Sayonara, Aspiring Girl
"Lara, one more round! I think I've got the hang of it now!"
"Cut it out already!"
After Lara's one-sided beatdown, I grumbled but couldn't bring myself to protest outright as I signed the written pledge. Lara just clicked her tongue at me.
"Haa... How long are you gonna whine? It's just a game."
"Just a game? Lara, when you smash 'em like that, even 2D characters feel the pain!"
Fighting games always stir up people's rage. It's not like Lee Jeongyeon had anger issues and started hurling arcade chairs every time she lost—nope. Though her busted personality probably didn't help. Remembering her 15-game losing streak disaster, I conceded defeat without a second thought. This is why everyone needs a bad example around. With so many around me, you could say I'm blessed in a twisted way.
In the end, I set the controller down, but my gaze lingered on the TV screen with regret.
"Haa... Whatever. Let's eat. But ordering delivery... no cash."
"No money?"
"Even rich kids don't carry millions around. And splitting one order feels weird."
I didn't mind, but hey, growing teens need fuel. One might not cut it. Plus, for a sensitive pubescent girl, sharing food with someone else could be awkward on multiple levels.
Lara pondered for a bit, peeked into the fridge, and said,
"...What should I make?"
"Ramen or something?"
"You came all the way here—ramen's too basic. Pasta okay?"
Not that we're super close, so what else would she cook besides ramen? And pasta as the alternative? Kinda suspicious. But...
...if she's offering to make it, why turn it down?
"I'll gratefully devour whatever Chef Lara serves."
"Chef, my ass... Sit down. I'll whip up something with what's around."
Just shut up and eat what's given. Getting homemade grub at a place like this is an experience. Moon Juhee and Lee Junwoo never cook anyway. And I'm not rich enough for constant takeout anymore—might as well learn a recipe or two.
I sat at the table, and soon Lara—lacking flashy skills but decently proficient—plated up a proper oil pasta in front of me.
"Here, eat."
"Yep."
One bite on her command, and contrary to expectations, it was pretty good.
"Hm? Tastes great?"
"...Glad you like it."
"No, seriously good. You cook well, huh?"
"Big deal over pasta. It's simple stuff."
I praised her cooking, and Lara played it cool but her lips twitched upward. Honestly, zero expectations, but this is solid. Not restaurant-level, sure. But she's beaming, so no need to nitpick. Free meal anyway—shove it in.
"You make stuff like this at home usually, Lara?"
Too lazy for me. Prepping ingredients, cleanup, dishes... Even pot-scrubbing's a chore, so I crush instant ramen dry.
"Huh? Who cooks like this at home?"
Lara tilted her head like I'd said something dumb.
"I just do ramen or delivery when I'm home."
"Then why cook when I'm here?"
"...Well..."
She hesitated at my question, and spotting her embarrassed face, I pieced it together.
"Showing off 'cause I came over?"
"..."
Her body flinched. Nailed it.
"Not judging or anything. You're young, wanna look cool to friends. Totally get it."
"......"
"Cook a bit, show off your independent side~ Get some praise for your skills. Happens."
"......Shut up and eat."
"Oh, that recipe you were checking while cooking—was it a cooking one?"
"I said eat!"
Her face quivered. Super embarrassed her secret was out. Fair—it's kinda shameful. Should've let it slide instead of poking. Blame my lack of delicacy, Seonggwang edition. This time, to protect her pure intentions, I shot her an admiring gaze like I suspected nothing.
"Nah, my guess was off. You're not showing off—you always cook for yourself, mature like that. Tastes vary, so precise measurements..."
"Hey, no more. Give it back."
Finally snapping, Lara—moved by my tact—snatched the half-eaten pasta.
"See what happens when I let you... Reading my mind feels good, huh? From now on, come over and you cook ramen."
"Aw, can I come again later?"
"No. Don't come. Banned from my house."
"Lara, sorry. Really sorry."
Her bluff busted, Lara fumed and sulked. I groveled. No sadistic intent—just her reactions were too fun, egging me on. Promised no more teasing, and we finished the meal.
What a weirdo. That's Seonggwang, at least. Not a bad guy. Looks a bit pitiful sometimes, but no malice in his actions. He even keeps a distance from me. Makes it hard for me to chat casually with folks like that, yet he hangs with them like friends. Wonder what bonds he's built.
"Lara, where'd you learn to draw? You're good."
"...Just a hobby. Never took lessons."
"Tch... Maybe I should try. Looks doable."
"As if~."
The guy grabs paper and pen, copies my wall-hung drawing. Such a kid. Every action's childish. His flippy speech makes him seem even lighter. That babyface helps. Scribbles away, then frowns at the mangled proportions. I snicker, but recall why he's here and cautiously ask,
"...Hey."
"Yeah, Lara?"
"Thought you weren't gonna ask... That question from yesterday."
The one he asked, I had to answer. The one I dodged. He's the creditor here for that debt, right? Yet he acts way too chill, like a bored friend dropping by. Or is that it? He blinks at my words, then realizes and smacks his lips.
"Tell you now? Made up your mind?"
"No... Not yet... Aren't you here for my answer?"
"Yeah, but it's not something to force. Think hard, tell me when ready."
"...Okay."
He spins the pen and resumes drawing. So mature yet childish—it confuses me more. If he stuck to one, it'd be easier. I stare forever, curling my toes in frustration at my indecision.
He tires of drawing, sets the pen down, eyes the framed photos. No embarrassing ones, but his stare irks me. His gaze shifts to the awards shelf. I flinch but don't stop him.
"Hm... Sports, drawing—versatile. Awards too."
"...Pushed into a bunch. Did okay."
"Cooks too. Talented overload, Lara. Could go pro in this."
"..."
I bit my lower lip. His "talent" word stung unfairly. Selfish me, but I smile it off.
"Why think I didn't?"
"Huh?"
"Right there. Proof of diving deep."
My words draw his eyes to the nearby award: childhood flute contest win. And my god-crying photo. Why'd Dad hang that ugly crier?
"Flute was your thing from start, right? Drawing or sports looked talented too."
"Back when I started flute, heard that too. 'You've got talent, try it.'"
Just a hobby. Academy lip service to hook me. Fell for it, came this far. Had talent, sure—started 'cause of it. Decent scores, bragged to friends. That's it. Just that far.
Started as a "gifted" hobby, got cocky thinking I could live off it. Silly now.
"Young and dumb all around. Wanna go back, tell kid-me 'No flute~.'"
"...Why? No fun?"
"Fun... Awards thrill, playing's enjoyable. But can't live off that alone."
High school hit, rankings slipped. 2nd to 3rd, 4th to out. Prelims fails galore. Scores stalled, scoldings from teachers. Finally doubted my talent. 3 years to adulthood, real dilemma: Can I really live off this?
"No regrets though? Keep going, might work. Plenty ways beyond single contests."
"True. But... gotta be flute?"
"..."
No clinging passion, no breakthrough talent. Family support burdens now. Invest millions in a prelim-failer?
"Rude to desperate folks, right~? Better chase what I actually want."
Running? Maybe. Just bleak. Fun, but do I love flute that much? Or just the praise, superiority high?
I eyed Seonggwang—not classmate, not snarky bandmate. A musician with a different life.
"Hey, saw your piano vids?"
"...For real?"
"Yup. Chopin contest to final retirement stage—all."
Meant to tease—annoyed by his contest jabs, checked his prelim flop.
"Played great."
"..."
"Seriously great. That genius pianist rep... Not bluff."
"Told ya. Real genius."
His smug face—couch flop in exasperation. Videos alone showed it: different league. Live? Insane. Enviable. Flawless—no nitpicks. Even his 4th, no-wins: comments raged "Why not 1st? Rigged!" Me too. Explained his cockiness, why folks befriend his ass. How hate that? Trip over feet to hear, swallowing bile.
Wanna be that. Greed overload. Knew him better at that age, quit classical? Nah. Hate myself more. Wasted time, no grip left. Success ain't all, but need results to eat. He struggles despite better—me leeching cash?
"...So vocals? Figured no success, chase wants instead?"
"Yup. Jealous?"
"Nah. Your choice. No right to judge."
Cold words. Plays buddy sometimes, draws lines here. Kinda hurts, but better than clingy overreach. Hate heavy vibes—feels like therapy.
"Yup! Makes me think natural vocalist~ Pretty too...?"
"Don't if embarrassed."
"...Tch."
Dumb joke lightens mood. You don't cackle, but loosen up smiling. Better. If no awe, laughter's fine. Endure ridicule. Vocals what I want. You said: cling through hardship means something. So I cling. Better than alternatives.
To your chuckle, slip answer in light mood:
"Better pathetic laughable song than meh flute no one giggles at, right?"
Grinning, I peeked your reaction. You—who laughed at my jokes before, bright till now—dropped:
"Not funny."
"..."
"Not funny. Least I can't laugh at your singing."
Air chills. I shut up; you chill. Long exhale, I flinch. Did wrong? Peeked.
"...Lara, old story time."
I nod. He spills reluctantly.
"Elementary: comic artist dreamer kid... Not friend—bully target. Classmate dreaming manga."
"..."
"Kids beg his comics. Shows weird shit, not normal."
"...Weird?"
"Kid level drawing—obvious fake. Peeked, knew intentional."
Class laughs. Tease "This art?" He plays cool. Feels personal. Ends with verdict:
"Hated it. Kinda gross."
"......"
"Maybe I can't read room... But dream? Vowing to live off it—even if fail—that's beyond hobby. Serious. How toy with that?"
His cold lament pricks me. Feels aimed. Is—lecturing my repeat via his tale. I know: playful, childish, but music-serious. How do I look? Pitiful quitter treating dreams joke?
Sensing discomfort, awkward smile: "Not scolding... Love laughs, comedy. Dreams needn't stiff. Laughing at passion's great."
Then why no laugh at my song? Ever.
"Didn't sing for laughs."
"..."
"Not for laughs, yet desperately, fearing hate—so fake. How laugh?"
Reads me again. Acts years older. Feel childish, ashamed. Droop head sullen. Expect comfort? Nope—stern hands clasped, barks:
"Lara, not mature or grown-up. Same brat. No intent for deep advice now."
"After all that?"
"Not advice... Regret. Giggling till now, sudden serious? Lame?"
"Yeah."
"Right?! Super lame. Everyone ponders, you waffle. Juhee only does drunk!"
Over-the-top hype, calms, chides: time serious.
"Lara, choose: Become you, or gossip fodder."
"...Latter more likely?"
"Nope. Hate labeling talent, but truth: No music talent vs. pros I've seen."
"......Knew, but direct hurts."
Bit more gloom, tears? No—can't face school. Twist body in limbo; you scratch neck, overdid?
Keeps going: "Assume fail. Your 'possibility'? Laugh now, curse later. Other? Instant hate."
"...Grim."
"Arts always. Folks dream bright—Hitler'd thrive? Imagine worst."
Joyless future: starving, squeezing voice dry. Failure pain: no laughs, joy, passion lost. Choose.
"If all fail, pick what to fail at."
Music hurts. Pain needs meaning. Reason to cling.
"......"
Your prior words.
"Happy now? Pick it. Song prepped, plans set."
"...Want other?"
"Adjust. Free choice, time plenty—but no delaying. Might be last courage shot."
"Last..."
"Could be. Don't miss. Among all you've met/will, only I match any choice."
Self-promo finale. Bold confidence impressive. Arms crossed, head high, reoffers:
"Lara. How much think time?"
Same answer:
"...One day."
Satisfied, rises from couch. No glance back, no extras—heads door.
Sudden come, sudden go. Pushes door, yesterday's farewell:
"See tomorrow."
Leaves empty-handed. Watch back, drained, eyes heavy. Tons talk, no clarity. Thought refresh—more worries.
"...That's it."
Done, ponder regret-free.
"Dishes maybe..."
Back to routine—doorbell. Open: you sheepish. Forgot? Eyes shift, grins.
"Uh... Two ramen packs?"
"......"
"Out at home..."
Brazen—lip bite. Sigh, hand two packs, tuna can—send off.
Friday came. Arrived 30 mins early, skipped class for 3rd-floor empty room. Seonggwang waited, back-turned to window. BGM played soft; volume dipped as I entered.
Awkward stare; you glance, say:
"First assassin after me? Nah."
"..."
"Not last..."
"Lunchtime then?"
"Wait, joke—don't go."
Grab desperate; I sigh, back to talk.
"Decided?"
"...Yeah."
"Good, straight to it. What wanna do?"
That question—two days ago, moments ago. Hesitant spit:
"Wanna be cool."
Nod, reask:
"No regrets?"
"...Probably. But wanna now."
"Impulsive."
"Why. Mad?"
"Nah, true musician at last. Eyes open, Lara."
"Not thrilled..."
Satisfied smile, beckons, shows laptop:
"Song good? Your sing, mixed/tweaked. Nice?"
"That recording? Amazing!"
Voice unrecognizable. Decided, but this shakes.
"Right~ Love it myself."
Smirks, clicks 'Lara work mid'—deletes. Confirms, erases traces.
Watch; eyes closed you:
"...Wh-what'd you do?"
"Deleted."
"What?"
"Your original + files. Gone from world. Just our heads."
"......Joke?"
"Sadly no."
Regret. Hoped joke.
"You—what?!"
"No loss deleting."
"But... Can delete?! Really?!"
Chart-topper level—gone sans hesitation. No backup per smugness. Truly vanished unless remake. I recoil horrified; you arms-crossed, sinister grin.
"Burned bridges, Lara. No turning back!"
"...You..."
"Hard! Hated! Ignored! No laughs!"
"...What..."
"But do it! Eat hate, time whatever! While band, I'll endure all!"
Sacrifices bold; I ask:
"Why that far?"
Why for me? Not close, I suck vocals. No crush.
"Like now, better vocalist later... Might tire..."
"For you."
"...Huh."
"Your song, your expression. Can't by others, completes via you, reveals thru you."
For me, only me.
"Only you can/will sing."
Grabs hand. Cool palm now scorching.
"Lara. Here, you're my song."
"..."
"My song—I can't quit. You don't, I take fair praise/hate."
"......"
"Together. Ignored indie, but seems fun."
Cringer words, grins. I mull, can't hold—laugh.
"How spit cringy lines sane?"
"Said it: mental illness musician basic."
"Musician too? Pass."
"Too late. Hell together."
Shoulder arm—cold react, drops. Closes empty laptop:
"Lara, keep promise. Cool vocalist, right."
Same curse:
"Make you superstar."
Absurd—head drop, then up in disbelief. Blatant oof-lines from you. Bad boy hooked—regret choice.