[EMY]
I used to think my body hated me.
No matter how much I starved myself, no matter how many times I jogged until my lungs burned, the weight stayed. Heavy. Stubborn. Mocking me every time I stood in front of a mirror.
The doctors gave it a name—Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
PCOS.
A neat little acronym for something that wrecked my life.
I hated how it made me feel trapped in a body that never listened. I hated the acne that spread across my skin, the constant exhaustion, the way every failed diet only fed the whispers around me.
"Just eat less."
"Try harder."
"Don't be lazy."
Everyone had advice. No one understood.
It wasn't just the strangers who laughed behind their hands. It was family too—every relative with their cutting remarks disguised as concern.
If you don't lose weight, no one will love you.
Who would even look at you like that?
Each word became another brick, piling high on my chest until breathing felt impossible.
And the truth? I believed them.
I believed I was unworthy.
That maybe the world would be better if I just . . . stopped existing.
That night, I thought I'd finally had enough. My room was dark, the kind of suffocating quiet where even the air felt heavy. My phone slipped from my hand, landing face up on the floor, the screen still glowing.
And then—music.
A voice I didn't recognize filled the silence. Low, rough around the edges, yet steady . . . like it was reaching into the dark just to grab me.
I froze. My tears didn't stop, but for the first time in forever, I listened.
The lyrics didn't promise miracles. They didn't say life would magically get better. But that voice—his voice—said one thing I'd been dying to hear:
You're needed.
That night, an idol I had never met pulled me back from the edge. He saved me without even knowing my name.
And one day . . . somehow . . . I swore I'd return the favor.
This was it. My chance.
A puff of smoke slipped out of my nose as I hyped myself, and for a moment, I half-expected the universe to hand me a villain monologue script.
But no—this wasn't about conquering the world. This was about saving one person.
Eric.
The name itself burned through my chest like fire. He was my reason, my anchor, my stupid, wonderful, infuriating life's purpose.
I failed him once—no, more than once—but this time, I swore on every failed diet plan and abandoned gym membership: I would not fail him again.
I refused to waste my second life in some fluorescent-lit cubicle farm, rotting away while my soul shriveled like old fries left at the bottom of a fast-food bag.
Not this time. Corporate hell could kiss my chubby behind.
No, I had a new battlefield. One far more dangerous. One filled with glitter, fake smiles, and shark-like contracts. The entertainment industry.
Yes. That circus. That glittery, backstabbing, money-sucking black hole where only the ruthless survived.
And me? I had zero talent. Can't sing, can't dance, can't act. Heck, I trip over flat floors. I was basically an airbag in human form. But I had one weapon.
One bullet.
The future.
I knew the songs. The hits. The anthems that would someday dominate charts and set the internet on fire.
While the rest of the world had to wait ten years for these songs to exist, I could pluck them out of my memory like cheat codes.
And I knew exactly who to aim that bullet at.
AUREA.
The group that would shake the industry to its core. The group everyone would worship, copy, and envy.
My goal wasn't to stand in their spotlight—I'd blind myself just trying. No. My goal was to become the quiet power in the shadows. The songwriter who slipped words into their mouths and melodies into their veins.
With that, I'd have leverage. Money. Access. Influence. Enough to rewrite Eric's fate.
My hands trembled, half from excitement, half from the fact that I still hadn't eaten breakfast. But I grinned at the reflection staring back at me—the chubby, unpolished, ten-years-too-early version of myself.
"You may not have the talent," I muttered to the mirror, "but you've got the cheat codes. Now don't screw this up."