Being the only female in a boy group is not the dream everyone makes it out to be. It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t empowering. It isn’t some fairy tale where you’re treated like a princess in the middle of six knights in shining armor.

No—if anything, it’s the opposite.

You don’t get babied. You don’t get special treatment. You don’t even get the basic comfort of being seen as one of them. What you do get is the worst of it.

Extra practice hours when your body is already screaming.

Diets so strict that even the boys shake their heads at you.

Questions in interviews that reduce you to your gender instead of your talent.

Sexualization from strangers who don’t even know your name, just your face.

And when the music plays? You’re the one shoved into the corner. A few lines here and there, barely enough to call a part. The camera skims over you, like you’re nothing more than a filler.

The fandom knows it too. Or rather, they don’t. Because you don’t really have fans. Not in the way the others do. No one fights over your photocards. No one posts threads about your personality. No one calls you their bias. You accepted that a long time ago—being the least loved was easier than holding onto false hope.

And the members? Sure, they like you. They’re not cruel, not openly. But they don’t love you the way they love each other. To them, you’re a friend, a roommate, a colleague. An add-on. They share inside jokes without you, pile onto each other’s beds at night, bicker like brothers. They’re family. You? You’re the shadow in the background. Always there. Never part.

Today was supposed to be different, at least on paper. A filming day—the group’s monthly YouTube activity. The concept was simple: sit in a cozy room, take turns talking about your members, and share what you appreciate about each other. Fans love it.

When your name came up, each member smiled politely. Said a few nice things.

“She works hard.”

“She’s dependable.”

“She has a good sense of humor.”

And then they moved on. Nobody lingered. Nobody laughed with nostalgia or talked about late-night conversations or said you were their safe place. Nobody said best friend. Nobody listed all the small, endearing things about you that only true closeness could reveal. You got half-hearted compliments, like a box that needed ticking.

And now, it’s your turn. The camera points at you, recording your every word. Your video will be the last one uploaded, the ending to the series.

The others lounge around you, not really paying attention, only half-listening as the staff announces the start. The monitor flickers. The red light blinks.

Your face fills the screen.

The video begins to play.