The next morning, I woke up with the same restless energy I always carried when my thoughts wandered to music. The dream of seeing BTS live still lingered, nagging at me like a soft but persistent whisper. I had sung, posted, practiced—but that wasn't enough. I needed something more. I needed an opportunity, a chance to prove my voice could reach farther than just my room or the small corners of TikTok.
After breakfast, I sat on my bed, laptop open, phone beside me. I scrolled endlessly on Instagram, hunting for accounts or posts about singing auditions, K-pop training programs, or American bands looking for new talent. I typed keywords into the search bar: "singer auditions," "K-pop band," "join music group," "talent search 2025." My fingers moved almost automatically, fueled by a mix of hope and desperation.
Hours passed. I scrolled past hundreds of posts, most of them irrelevant or scammy, filled with flashy graphics and promises that didn't feel real. I had learned to trust my instincts, to ignore the ones that felt too good to be true. Still, every "audition coming soon" or "talent search worldwide" post made my heart leap a little.
I stopped at one video in particular. It showed a group of teenagers performing on stage, their energy electric, the kind of performance that made my chest tighten with longing. The caption read: "Looking for lead vocalists for a new American K-pop group. International applicants welcome. DM us your cover videos!"
My pulse skyrocketed. My hands shook as I tapped the profile. Every post screamed professionalism: stage performances, promotional videos, behind-the-scenes rehearsals. It was exactly what I had been searching for—my chance, maybe, finally, the break I'd been waiting for.
I didn't hesitate. I dug through my saved TikTok covers and picked the best ones. My rendition of "Seven" by Jungkook, my high-note performance of "Butter", even the emotional cover of "Spring Day" that had gotten a few hundred views—I compiled them, carefully edited, and saved them on my phone.
"Okay, Bori," I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath. "This is it. No backing out. Just… send it."
I typed a polite, concise DM to the account:
"Hello! My name is Bori. I'm 16, from Nigeria, and I've been singing since I was 10. I've attached some of my covers, and I'd love the chance to audition for your group. Thank you for your time!"
Then I attached the videos, double-checked the captions, and pressed send.
My heart pounded in my chest. Every nerve in my body buzzed with anticipation. I stared at the screen, waiting for the little "seen" notification to appear, but it didn't. I tried not to fidget, telling myself patience was key. Still, the minutes stretched into hours.
I went about my day, attending classes and trying to focus, but my mind kept drifting back to that DM. What if they didn't like my voice? What if it was too late to apply? What if… nothing happened at all?
After school, I retreated to my favorite spot—the quiet auditorium. It had become my sanctuary. The empty seats, the still air, and the stage beneath my feet gave me a sense of calm I couldn't find anywhere else. I placed my phone on the makeshift stand again, fingers hovering over the microphone.
"Just one more," I murmured, taking a deep breath. "Just one more cover."
I started singing "Stay Alive", my voice shaking at first but gradually finding its strength. Every note carried my dreams, every pause held my fears, every high note echoed my hopes. I imagined the stage lights, the fans, the cameras, the energy of being on stage, performing for people who hadn't even heard of me yet. My room, my school, my town—everything disappeared when I sang.
When the last note faded, I barely had the strength to breathe. My chest felt tight, but my heart was full. I quickly uploaded the video to both TikTok and IG, hoping, praying that someone, somewhere, would notice. "Bori covers Stay Alive 💜 #KpopCover #ARMY #SingerDream"—I typed, hands trembling slightly.
As the video posted, notifications started trickling in. Likes, comments, encouraging words from strangers, from fellow ARMYs, from people who appreciated the raw emotion in my voice. My heart lifted a little, even if just for a moment.
After a while, I leaned back on the stage floor, phone in hand, scrolling through comments and watching the likes slowly climb. It felt surreal, this little bubble of validation. Even if no one from a band noticed me, I had shared my voice, my passion, my heart. And that… that was something.
I glanced at the DM I had sent earlier. Still nothing. My chest sank a little, disappointment pressing down. I had dared to dream, dared to reach out, and for now, it seemed the universe wasn't ready to respond.
But I refused to let it crush me. I had to keep trying, keep singing, keep posting, keep believing. Dreams didn't come easy, and I had been dreaming for six years. One day, I knew, someone would notice.
After spending a few more minutes scrolling through music accounts, sending a couple more polite messages, and editing ideas for new covers, I finally packed up my things. My shoulders a little heavier, but my heart still burning with determination, I left the auditorium.
Walking home, the streets of my neighborhood glowed in the late afternoon sun. Vendors shouted, children played, and the city hummed with life. I felt a little invisible among the chaos, but my dreams—my music—made me feel alive. My footsteps carried me home, each step a silent promise: I wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop.
When I got home, I greeted my mom and Prizzy, exchanged smiles, and quietly went up to my room. I opened my laptop again, posting my cover videos to TikTok and IG for the umpteenth time that week, writing captions, responding to comments, engaging with fellow ARMYs and music lovers. Every small interaction felt like a spark of hope.
Finally, I sat back, exhausted but fulfilled. My voice was hoarse, my fingers sore from scrolling and typing, but my heart was full. I had taken action today. I had tried. I had sung. I had reached out. And for now… that had to be enough.
As the sun dipped behind the rooftops and the room grew dim, I whispered quietly to myself, a mantra I had repeated for years:
"One day… someone will hear me. One day… my voice will reach farther than my room."
And with that, I powered down my laptop, climbed into bed, and drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of stages, lights, and the day when my music would finally take flight.