I was nothing special.

A shut-in. A chubby, ordinary girl who blended into the background like a shadow. Easy to ignore. Easier to mock.

The world never ran out of ways to remind me I didn’t belong. Cruel jokes in hallways. Laughter that followed me home. Words sharper than blades, carving deeper than bruises ever could. 

Bit by bit, I shrank into myself until there was nothing left but silence and the weight of my own loneliness.

That night, I decided I’d had enough.

The chair creaked under me. The rope swayed above. My room was still, suffocating, as if the world didn’t care whether I breathed or not. And maybe it didn’t.

Then—music.

It came from the neighbor’s stereo, muffled through the thin walls. A single voice cutting into the darkness.

A voice that shouldn’t have reached me, but did.

Strong. Raw. Alive.

It wrapped around me like a hand pulling me back from the edge. The lyrics told me not to hide my light. That even if it flickered, it still burned.

I gasped, stumbling from the chair, clutching my chest as though those words had physically struck me. Tears blurred my vision, but for the first time in forever, they weren’t from pain—they were from something I thought I’d lost.

Hope.

That voice saved me.

His voice.

Eric. The lead singer of AUREA—the boyband that would one day become gods in the music world. To me, he wasn’t just an idol. He was my lifeline.

And then . . . years later, when he died, the world mourned. I mourned. The one who saved me, the reason of my life, was gone, ripped from life far too soon.

I thought it was over.

But fate had other plans.

One desperate wish, one shattered night, and when I opened my eyes—I was ten years in the past. Before the world knew AUREA. Before Eric was swallowed by fame. 

Before his voice was silenced forever.

I’m just Emy—ordinary, clumsy, and invisible to most. 

But this time . . . it’s my turn.

Eric saved me once.

Now, I’ll save him.

No matter what it takes.

I had savings—enough to scrape by for a year, thanks to my soul-crushing overtime.


Money wasn't my biggest worry right now. My real problem?


I wasn't glamorous. I wasn't beautiful. I was short, chubby, and my skin was a battlefield of acne thanks to my PCOS.


And in this world—especially in entertainment—looks weren't just important. They were currency.


Even if I was aiming to be a songwriter, I'd still have to get through the gates of STAR Entertainment, the very fortress where AUREA was destined to rise.


And if you didn't look the part? Good luck even getting past the receptionist.


So yes, they were right about one thing: I needed to work on myself.


But what they didn't know? I already had a plan. And I knew exactly where to start.


In my past life, I had one mission: fix my face, fix my body, fix my life.


So I found myself religiously visiting this dermatologist—well, technically he was more of a back-alley miracle worker. No license, no framed diploma, not even a receptionist. Just a cramped little clinic that smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and instant noodles.


Shady? Absolutely. Effective? Oh, hell yes.


He was a sketchy magician with needles and potions, the kind of guy who could make acne disappear faster than a payday loan.


We became friends after I practically became his most loyal client. At some point, I think he saw more of me than my own family did.


But clear, glowing skin was only half the battle. My PCOS was like that one uninvited houseguest who eats your food, clogs your toilet, and never leaves.


No matter how much I dieted, jogged, or prayed to the gods of metabolism, my weight clung to me like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. Losing it? Ha. Maintaining it? That was the real horror story.


Still, I fought. I stuck to my bland diets, said no to cake (most of the time), and even learned how to politely decline milk tea without crying inside.


Did I become a runway model? Not even close. But after years of effort, I managed to keep myself at a reasonable weight—a little chubby, sure, but still cute.


Cute enough to feel good about myself, at least.


And honestly? I worked my butt off—literally—to get there. The glow, the confidence, the figure that finally felt like me. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine.


So now, staring at this younger version of myself in the mirror, I thought:


"If I pulled it off once, I can damn well do it again, and much better this time."


Chapter 6 - PCOS vs. Me: Round Two