The Edit (1)

Before I knew it, my turn for the interview had arrived. When I sat down in front of the camera, a staff member held out a phone — my personal phone, the one they'd confiscated the moment I checked in.

I had a feeling this was coming.

I remembered this from the broadcast in my previous life — the way the trainees had squealed like dolphins the second they got their phones back. But they weren't simply returning them.

"We're going to give you some time to call your parents."

At the staff member's words, I looked down at the phone. My parents. Meaning ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Lee Seo-yeon's parents. But when I'd visited the hospital, I had felt it clearly. They were my parents now, too.

The moment the call connected, Mom's voice came through brighter than I'd expected.

"Mom…"

The instant the word left my mouth, my throat closed up. It was strange. I wasn't Lee Seo-yeon. And yet the second I heard that voice — the second I said the word Mom — my chest went tight and heavy, the way it had the first time I called home from boot camp. The way my mother's voice, heard for the first time after enlistment, had turned me into a child again in a single breath. That same feeling rose up now, unbidden, from inside this unfamiliar body.

"Are you doing okay?"

Mom asked. I couldn't get a word out. My lips moved soundlessly. Then, as if wringing the voice I'd already swallowed back down, I forced it out.

"Yeah…. I'm doing fine."

"Are you eating properly?"

"Yeah."

"Making lots of friends?"

"…Yeah."

I kept my answers short. The shorter they got, the more my chest ached. I'd seen this coming. Watching everyone else walk out with red-rimmed eyes, I'd thought — they're giving them time to call their parents, aren't they? I'd braced myself for it. And still, the moment I heard her voice, something in me gave way completely.

"I promised I'd do well, didn't I? I'm getting good scores here, too. Have you been watching the show?"

"Of course I have. I've been watching every rerun. Your dad keeps looking up all your stages on YouTube."

Her tone stayed bright the entire time. Tender and perfectly composed, as if none of this were a big deal. But I couldn't. I just couldn't.

"Mom…"

"Hm?"

"…I miss you."

The words were barely out before my lips started to tremble. Mom went quiet for a moment. Then she laughed, putting on that nothing-is-wrong voice of hers.

"Aigoo. Finish the show first, then you can come see me."

"I want to see you sooner."

For a second, the small sound of her breathing on the other end of the line wavered. But her voice stayed even.

"I know. Mom misses her Seo-yeon too."

I tipped my head back toward the ceiling and blinked against the wetness gathering in my eyes. Was this Lee Seo-yeon's feeling? Or was it mine? I knew she wasn't my mother, and still this emotion arrived as naturally as if she were. It was strange, and more than a little cruel.

"…Mom, are you eating properly? How's your body holding up?"

"Me? I eat the same as always. I'm perfectly healthy."

"So they discharged you?"

"They will soon. Don't you worry."

She still hasn't been discharged.

The way she said it — as if it were nothing at all — only made my heart hurt worse. Her voice stayed level.

"Seo-yeon, why are you crying? You have to be brave and come home strong."

That was when I realized I was crying. I bit down on my lip, but it was no use.

"I'm not crying…"

"Oh, please. You think Mom's a fool?"

She laughed as she said it. But this time, the edge of that laugh trembled, just slightly. I drew in a quiet breath. And then, softly, she said —

The moment I heard those words, I couldn't hold it in at all. I clutched the phone and started to sob, quietly. Mom didn't say anything more. From the other end of the line came a sound just as tightly held back as mine — her own very quiet weeping.

We cried like that for a long time.

"Why are you crying, Mom…"

"Aigoo, as if Mom would cry. You're just hearing yourself, aren't you? I'm not crying."

"…That's a lie. Your voice is shaking right now."

She couldn't answer.

"I'm really going to do well. I'll take care of you soon — I'll spoil you rotten — so you have to stay healthy. You have to."

"Alright. My Seo-yeon's all grown up."

When I stepped out of the interview room, the tip of my nose was flushed a raw, burning red. I wiped at my tears and sniffled. For a while I couldn't say a word. My nose stung, and my chest felt too tight to breathe.

Lee Seo-yeon. I borrowed your body, so I'll take full responsibility for your parents too. Don't worry. Just rest.

Still. I'd known, and I'd walked right into it. I'd seen it coming. I'd steeled myself. And it had still ended up like this.

The day the team battle evaluation aired, the trainees gathered in the auditorium to watch.

"We'll be on this time, right?"

"Please let me have a lot of screentime."

"My stage was fine, but I'm worried about the interview… I don't even remember what I said."

The broadcast had barely started before the interview clips began to roll.

Na-bin was among them.

The trainees watching in the auditorium burst out laughing.

"But they ended up facing each other anyway."

"Na-bin really had no idea what was coming~"

"And she's amazing herself."

Na-bin, watching herself on screen, had gone a little red in the face.

"…Ugh, this is so embarrassing."

She covered her ears with both hands, wearing the most mortified little smile. It was so cute I couldn't help laughing.

I get to see that reaction live, right next to me.

The broadcast moved on to the rock-paper-scissors used to assign the teams. And Na-bin lost. Every single round.

Lee Seo-yeon and Yu Na-bin had landed in the same matchup. The trainees on screen and the ones sitting here who already knew how it had turned out let out a groan at the exact ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠same time.

"Oh no…"

"Back then I actually thought she lost on purpose because she wanted to go up against Seo-yeon."

"Does that even make sense?"

Then came the next round of interviews.

I nodded to myself as I watched. The pressure had been enormous from the moment people started calling it the main event — and Na-bin had more than lived up to it. But the broadcast hadn't reached our stage yet. They were only just getting to the first team: Sugar Melon.

I frowned slightly at the screen.

Is Han Yu-ri about to get edited out again?

I remembered how, the last time around, she hadn't been given a single proper shot until the team battle evaluation actually started. But maybe I'd been worrying for nothing. Han Yu-ri's team made it onto the broadcast without being cut.

Still… something feels hollow.

It wasn't that her presence had been erased. But she hadn't been highlighted, either. The brief conversations among her teammates before the stage, the mid-evaluation footage — all of it felt like it had been snipped away. You couldn't call it a full cut the way it had been before. There was practice footage. There was a mid-evaluation. What you didn't get was a close-up of her face, a line of dialogue, a comment that singled her out. The entire prep sequence before their stage ran about a minute, give or take.

They gave her screentime, I guess. I just can't tell if it counts.

The other teams' edits hadn't aired yet, so there was nothing to compare it against — no way to know if this was a generous cut or a stingy one. The stage itself played in full, uncut.

At least she wasn't wiped off the episode entirely.

They even included the trainers tossing out comments and the trainees reacting. But none of it landed with any real impact.

Why does this feel so bland?

The performance itself wrapped cleanly enough. Then came the results. Han Yu-ri was the only one who'd pulled a three-digit vote count. The broadcast played up a beat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of surprise, lingered on her numbers for a few seconds, and that was it.

I frowned at the screen.

…No matter how I look at this, it's lukewarm.

They hadn't erased her. They also hadn't left any kind of impression. She'd gotten more coverage than the rest of the Sugar Melon team, that much was true — but the thought that followed was, they did all that, and this is still all she got?

The trainees around me, though, were watching without the slightest hint that anything was off. Which made sense. This was the first stage of the night. Nobody had seen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how the other teams would be edited, so there was nothing to measure it against. Or maybe they just didn't care about anything that wasn't themselves.

Am I the only one watching this too closely?

The thought crossed my mind, but the uneasy feeling wouldn't leave. I'd have to see the other teams before I could be sure. And while I was still turning it over, the broadcast was already setting up the next stage.

The Electric Fever matchup. Anticipation rippled through the trainees.

"Oh my god, here it comes, here it comes!"

"This matchup was an absolute legend."

"The energy in the room that day was insane."

"I'm so excited. I wonder how they edited it."

Listening to them, I found myself leaning in too. How was this stage going to look?

Park Hye-in… you, at least, should start sweating.