☆★☆★→ Yͦoͦuͦ’rͦeͦ yͦoͦuͦ, eͦvͦeͦrͦyͦoͦnͦeͦ kͦnͦoͦwͦsͦ wͦhͦeͦnͦ iͦtͦ’sͦ yͦoͦuͦ, Yͦoͦuͦ’vͦeͦ gͦoͦtͦ tͦhͦaͦtͦ sͦpͦeͦcͦiͦaͦlͦ pͦaͦnͦaͦcͦhͦeͦ aͦnͦdͦ tͦhͦoͦsͦeͦ, Pͦaͦrͦtͦiͦcͦuͦlͦaͦrͦ sͦhͦoͦeͦsͦ, Oͦuͦtͦsͦiͦdͦeͦ, yͦoͦuͦ hͦaͦvͦeͦ tͦhͦeͦ tͦiͦmͦeͦ oͦfͦ yͦoͦuͦrͦ lͦiͦfͦeͦ, Iͦfͦ yͦoͦuͦ sͦaͦyͦ yͦoͦuͦ’rͦeͦ gͦoͦiͦnͦgͦ sͦoͦmͦeͦwͦhͦeͦrͦeͦ tͦhͦeͦnͦ, Tͦhͦeͦyͦ aͦlͦlͦ sͦtͦeͦpͦ aͦsͦiͦdͦeͦ, Wͦhͦaͦtͦ’sͦ iͦtͦ lͦiͦkͦeͦ, Yͦoͦuͦ dͦoͦ wͦhͦaͦtͦeͦvͦeͦrͦ yͦoͦuͦ wͦaͦnͦnͦaͦ dͦoͦ, Rͦuͦlͦeͦsͦ aͦpͦpͦlͦyͦ, Yͦoͦuͦ cͦaͦnͦ’tͦ hͦeͦlͦpͦ yͦoͦuͦrͦsͦeͦlͦfͦ fͦrͦoͦmͦ bͦrͦeͦaͦkͦiͦnͦgͦ, Tͦhͦrͦoͦuͦgͦhͦ, Mͦaͦkͦeͦ iͦtͦ rͦiͦgͦhͦtͦ, Aͦ sͦpͦaͦrͦkͦ iͦnͦ aͦ dͦaͦrͦkͦ rͦoͦoͦmͦ yͦoͦuͦ’rͦeͦ jͦuͦsͦtͦ lͦiͦkͦeͦ lͦiͦgͦhͦtͦ, Wͦhͦaͦtͦ’sͦ iͦtͦ lͦiͦkͦeͦ? ←☆★☆★

"Are you sure? I mean, this doesn't feel-"

Leah cuts you off.

"Relax, okay? This outfit looks amazing on you, your makeup is beautiful and so are you. It's gonna be fine."

This was a new low. A 15 year old had to give you a pp talk for you to do a solo interview. You couldn't help the fact that you were less charismatic than your castmates. But it was still embarrassing.

The others had given you what was essentially a crash course in being cool. Or, well, as Walker said, "Super-Mega", whatever that meant.

He and Aryan tried to teach you how to joke around when answering questions in order to make viewers laugh.

"And then you'll probably get to make a stupid pun, or something!" Aryan exclaimed, nudging your shoulder.

You were awkward in an endearing way, so they gave you a pass.

Next, Charlie tried to give you pointers on being relaxed, yet poised.

Charlie adjusted himself on the chair across from you, "Sit kind of like this. It's a relaxed and professional stance. You want to give off a specific vibe and you can't if you're too tense."

Your posture needed a lot of work, but your smile was adorable, so he let it slide.

All of that has led you to now. Dior did your makeup and Leah picked your outfit. Your knee was bouncing up and down rapidly as you stared at yourself in the tri-mirror vanity.

"How do you guys do this?"

"It's natural," Dior responds immediately, earning a glare from Leah. "Uh... I mean, really, you just can't let the nerves get to you. Come on, they're ready for you."

You wipe your sweaty palms on the side of your outfit and walk onto the stage. You squint at the lights and flinch at the loud applause. Were you really supposed to do this alone?

You spent the entire interview feeling lost and, honestly, being led a bit by the interviewer. It was embarrassing. At some point, when they cut to commercial, you catch Dior and Leah laughing off to the side. Laughing at you.

You excuse yourself and head to the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You let out a scream, balling your hands into fists and beginning to hit your own head repeatedly.

"Fuck!" You shout again before banging your head into the wall.

You're frustrated with yourself. You're punishing yourself.

You hit your had against the tile wall one last time before steadying yourself. You school your expression, wash your face and then head back to the stage to finish the interview.

By the time you're saying goodbye, the pain you'd caused yourself is catching up with you. As you sit back down in the dressing room, your nose begins to bleed. It was normal. About half an hour after your fits, your nose would bleed.

"{{user}}...?" Leah whispers, placing a hand on your shoulder.