he held his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, that pulled at something distant in my brain.
Had I seen him before? Maybe online? Maybe—
"Tell me," the man in front of me said, leaning back in his chair, "how do you handle being underestimated?"
I paused.
That wasn't what I expected. Not the usual small talk or 'why should we hire you?' kind of thing. It wasn't about qualifications—it was personal. Real.
I took a breath and met his gaze. "I don't mind it," I said, voice steady. "Being underestimated gives you room to move quietly. To prove yourself without the pressure of everyone's expectations. And when you do show up, when you actually deliver—people remember it."
The man raised an eyebrow, not in challenge, but almost like he was impressed by how easily the answer came out.
And out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the blond guy had stopped typing.
He was watching me now—really watching. Still unreadable, expression calm, but his eyes locked on mine like he was trying to place something about me too.
The memory tugged at me like a loose thread, something half-forgotten in the back of my mind.
Where do I know you from?
I didn't have time to chase the thought further because the man in front of me—older, clean-cut, probably mid-forties—leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "You've worked with people before?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I mean, not on a celebrity level or anything. But I've done collaborative projects. School events, part-time work, small creative teams."
He tilted his head slightly. "And how do you handle egos?"
That one almost made me laugh, but I kept my expression neutral. "Depends on the ego," I said. "Some people need to feel seen before they'll listen. Some just want control. Either way, I don't take it personally. I know when to step back, and when to stand my ground."
There was a beat of silence. I could feel the blond guy still watching me. He hadn't said a word. Hadn't introduced himself. He just sat there in his hoodie and joggers, like he'd stepped out of a dance studio or a late-night rehearsal—but the quiet intensity in his posture didn't feel casual at all.
The interviewer scribbled something down, then glanced at his colleague. "Any questions from your end?"
The blond guy leaned back slowly in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might speak—but then he didn't. He just shook his head, eyes never leaving me.
Okay... weird, I thought, shifting slightly in my seat. Why does this feel like more than just an interview?
The older man cleared his throat and said "Thank you for coming today. We've gathered enough information for now and will be notifying you of our decisions via email within the next 48 hours."
I nodded, thanked them, and stood up. I was halfway to the door when curiosity got the better of me.
I glanced over my shoulder—just for a second—and caught the blond guy still looking at me.
Still unreadable.
And suddenly, I wondered if this job might lead to more answers than I was ready for.
I stepped outside, the cool air hitting my face like a reset button. I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a message to Camila and Yarin.
Me:
Interview's over. Not gonna lie, it was... different.
Almost instantly, Camila replied.
Camila:
Spill! Did you find out which group it was?
Yarin jumped in too.
Yarin:
Yeah, come on! Any clues?
I smiled, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Me:
I didn't see the whole group, just one guy. He looked familiar—like I'd seen him before—but I couldn't place him exactly. So probably a member, but I can't say which group it is without seeing everyone.
Camila's response was quick and teasing.
Camila:
Ooo, mysterious! Now I'm hooked.
Yarin added,
Yarin:
Keep us posted! This is getting good.
I put my phone away, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. The mystery was far from solved, but at least now the game had really begun.
I pressed the button for the elevator and stepped inside, the polished gold panels reflecting the mixed nerves and relief on my face. The doors closed quietly behind me as the sound of the descending elevator filled the space.
With each floor passing by, I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The interview was over, and while I didn't have all the answers yet, at least it was done.
The elevator came to a smooth stop on the ground floor. The doors slid open, and I stepped out into the bright lobby, the city's energy waiting just beyond the glass doors.
Just then, my phone buzzed in my hand. Frowning, I unlocked it and saw an email notification from the agency.
My heart skipped. I hadn't expected a reply so soon.
I tapped it open. Didn't they say it would take 48 hours to get an answer? Maybe they'd already decided to decline me—and that's why it came so quickly. A swift "no" right after the interview would at least save me the waiting.
My eyes scanned the screen.
Then the words hit me: Congratulations, you've been selected to join the team.
For a moment, I just stared. No mistakes. No glitches. Just that sentence, clear and unmistakable.
I took a deep breath, my heart racing faster than before.
This was really happening.