Until one day, their song wasn’t a hit, or they offended a fan, or when they got too old, and the next best thing showed up.
It didn’t last forever.
And if they didn’t have a solid foundation.
The fall would be massive—destructive.
The words sung by Lucas the other night came into my head in that moment… “When the party’s over…”
The party was still going.
But what would happen when it ended?
And he was left cleaning up the mess?
The guys waved again and then slowly got into the van. I held the door open for them and kept my expression indifferent as each guy that I’d come to care for crawled into the van.
Lucas was last.
He slowed and stopped as he came next to me, his head turned.
Our eyes locked.
No words were said amongst the screaming and crying. I heard nothing but the hard slam of my heart as he blinked and then, in a look that would probably scar me forever—deemed me unworthy.
It was over.
All because I cared too much about him.
And he cared too little.
I shut the door and walked around security, getting into the driver’s seat, and starting the van.
I adjusted my mirror with shaking hands.
“Are you okay, Grace?” Rae was right behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
Lucas stared at that hand, then at me in that same mirror, then with a sneer, looked away as if to say, you can have her.
“Y-yeah.” I swallowed my tears yet again. “It’s just a lot of people.”
“We’re kind of a big deal,” Jay teased.
My laugh fell flat.
“Great job today, guys,” Solia said from the passenger seat. “Rest up for tomorrow. It’s a big day. I’ll leave you in Grace’s capable hands.”
I wasn’t feeling so capable.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Rae whispered in a way that said he wasn’t going to leave my side.
I stole another glance at Lucas once we hit the stoplight. His eyes were closed like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe he didn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Looking in the mirror for the ghost of us
Grace
By all appearances, Lucas was fine. The world was shitting rainbows as he sat next to the rest of his bandmates in the living room. They’d turned on the Goblin show again, and I didn’t feel like pretending everything was okay when I knew it was all an act.
Had it all been an act?
The way Lucas treated me?
The kissing?
The obsessive feelings?
Was that his way to get me to not see him?
The more I thought about it, the sicker I got. Because I had so easily fallen for all of it, for his teasing attitude, for the possessiveness, for the way he deflected everything that had to do with him and the group.
Was that why he hated it when I listened to him play the piano? Was the pain too raw? Too real?
I grabbed my laptop and sat on the counter with it, pointing it away from the guys, and typed in my search bar: suicide rates in Korea, celebrities.
I had to hold my gasp in as articles poured in about suicides just in the last year. Most of them through hanging or carbon monoxide poisoning.
Managers finding the talent alone in their apartments, surrounded by all of the gifts from fans.
Alone.
Dead.
Not good enough.
Despite everything they had.
I kept searching and searching.
So many idols complained about depression, anxiety, too much pressure, it got even worse when I saw that some of the groups that had been performing for six years still hadn’t been paid since they were trying to pay off the “debt” that their label went into for their debut.
I’d had no idea.
I couldn’t imagine my uncle being one of those guys.
But was it horrible that I wanted to ask?
If I was getting paid to be an intern—not well, but still paid—then they sure as hell should be getting paid to perform and have schedules like they did.
I was in the rabbit hole—correction, I was down the rabbit hole as I grabbed my earbuds and started watching YouTube videos of former idols.
Most of them talked about the toxic environment: the dieting, being told that they weren’t good enough no matter how hard they worked, and the pressure from the netizens.
From keyboard warriors who had nothing better to do than criticize someone else’s life while they sucked at living their own.
I was probably being harsh, but what fucking right did I have to judge someone in the public eye while working two part-time jobs and going to college?
None.
I hated it.
I hated all of it.
I slammed my computer shut, pulled out my earbuds, and stared straight ahead at the boys.
My boys.
I wasn’t sure when they turned into that.
I wasn’t a fangirl.
I felt like a protective mother bear. I wanted to huddle close and tell them it was going to be okay.
I wanted them to know they were special, talented—whether they succeeded tomorrow or failed—they were important to someone, and that’s all that mattered.