we remember things, so that they can be used in the future.
— b. sanderson
★
( + idol star athletics championship. )
it’s moments like these that remind her why she hates being an idol---so goddamn much. the heat, the crowdedness, the sweating---it’s a form of a culture shock, really, for a girl who’s lived her whole life in isolation, within walls of disinfectant marble and pearlescent cages.
she’s out of her element, if the fact isn’t already obvious enough; for her wearing designer sneakers that definitely aren’t suitable for any sort of physical activity is dead give-away, and, though she’s expected to experience embarrassment---to cower in the cover with bowed knees and fiddling fingers---she stands tall, head high and back straight as she strolls across turf to locate other sunshine-colored (and garish) teammates.
she flaunts her wealth,
for it’s the only thing she knows how to do well.
maybe she should’ve gotten herself out of this, surmised some sort of haphazard excuse to fester pity from those necessary and involved---but her manager insists, claims it’s an opportunity to take a step back and breath; he’s often found wandering into their dormitory’s kitchen late at night, witnessing her desk lamp still brightly-displayed through crack in bedroom door. mina lays next to her, sleeping soundly, whilst hyera silently persists away through dozens of pages of script for tomorrow’s reading, for tomorrow’s filming. for tomorrow.
there’s always a tomorrow;
ahem, there’s always something to do tomorrow.
and in that regard, she can understand his sentiment, wordlessly express her gratitude in the nod of head and suppressed smile she sends him while stepping off company van to enter the arena; he’s worried, understandably, that she’s working too hard---can notice her dark circles growing gloomier with every sleepless night, her exponentially increasing fatigue and decreasing weight.
yet, she remains inarticulate, unable to properly explain to him that she’s okay, (surprisingly) agrees to the suggestion of such a time-inefficient event simply because of his pleading---for, as merciless as hyera appears to be, even she doesn’t have to courage to turn him down, to say no, to retort that she has better things to do than wait in the aching sun and running for some competition that, in the long, won’t even matter to her career---no, instead, she sits hushed, ever so often glancing to the side to him chatting away with other colleagues; sometimes, their eyes catch, and he laughs with a wave to which she meekly responds with her own.
is this what it means to throw away one’s pride for the happiness of the other?
because, as much as her manager’s company pleases---as much as he exists to be one of the seldom staff members in their agency she can actually tolerate---she doesn’t have enough heart to confess that she wants it; all her life, she’s wanted this.
a purpose, a passion; so many claim that money can buy happiness, but oh, how wrong they truly are---for hyera, a girl whose bank account could easily fulfill the dreams of many, has yet to discover one of her own ... until now---a dream, a goal, one worthy of striving toward with determined gaze and leveled head; to become a successful actress has undoubtedly become more important than to become a successful idol.
and so, it’s moments like these that remind her why she hates being an idol---for it emphasizes the act of her wasting time; because, believe it or not, ban hyera has work to do.
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so we make deals, with ourselves and with others.
lies we agree to. compromises we pretend are victories.
— c. priest
★
( + idol star athletics championship with @idchansu. )
she’s going to kill whoever decided to put her in this event---because, have they seen her? a girl who’s practically born into four-inch tall gucci heels, ban hyera isn’t exactly the ideal candidate for the sixty-meter sprint.
why couldn’t they put someone like jowi in this?---make her put those long legs of hers into good use for once, hyera laments but knows full-and-well that it’s too little, too late to be complaining now, no, not when she’s already standing at the starting line with others clad in gaudy primary-colored shirts, jumping and stretching and acting like this god-awful event’s actually fun.
she glances down at her own yellow torso, hides her disgust behind curtains of brunette strands, averts her gaze to her teammates next to her---to her left is some guy she’s probably never spoken before in her life and, thus, irrelevant, and to her right is---
oh,
fuck.
and then she’s swiftly turning around so that the approaching figure is facing her back instead of her front, clenched fist rising to softly pound against porcelain forehead---maybe she should’ve read the list of competitors for each event, maybe she should’ve actually paid attention; because if she did, she wouldn’t be in this predicament---or, at least, she could’ve properly mentally (and emotionally) prepared for it.
“fuck,” the mantra is audible now, though hushed and under breath. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” how does she get out of this---in a way that makes logical sense for the occasion? should she feign sickness? plead for the person next to her to switch lane spots? which would be the less suspicious, the more natural?---who would’ve guess that ban hyera, someone who prides herself on being in a constant state of levelheadedness, would be crushing under such unexpected pressure?
and with the clock ticking away, the minutes until the pull of trigger and start of race decreasing ever so quickly, she ultimately decides to suck it up---face her fears, no, but strategically avoid them. she inhales heavily, exhaling even more harshly before she shakes her head, hands moving to tie her hair up into a ponytail in attempt to distract from nagging thoughts.
