[EMY]
Ren, the quiet one, finally spoke—and the air in the room dropped ten degrees. "Is that all you want?"
When the silent, stoic member decides to speak, you know it's serious business. My spine snapped straight.
"Yes," I said quickly. "We can even put it in writing if you don't believe me. That's all I want—recognition. If the song succeeds, it helps my career too. So really, we're helping each other out."
Oh, heavens above, I was so proud of myself for not stuttering, fainting, or spontaneously combusting in front of them. My ancestors would weep at this level of restraint.
The four exchanged looks, wordlessly communicating like some kind of beautiful telepathic boyband hivemind. Then, almost in sync, they nodded.
"Alright," Eric said at last, his voice carrying the weight of divine judgment. He extended his hand and smiled at me—actually smiled—and I swear I saw heaven's gates opening behind him.
My body moved before my brain could catch up. Like a robot on autopilot, I reached out and shook his hand.
Warmth. Contact. A skin-to-skin handshake with Eric.
My soul left my body, fluttered to heaven, and filed for permanent residency.
We spoke a little more, but honestly? I remembered none of it. My entire consciousness was locked on my right hand.
Then, as soon as they left, I sat frozen on my couch like a stone statue, staring at the blessed limb that had touched Eric.
And then it hit me.
I gasped so loud I nearly choked on my own spit and clutched my hand like it was the Holy Grail. "I will never wash you again!" I declared, holding it up dramatically to the ceiling like Simba in The Lion King.
Without hesitation, I rubbed it all over my face, hoping to absorb every microscopic trace of his touch directly into my pores. Moisturizer? Forget it. Serum? Who needs it? I had Eric's essence.
If chopping my hand off and preserving it in a glass case was an option, I would've done it right then and there.
In fact—I started mentally planning it out, which honestly began to scare me.
Because here I was, genuinely contemplating turning my own hand into a shrine.
And yet, I couldn't bring myself to stop smiling.
Ah, destiny was sweeter than pudding! Fate, in all her mysterious ways, delivered the boys right to me!
Hallelujah! Praise the heavens!
I bow down in my golden AUREA shrines for this divine opportunity—like, thank you universe, finally doing something right!
====
[EMY]
The following days were a blur of pure euphoria. Every weekend—like clockwork—AUREA crashed into my house to rehearse my lyrics. Correction, their lyrics.
Do you understand how insane that was?
One moment I was just Emy, the next moment the gods of idol-dom were in my living room, stepping over my laundry basket, harmonizing like angels sent down by Spotify Premium.
It felt like a dream—a chaotic, noisy, slightly off-key dream made real by the heavens.
I had to pinch myself a few times. Then I pinched harder, because if it was a dream, please, don't ever wake me up!
And yet . . . it was real.
They were singing in my apartment!
I was there, guiding them—deciding who should take which part, tweaking tones, and even daring to suggest a sound effect or two.
(Do you realize the level of audacity it took to tell my idols, "Try it with more oomph"? Yeah. I was already planning to punch myself later for correcting them.
But hey—if my impudence was the price for their future glory, then so be it. I would gladly throw myself under the metaphorical bus of fandom.)
Honestly, I could have died happy right there. Imagine being immortalized as "that fan who helped AUREA rehearse in her house." My tombstone would have gone viral.
But no. Not yet.
Because as much as I wanted to ascend into the eternal fangirl afterlife, there was still one thing I needed to do.
One mission left before I could even think of collapsing dramatically into the light.
I still had to save Eric.
I thought everything was going smoothly. After all, these were originally their lyrics, so of course they caught on fast.
Too fast, actually.
Within a week they were syncing like a well-oiled karaoke machine, nailing harmonies that should've taken months to master.
Sure, the vocals weren't exactly five years from now—the polished, legendary versions that would someday blow the charts wide open—but still, it was enough to make me think, Yes. This is it. This will launch them straight into history.
I could already see it: headlines, billboards, screaming fans, maybe even a world tour that started right here in my cramped living room.
I was practically patting myself on the back for being that girl who would shoot their fame early on.
But, of course, the universe hates it when I get comfortable. Because what I didn't realize—what none of us realized—was that this rehearsal wasn't the climax of the story. No. It was just the opening credits.
And the real problems? They were warming up backstage, sharpening their knives, waiting for their cue.