Page 52 of Wish Upon a K-Star

So, I type back:I’m only forgiving you because I ran out of Honey Butter Chips.

Minseok:Thank you. 1004.

It’s a stupid code kids used a lot when we were younger. 1004. Pronouncedcheonsain Korean, which is also the word for “angel.” And I roll my eyes, but my heart reacts with a quick flutter.

“Stop it,” I say aloud. I don’t have time to revisit old crushes right now.

The next day, I walk out of my room and almost scream as I practically run into one of the new trainees. Minjung or Minyoung. There are three of them, and I haven’t memorized all of their names yet. I’m pretty sure they’re all like thirteen or fourteen, which makes me feel old.

“Oh, hi, Sunbae. Sorry. I was just coming to tell you there are packages for you.”

“Thanks, Min.…” I trail off, feeling bad at not knowing what to call her. “Um, have you eaten yet?”

It’s a generic question in Korea. Akin to asking someone if they’re doing well. But her eyes widen in shock. “Oh, um, yeah, we got lunch already. Sorry, did you want to come? We can go out and get you something!”

“No.” I wave my hand, feeling bad for upsetting her. Of course she’d go out with the others, they’re all trainees together. And the same age. I’m just an ex-idol half a decade older than them with no friends and nowhere else to go.

“Thanks for telling me about the package.” I give her a reassuring smile, and she scurries into the first room where the three trainees have all claimed beds, leaving the second room for me.

I realize that maybe it’s time to finally let go of this place. My presence here is making the new trainees uncomfortable. I pull out my phone as I walk out to the living room. I text Hongjoo, asking her if there’s another company apartment I can live in temporarily while I look for my own.

There are a few packages stacked on the table.

I look through the boxes; some of them are things I ordered myself. Skincare, a new pair of sneakers, and a replacement case for my phone.

But one box doesn’t have a shipping label. Instead, it has a Post-it attached with Hongjoo’s handwriting:fan mail delivered to the company.

I can’t stop the grin. I know I don’t get as much fan mail as other Bright Star artists. And I definitely don’t get the level of gifts they do, often delivered during their appearances at events or shows. There was one disastrous fan event where I received nothing, and I had to sit at my empty table while the other girls were photographed with their piles of gifts. I wouldn’t have minded receiving nothing if it hadn’t been so embarrassingly public.

There’s something so insidious about how public the love for idols is, creating an unspoken implication that you’re a failure if your fans aren’t as vocal. It’s something that caused me such intense anxiety that my doctors considered starting me on medication before my mother vetoed the idea.

“Celebrities have to learn to deal with rejection gracefully, Hyeri-ya. What will people think if they hear you take drugs?”

Still, I do get a few notes sometimes. And it feels like a special event whenever Hongjoo delivers them. Usually in a single manila envelope, but I don’t care how few there are. It’s a reminder that not everyone out there hates me.

I rip it open, the tape pulling some of the cardboard away with it in my rush.

The first few notes are in cute stationery, and I carefully open the envelopes, wanting to preserve them to place in a scrapbook. When I was inCitizen Producer, all the girls were gifted one at the end of the show, pre-filled with fan letters. The others filled the rest of their pages quickly, but I still had space in mine at the end of Helloglow promotions.

I don’t put the new fan mail in there. I started a new album for them. A symbol of a fresh start. And slowly the envelopes have been getting fuller and fuller.

Now it’s an actual box.

So many of them are decorated with little bears and I realize it’s fans who’ve seen the first episode ofOur Celebrity Marriage. There are small packages with stuffed bears just like the ones we won in the crane game. One fan even sent me a Leebit. I laugh and set it aside to show Minseok.

I can’t believeOCMis actually helping. I hate to admit it, but it seems like joining the show was a good idea after all.

The next envelope is plain. It doesn’t have any of the stickers or handwriting on the outside like the others. And it feels thin as I carefully open it. At first, I think it was mistakenly included. Then a small slip of paper flutters out, falling face-up on the ground by my feet.

Angry block letters are slashed across the ripped piece of printer paper:POISON IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU BUT IT WILL HAVE TO DO.

Iknow the hate mail is from the HyeriTopAnti account, the one I suspect Kwak Dongha runs.

But Hongjoo says I’m not to worry myself about figuring that out. She promises the company is taking care of it. That they’re taking the threat very seriously. In the meantime, I’m not to accept any food deliveries for now and only eat what she drops off for me or what I get directly from the company cafeteria.

It’s not an issue. I can barely eat anything, as my anxiety burns a hole in my stomach like an ulcer. And the worst thing about it is that in the past couple of days I’ve actually thought that this is better than any diet I could force myself on.

Sometimes I wonder if this is really the life I worked so hard for. Wasn’t I supposed to feel excited or content when I achieved my dreams? Instead, I just feel tired all the time.

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