Let It Out

It’s strange how one place can transform so drastically in the space of thirty minutes. I gaze around the hall, truly seeing the venue for the empty shell it is. Gone are the thousands of sweaty bodies pressed together, their hands clawing out and faces red from the exertion of cheering. Only the echoes of their ear-shattering screams remain, the sudden silence seemingly just as deafening as I scan row upon row of empty plastic seats.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. To the blinding flashes as photographers snap away, to the searing overhead lights that change my armpits into pools, to the roaring of my name as hands claw out to touch me. The way my heart soars into my throat as I belt out songs—my songs—for everyone to hear. The way it then bursts out of my chest as millions answer with shrieks of my name. It’s exhilarating, a dream come true… everything our manager promised it would be. Autographs and fruit baskets, private jets and skincare sponsorship; just about anything normally out of reach is given to us upon request. 

I still pinch myself from time to time, wondering if I really did pass the audition to become K-Girl’s newest member. If I, Ari Cho, a student with no scholarly aptitude and empty pockets from Osan-si, really made it in Seoul.

It’s exhilarating… and it’s exhausting.

I kick a paper cup lying in my path. It bounces down the concrete stairs, its progress echoing around the hall until it finally rolls to a stop at the base of the stage. Hundreds of other red and blue cups litter the floor, most of which have been crushed by those who were lucky enough to have joined the dancing section. Still, it’s not my job to clean the mess, nor do I have time to spare.

I continue making my way up to the back rows, scanning for any signs of the paparazzi or lost fans who’ve left something behind. I’ve already spotted a set of car keys, a shoe, and a pair of sunglasses amongst all the confetti and discarded serviettes; honestly, why would anyone even need a pair of sunglasses at an indoor venue? We are amazing, but we don’t literally shine that bright; although, Chae-Yeong certainly thinks the sun shines out of her—

My throat tightens, cutting off my thoughts and making it harder to breathe.

I need privacy. Somewhere I can hide away from prying eyes; somewhere I can be myself. Already, I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes as I clutch my stomach, praying I’ll find somewhere safe soon. I can’t go to the public restrooms—who knows how many sasaengs will be lurking there? But I can’t retreat to our dressing room, either; none of them would understand. They’d look at me with disgust, would think me weak and unworthy of being in the group.

No one ever told me the perks would come with conditions. They didn’t mention I wouldn’t be able to see my friends or family, that calls home would be monitored lest I say something unsavoury the public might later find out about. And they do, they always do. I miss the days when my biggest problem was deciding between bolgogi and tteokbokki for dinner when I really wanted bossam instead. Now, I not only have no choice but to eat kimchi or whatever other healthy and disgustingly bland food they think will keep our figures trim, but I must also do whatever it takes to be the picture of perfection. My skin must be flawless, my hair silky and voluminous, my words free of malice, and my face always decorated with a smile.

There is certainly no room for tears.

It’s becoming hard to push air through my lungs now. I clutch my stomach, willing it to stop churning and rub my eyes.

“Stop it. You’re a big girl; just wait until you’re home.”

Yet my harsh words bear no result. The tears escape my squeezed eyelids, slipping down my cheeks. I plonk down in the chair closest to me, praying for strength as I swipe them away. If I can just hold on a little longer, just wait until I can be sure no one can see or hear me, I’ll be fine.

Think about something else… think about something else… Anything else…

Blinking rapidly, I peer at the stage, trying to bring back the high of tonight’s performance. How I’d managed to hit the right notes, how my steps were in perfect timing with everyone else, how the fans looked at me with nothing but admiration in their eyes. This time, it hadn’t been me who’d gotten distracted by my hair falling into my eyes; I’m sure poor Eun-ji is getting an earful right now. She won’t cry, though, not in front of them.

But I will if I don’t let it out now. 

I squirm around, knowing I can’t hold back any longer. With a last glance around to ensure that yes, the concert hall really is devoid of prying eyes, I stand up. I let my tears fall, let my stomach rumble, and release all the pain that’s built up tonight.

And it’s glorious. 

The sounds of my humanity reverberate through the room, bouncing off the stone walls and domed ceiling and making me feel as light as air. I don’t stop, though, not until I get every grievance out, marvelling at the room’s acoustics as I do. Only when the last sounds die do I relax my shoulders and head back down the narrow aisle, feeling cleansed enough to take on the rest of tonight’s festivities...

...And freeze.

With all my focus on myself, I hadn’t heard the gentle swish of the broom or the squeak of sneakers. My cheeks burn as my eyes trail from an overall-clad body to wide, brown eyes.

No. No, no, no, no!

“Are you… Are you alright, miss?” 

Despite everything I’ve been taught, I cannot bring myself to return the man’s toothy smile. I step back, feeling my stomach hit the floor. How could I have been so utterly careless?

He must sense my unease, for his grin widens. “It’s okay. People come here all the time to clear their heads,” he tilts his head, “and bodies.”

Before I can decide whether to run, apologise profusely, or even try to explain myself, he lifts his leg. His performance blows me away, the sound powerful as it rips through the auditorium.

I pinch my nose as the accompanying smell fills the cavernous space, seeping into every nook and cranny.

The janitor bows, perhaps expecting some sort of applause.

“The only advice I can give you is to keep practising. It took me years to master that level,” he says. Bending down to pick up a cup and making sure that I can see his pants are still intact, he adds, “You’ll get there. I recommend eating more beans.”

He whistles as he then continues sweeping up the confetti and streamers, oblivious to my sudden wish to curl up and die.

At least he didn’t ask for an autograph.