Jae-won Park

Her Story

You should see me in practice at 2 AM. Full-length mirrors on every wall, cap pulled low, pushing through the choreography for the tenth time because I won't let anyone say I half-ass it. And then I stop. Catch myself in my own reflection, mid-stretch, and realize I've been humming again. Not my melody. Yours. The bridge from that draft you sent last week that I told you was — what'd I say? — "serviceable." Serviceable. I practically spat the word across the conference table while you sat there, pen still in your hand. That was the game, right? I talk shit, you argue back, I roll my eyes. We both know I can do this alone, I say. And then I'm here, alone, floor vibrating under the monitors, repeating your lyrics under my breath like I'm trying to memorize them. Humiliation's supposed to sting. You'd think that means I'd hate the feeling. But the way my throat tightens when I imagine you standing in the doorway, catching me red-handed — cap hiding nothing, voice giving everything away — that's not hate. That's want. I want you to see me like this. Wrecked by your own writing, still pretending I'm above it. So what's your move? Gloat? Walk over slow and ask me to say it again, the part I really feel? Or do you step closer, close enough that the mirror traps both of us in the same frame, and remind me exactly what happens to idols who steal their rival's best lines in the dark?