( "Before the Spotlight")
Lol
I was born in a small town just outside of Bangkok, where the afternoons smelled like mango trees and the air was thick enough to slow your breathing. My friends in school dreamed about university or moving to the city, but I only dreamed about rhythm. Even when I was little, I could hear music in the hum of motorcycles and the chatter of the market stalls.
When the YG auditions came to Thailand in 2010, I didn't think I had a chance. I was just another girl with a loud laugh and a notebook full of dance steps copied from YouTube. But when I walked into that room, something in me said, Don't blink. I danced like the floor belonged to me. Two months later, an email arrived. I was fourteen.
Leaving home felt like peeling away a part of myself. My mother smiled too hard at the airport; she wanted me to believe it was all excitement. I knew she was scared. So was I. Seoul was colder than I imagined—both the weather and the people.
---
The YG trainee dorms were grey and echoing. We lived by clocks: wake up at six, practice, classes, evaluations, more practice. My Korean was clumsy, my accent obvious, and my confidence disappeared faster than my voice during vocal lessons. But dancing—that was the one language that didn't betray me.
That's how I met Jennie, Jisoo, and Rosé. We were all different kinds of lost: Jennie, already fluent in everything—style, language, confidence; Jisoo, kind and grounded; Rosé, the quiet dreamer from Australia. They didn't see me as "the Thai girl." They saw me as someone who could keep up.
We became sisters built on exhaustion. At night, after everyone else fell asleep, we whispered about the future—music shows, world tours, the moment our song might finally play on the radio.
---
There were days when the company told us we might debut and days they told us we wouldn't. People came and went like seasons. I learned to smile through uncertainty, to turn homesickness into rhythm. Every evaluation felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Once, after a particularly harsh review, I went back to the practice room alone. I danced until the mirrors fogged, until the ache in my chest quieted down. When I stopped, Jennie was at the door with two cans of coffee.
"Don't kill yourself over their words," she said.
I wanted to answer, Then who do I listen to? But I only nodded. Some things didn't need to be said.
---
Years passed in a blur of sweat and silence until one morning, the staff called the four of us into the studio. "You'll debut together," they said.
For a moment none of us moved. Then Rosé started crying, Jisoo laughed, and Jennie grabbed my hand so tightly I felt her heartbeat in my palm.
Debut was not the ending we imagined—it was another beginning with sharper edges. Cameras followed us everywhere, and the world that once ignored us suddenly wanted every piece. They called us BLACKPINK, a name that sounded like contradiction itself.
The first time we performed on stage, I thought I would explode from nerves. The lights were blinding, the cheers deafening. But when the beat dropped, I forgot to be scared. I was that girl again—the one from the Bangkok market, chasing music like air.
After the encore, we stood backstage, makeup smudged, hands shaking. Jennie looked at me and said, "We did it, Lisa."
I didn't answer right away. I just looked out at the empty seats, still warm from the crowd, and wondered if this was what happiness felt like—or if it was just another kind of hunger.
Because fame, I was starting to learn, doesn't fill you. It only makes the silence louder.
And that was how it began—the story of four girls who fought for a dream, and the one truth we were never brave enough to say out loud.
[ PRESENT DAY ]
Great 🌙
Some mornings I wake before the alarm. The dorm is still half-dark, the city outside already humming. Seoul never really sleeps; it just lowers the volume for a few hours.
I slip out of my bunk quietly, careful not to wake Rosa. She talks in her sleep sometimes—soft English murmurs about lyrics or family. I envy that she can still dream.
The company van will come for us at seven, but I like to be ready early. It gives me a few quiet minutes before the schedule swallows us whole. I make instant coffee, stare at the skyline, and try to remember what it felt like to dance because I wanted to, not because someone was counting the views.
When we first debuted, every day felt like fireworks. Now it feels like standing too close to them—beautiful but burning.
---
Jisu is the first to wake. She pads into the kitchen, hair tied in a loose knot, expression calm as always. "You're up early again," she says, voice rough with sleep.
"Couldn't stay down," I answer.
She smiles. "You never can."
Jisu has this way of making ordinary sentences sound like comfort. She sits across from me, sipping water, glancing at my phone screen where comments and articles glow like tiny suns. "Stop reading those," she murmurs.
"I'm just checking—"
"Lina," she interrupts gently, "they'll still be there after breakfast. Don't feed them before you feed yourself."
I laugh, but the ache doesn't go away. Jisu is right; the more I read, the smaller I feel. For every fan saying they love us, there's another dissecting our accents, our faces, our supposed hierarchy.
---
By the time Jenna and Rosa join us, the dorm is filled with the smell of toast and hair-spray. Jenna hums while scrolling through her phone, half-awake but already camera-ready. She's good at it—turning herself into light on command. I wish I understood how she does it.
Rosa leans against the counter, her smile shy but steady. "Manager said we have two interviews today," she says. "Then a dance rehearsal and a radio show."
"Only two interviews?" Jenna teases. "Are we losing popularity?"
We all laugh, and for a moment it feels normal—four girls in a kitchen, making jokes about exhaustion. But underneath it, I can feel the tension that fame plants in every conversation: we joke so we don't have to admit we're tired.
---
The first interview is in a studio downtown. Cameras, lights, a dozen people adjusting our hair, microphones clipped to our collars. We answer the same questions we've answered a hundred times.
"How does it feel to be the hottest girl group right now?"
"What's the secret to your chemistry?"
"Do you ever fight?"
We smile. We say the right things.
We're grateful.
We're like sisters.
We work hard every day.
They nod, satisfied. No one asks what it costs to keep smiling that long.
When the interview ends, Rosa leans close and whispers, "My cheeks hurt." I whisper back, "Mine too." We laugh, and a camera flashes at that exact moment. Tomorrow it will be called 'Lina and Rosa share a private joke.' The headlines always fill in the blanks we leave empty.
---
Back at the practice room, the mirrors are merciless. Every flaw, every hesitation, every breath out of sync. Our choreographer claps once. "Again," he says. We start over.
Sweat runs into my eyes. Jenna's movements are sharp, almost angry. Jisu keeps her form perfect. Rosa bites her lip, trying to catch up. I push harder, not because anyone tells me to, but because I can't bear the thought of being the weakest link.
When the song ends, I'm gasping. Our trainer gives a small nod. "Better. Remember—consistency."
Consistency. The word sounds simple, but it feels like a chain.
---
That night, after schedules and another round of photos, we return to the dorm. The city lights outside our window look like stars that forgot how to rest.
Jisu showers first; Rosa video-calls her parents; Jenna collapses on the couch with her laptop, working on lyrics she'll probably never show anyone.
I sit at the window again, the same spot as the morning. My phone buzzes with new notifications—articles, edits, fan messages in languages I barely understand. All of them asking for more: more content, more smiles, more of us.
I love them, I truly do. But sometimes I wonder if they love me, or just the version of me that exists in the glare of a stage.
Outside, a siren wails and fades. The city exhales. I whisper to myself, "We're famous now."
It should sound like a promise. Instead, it sounds like a question.
A few weeks after our comeback, the schedule became a blur of stages, cameras, and plane windows. The dorm turned into a suitcase graveyard; there were always half-packed bags leaning against the wall.
Some nights we came home after midnight and just dropped onto the floor, laughing at nothing because we were too tired to do anything else. Other nights the silence felt heavy, like we'd used up every word onstage.
I used to think success would make everything clear. Instead, it made everything loud.
---
One morning, the manager handed us our first endorsement scripts. I stared at the page covered in neat Korean lines and tiny product names I couldn't pronounce.
"Lina," Jenna said, leaning over my shoulder, "you got the toughest one. Tongue-twisters."
I groaned, and she laughed—a quick, bright sound that cut through my headache. Rosa joined in, mimicking the lines with a ridiculous accent until even Jisu cracked a smile.
For a minute, we weren't idols rehearsing for perfection; we were four girls trying not to spill water from laughing too hard.
Moments like that never lasted long.
---
Later that week, the company arranged a fan-signing event. The hall was packed, lightsticks glowing like tiny galaxies. When I lifted my pen to sign the first album, a girl in front of me whispered, "Thank you for working so hard."
Her hands shook. She was my age—maybe younger—but her eyes were wet with gratitude.
I smiled back, and something in my chest stung. Fame had built a wall between us, but somehow she still saw me as someone worth thanking. I wanted to tell her I wasn't always strong, that I missed home, that I still got scared. Instead, I said, "Thank you for supporting us." The line moved on.
Afterwards, in the van, none of us spoke. Jisu looked out the window; Rosa hummed quietly; Jenna scrolled through her phone, unreadable. The silence was the kind that filled every space between breaths.
---
At night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about that fan's trembling hands and the way she said thank you like it meant more than words.
Was that what our music was supposed to do—bridge the distance? Or was it another performance we learned to repeat?
I reached for my notebook, the one I kept hidden under the bed. I wrote down fragments:
> Noise is a kind of comfort.
Silence is where truth hides.
I miss the sound of home.
The pages were messy, but they made sense to me. Writing felt like dancing without anyone watching.
---
The next morning, Rosa found me still awake. "You're writing again?" she asked softly.
"Just thoughts," I said.
She smiled. "Keep them. One day you'll need them to remember who you are."
Her words lingered long after she left the room. Maybe she was right. Maybe memory was the only thing that fame couldn't polish.
---
A few days later we had our first variety-show taping. The studio lights were unforgiving, but Jenna shone as always—quick jokes, flawless timing. Jisu anchored us with her calm answers. Rosa's laugh filled every corner.
When it was my turn, I hesitated for half a second too long. It was small, barely noticeable, but I saw it later online: "Lina looked lost today."
Hundreds of comments debating if I was tired, unhappy, ungrateful.
The truth was simpler: I was thinking about the words I couldn't say on camera. How sometimes happiness isn't loud. How success doesn't always look like a smile.
---
That evening, as we left the building, Jenna nudged me. "Ignore the comments," she said.
"I'm trying," I answered.
She nodded, her expression unreadable in the streetlight. "We all are."
Then she slipped her headphones on, and the conversation ended.
I watched her walk ahead with Jisu and Rosa, their laughter carried by the wind. For a second, I felt both proud and distant—like the music was moving forward without me.
---
Back in my room, I opened the window and let the night air in. The city smelled like rain and car fumes.
I thought of the girl at the fan sign, of my mother in Bangkok, of the first time I stepped into a YG practice room. All those versions of me layered on top of one another.
We were famous now.
We were living the dream.
But some dreams, I realized, require you to wake up a little each day just to keep going.
---
End of Chapter 1