Page 2 of Wish Upon a K-Star

I’m not upset about it. Mostly.

It’s just that she’s my best…fine, only friend in the industry. Losing her is like losing my entire social life.

“Eonni!” Sohee calls again, her voice echoing down the long hallway.

It’s strange—when we first met, Sohee’s constant enthusiasm and positivity kind of annoyed me. And now, it’s what makes me love her so much. Except when I’m in the mood to metaphorically burn everything down. Like right now.

So, I’m hiding in my cocoon of depression. I’d stay here all day except I’m supposed to cohost HBS’s midsummer K-pop festival today. I wish I could just tell my manager I’m sick and can’t do it. But I know that won’t fly. I am expected to make my scheduled appearances unless I’m bleeding on the floor or I’m literally puking my guts out (and even that’s not always an accepted excuse).

And, now more than ever, I can’t afford to miss things. The message will be too obvious. That I’m bothered by the article. That the article must be true if I’m skipping appearances after its release.

The bedroom door opens, and I hear the shuffle of her house slippers move across the floor.

“I know you’re in there, Eonni.”

She pushes my privacy curtain aside. It’s strung across the bunk bed I call home. There are three bunks shoved into each of the two rooms in this apartment. This place was probably intended to house a young couple, maybe a new family like the one that lives across the hall. But Bright Star rents it out as a dorm for the trainees. And at capacity it can house twelve hopefuls with dreams of stardom.

When it was full, there were girls everywhere at all times. A bunk curtain was as good as a closed door, indicating the occupant wants to be left alone. Of course, Sohee doesn’t follow that rule when it comes to me.

She’s too used to my depression cycles.

“Eonni, come on.”

Sohee pulls on the covers. But my blanket handroll holds fast. I am an expert at it at this point, having made so many in the last two years.

“I have tteokbokki.”

My mouth waters at the mention of it.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie.

“Really?” I can feel her leaning forward and then the delicious spicy scent wafts through my blanket barrier.

My stomach grumbles loudly.

“Fine.” I fling the blanket off to reveal Sohee’s grinning face. I squint in defense against the bright room lights. Then I see the takeout bag and snatch it from her.

Without asking, Sohee reaches under my bed and pulls out the tray I keep there for secret bed eating. I didn’t eat in here when the dorm was more full—some girls were sensitive to food smells, so we usually ate in the kitchen or the tiled living room. But now that it’s just Sohee and me, we eat in our rooms sometimes when the situation warrants it. And wallowing in self-pity definitely warrants.

At 163 centimeters and with her sweet oval face and large doe eyes, Sohee is the epitome of adorable. And Bright Star has played into it with her new style, a shoulder-length bob with blunt ends and straight bangs.

Without even getting out of bed, I reach around the side into a small open shelf and pull out a crumpled bag of Honey Butter Chips. My favorite. There’s barely any left. I pour the last of the crushed crumbs over the steaming spicy rice cakes.

Sohee rolls her eyes affectionately. “I can’t believe you eat it that way.”

“I like the crunch.” I take a huge bite and close my eyes. It’s heaven. And a billion calories. But I don’t care. Because I’m depressed and I can’t show it during the broadcast today. So, I’ve earned bad-for-me snack food. I’ll eat five short tubules and that’s it, I promise myself.

I tune back in to hear Sohee say, “So I came right over after practice.”

“Oh?” I say vaguely, not quite sure what she was talking about.

“You spaced out again, didn’t you?” Sohee shakes her head, but there’s no malice in it.

It’s a bad habit of mine. When I have a lot on my mind, I tend to get lost in my thoughts. Even mid-conversation.

“Sorry.”

Sohee lifts a knowing brow. “You read the article, didn’t you?”

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