The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wall of sound that vibrated through the floor and up into the soles of my borrowed heels. It was a sound I used to fantasize about, a sound that felt like it belonged to a different girl—a girl who lived in a dorm with eighty other dreamers, a girl whose entire world was a practice room with a mirrored wall.

Tonight, I was just a ghost in that world.

A year ago, I was a name on a screen, one of the hundreds who didn't make the final cut. I watched the confetti fall for the six girls who would become SWANS, the same confetti that felt like it was burying my dream. I went home, got a job, and convinced myself that the life of a K-pop idol was never really meant for me. I had moved on.

Or so I told myself.

Then MNET called. An "invitation," they said, to reunite with the other eliminated contestants for a special performance. A "nostalgic" moment to celebrate our journey. The industry's way of throwing a bone to the forgotten ones. I should have said no. But a part of me—the part that still remembers the choreography, the part that still watches the weekly music shows—needed to know if I was okay. If I could see the stage and not feel the sting of loss.

Standing in the wings, I could see them. The idols. The legends. Blackpink, BTS, Stray Kids—the titans of the industry all here, beautiful and untouchable in their designer outfits. And there, in the corner, laughing with the members of ILLIT, were the girls I used to call my rivals. The girls I used to cry and sweat with. The girls who are now SWANS.

My stomach churned. The lights dimmed, and a familiar, haunting melody started to play—the song from our audition rounds. It was time. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic SOS signal. I took a deep, shaky breath. This wasn't for them. This was for me. It was time to see if the girl who walked off that stage a year ago was finally ready to walk back onto it.