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“It’s really hard.” It feels good to say it out loud, it feels good to be vulnerable sometimes. It feels good to bare my soul.
To her.
Only her.
“I know.” And she does, she see’s what Rae goes through. I know she’s aware, but nobody truly knows your own pain, depression or stress in this business. All they see is the fame, the money, the screaming. The fans acting as though you’re a god.
And they think you should just feel lucky and blessed, hiding all the ugly.
They don’t know the darkness—and sometimes I don’t think they want to. It’s easier to believe your idols are perfect, that they live and breathe for you, that they never have a bad day. Love me and I’ll make you think I love you back and that you’re special. It’s easier to believe in an illusion instead of a real human with real feelings, real insecurities, and the very real darkness in us all that we try to keep at bay.
It’s too easy to believe in a fantasy.
We are, after all, called idols for a reason.
I wonder if people even realize that the reason we’re curated this way is to project an image for people to look up to. I use the word curated, because that’s what we are—methodically chosen, dissected, reconstructed to fit a mold. All the dark parts of us carefully concealed to the world, and made this way for the younger kids that purchase every single fucking thing from light sticks, to new merchandise, mini albums, full albums, who stream until they can’t see straight, just to get our votes up on YouTube. The same people buy extra albums and toss them just to get our numbers up—was it always this way? I can’t remember and maybe it’s because I’m too young, but there’s a big part of me that doesn’t want to believe it. But… sometimes it feels like it’s not about the music anymore. Sometimes it feels like we’re just a machine, a formula put together that works for sales. Sometimes it feels like it’s not about the art.
And all it takes is one small misstep for that love to get shattered into oblivion.
And you’re done.
Fuck, when I was in California I literally walked by two weed stores and wondered if it was worth it just for the scandal—reckless is what it was, but it was tempting—then again if you’re caught it even in a foreign country it could be legit jail time.
“Sookie?” She pushes when I’m still quiet.
I sigh before answering.
“I love it and hate it.” I admit ruefully. “I stay in it for my fans, for the very pure reason that I’m hoping I matter enough to make sure they know they matter. But where does it stop? When do I get to live my own life?”
I can’t even have a girlfriend. Oh, they’ll let me, as per my contract in about four years when it’s time to renew, and when I’m old enough to know what sex is so I don’t break hearts all over the world for having feelings “too young.”
She squeezes my hand tighter then drops it. I feel that drop like a bomb in my stomach. I hate losing her touch. I feel a void inside and I know it’s wrong to ask someone else to fill it, but wouldn’t it be nice for just a minute to escape like we did a few years ago? To just, feel? To touch her like that again?
“I know.” The empathy I hear in her voice soothes something inside.
“I’ve missed you.” I finally confess in a whisper, still not looking at her but sinking down in the seat with my face mask, watching cars go by, happy couples holding hands in their matching outfits, eating tteokbokki.
Her smile is sad, I feel the heaviness in the car as she answers. “I know, because I miss you too.”
We drive around for a while then park. I frown when I see where we are.
“I didn’t make an appointment.”
“Let me worry about that.”
She tucks her dark hair into her hat and pulls a ponytail through the back.
I shake my head and frown at the logo. “Yankees? Really?”
“Oh, look who stopped being sad and got all pissed instead.” She starts giggling and I feel lighter from the sound. I’ve always loved the way she laughed, she never covers her face, she just lets it all go, it’s freeing to watch. I’m so used to girls acting cute and rehearsed in front of me, it always feels so fake.
Not Ari.
She’s the most real it gets.
If anything, she’d probably beat me with the hat and then chase me down if I did anything wrong. I picture that fantasy for a moment. No, I wouldn’t mind it at all.
“I hate the Yankees.” I cross my arms. “And now I have to walk into the tattoo parlor with you and that giant black and white hat?”
