Becoming Her

Chapter 5: Becoming Her

It began with little things.

The way Yichen tucked his hair behind his ear more gently when he looked in the mirror. The way he started speaking softer even when the camera wasn’t rolling. The way Xinyi’s voice lingered in his throat, even long after a stream or a practice ended.

She was no longer just a costume.

She was leaking into the way he sat, how he breathed, how he moved through the halls of SOL. He didn’t notice it right away–but others did.

“Xinyi-ssi,” a trainee called during lunch break, holding out a hairpin. “You dropped this.”

Yichen blinked. It wasn’t his. But he took it, smiling politely. “谢谢… 감사합니다.”

“You always look so graceful,” another girl added. “Were you trained in ballet or something?”

“No,” he replied, voice careful, “just… practiced.”

They nodded, unbothered.

No one questioned. No one suspected.

And that, somehow, made it scarier.

He saw Minjae again in the hallway.

It was brief–just a moment between meetings, a glance across glass. But Yichen caught it. The flicker of recognition in Minjae’s eyes. The slow, confused double take. He walked past without a word, but the image stayed with Yichen like static.

Did he know?

Did he remember my face?

Would he connect it to the boy who shared his dinner table?

Minjae found himself lingering near the rehearsal monitoring room more often than he meant to.

It started with excuses–checking logistics, clarifying scheduling conflicts–but soon he noticed that he always arrived around the same time. Always when Studio 3 was in session.

She moved like she belonged to the music. Every turn, every shift in tempo, every flicker of expression felt lived-in. She was still new, but the kind of new that left a mark.

He watched one session where she laughed–really laughed–after landing a complicated routine. The corners of her eyes crinkled. It unsettled him.

Because it felt familiar.

Later that night, he sat in the staff lounge staring blankly at a trainee profile sheet. He shouldn’t even be reading it. But her name was on it:

Trainee Name: Xinyi (심이)
Nationality: Chinese
Vocal/Dance/Visual Assessment: High potential. All-rounder. Candidate for final lineup.

He found himself tapping the page, trying to piece it together.

Why does she remind me of someone?

He shut the folder abruptly.

And yet, the image of her lingered like a song that refused to end.

That evening, Suwei called.

“So?” she said, not bothering with hellos. “How was your first week in wonderland?”

“I think I’m disappearing,” Yichen murmured, curling into his blanket. “Or maybe becoming someone else.”

Suwei was quiet for a beat.

“You’re not disappearing,” she said softly. “You’re just unfolding.”

He swallowed. “It’s getting harder to remember where she ends and I begin.”

“Maybe,” Suwei replied, “she doesn’t end. Maybe she’s been there the whole time, waiting for you to give her space.”

Yichen pressed the phone tighter to his ear, eyes stinging.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know.”

The next day, Suwei messaged him three times before he finally replied.

how are you holding up?
did you sleep?
are they treating you okay?

He sent back a photo–just his hand, holding a warm paper cup of barley tea from the trainee lounge. The nail polish she’d helped him apply was still chipped, but intact.

I’m okay.

She called instantly.

“I don’t need a perfect answer,” she said. “I just need the truth.”

He sighed, curling his legs beneath him on the dorm mattress.

“I’m exhausted. But I don’t want to stop. Is that weird?”

“No. It’s honest. And you’re finally choosing yourself. That’s the part I’m proud of.”

He smiled faintly, eyes prickling.

“You gave me the courage,” he said. “I wouldn’t have made it through that first day without you.”

“Don’t forget it,” she whispered. “And don’t forget that even if the world doesn’t see her yet–I do. I see her. Every time.”

The next morning, he stood in front of the mirror, brushing out the soft curls that framed Xinyi’s face. There was a quiet to the room, the kind of quiet that feels like standing at the edge of a bridge., brushing out the soft curls that framed Xinyi’s face. There was a quiet to the room, the kind of quiet that feels like standing at the edge of a bridge.

He applied his foundation slowly. Carefully.

When he was done, he didn’t see a disguise.

He saw someone coming home.

And for the first time, he whispered her name aloud–not for the stream, not for the company, not for the applause.

Just for himself.

“Xinyi.”