VIII
The following morning, Reese becomes the center of attention. His social media feeds overflow with comments praising his bravery. His passion. The vulnerability he displayed in his song. The other contestants—even those who once dismissed him as an aloof, self-absorbed celebrity—now offer genuine compliments and shower him with gestures of admiration. In the hallways, he collects pats on the back and nods, while the circle of support around him grows ever thicker—the same ones that once turned him away now rally behind him.
One little song, and Reese wins everyone over—but he remains detached. He accepts the accolades with a polite, distant grace, his eyes betraying nothing. He doesn’t seek out Rebecca’s opinion, nor does he seem to notice her quiet observation from across the bustling dining hall. There are no questions, no need for validation—no hint of curiosity about her reaction. The song, poured out in the dead of night, now feels strangely impersonal. The silence between them is no longer a tense battle; it has grown into a vast, uncharted space filled with unanswered questions and unsettling assumptions.
Rebecca concludes that it’s safer to believe the song was written for someone else—that someone, perhaps, being the very people who now hold his fate in their hands.
At breakfast, Lena—the girl she spoke with in the corridor—sits next to Rebecca and leans in with a guarded expression. “That song,” she whispers, low and awestruck, “must have been inspired by someone truly special.” With a dramatic sigh, she adds, “I’m actually jealous.” The remark sends Rebecca’s head spinning, and a dull ache seeps into her chest—a small, unwelcome pang of jealousy, no different from Lena’s own.
Rebecca’s heart races as she forces a smile, trying to mask the creeping insecurity.
"Don’t you think it’s a bit too much? Like, come on," she says, rolling her eyes, but her bitterness falls flat.
She knows she shouldn’t feel this way, yet the thought of Reese’s admiration being directed elsewhere stirs a storm of self-doubt inside her. As Lena continues to rave about the song’s beauty, Rebecca can’t help but compare herself to that mysterious muse—wondering if she could ever inspire such feelings.
Well, it’s too late now, she thinks.
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Later, bathed in the harsh fluorescent glow of the arena stage, Contestant 6 bounces in his chair—his eyes wide, his grin stretching, his hands moving uncontrollably. His nervous energy is barely contained by his impeccably tailored two-piece suit.
His twin, Contestant 9, watches from the common room, his usually stoic expression drawn tighter than ever. The interview itself devolves into a chaotic spectacle. Contestant 6 dominates the conversation, drowning it in a torrent of nonsensical pronouncements and wild laughter—louder, more exaggerated than the already frenetic energy of the show. Meanwhile, Contestant 49—a middle-aged former bank teller with a pale, drawn face—barely manages to interject, his reasoned commentary lost in the storm of the other's manic enthusiasm.
Rebecca finds herself strangely captivated. She can't look away from the screen, curiosity driving her to analyze his every word. The frantic energy of Contestant 6 feels oddly refreshing, and she dissects his performance with clinical precision, searching for subtle cues to determine whether his apparent insanity is real or just an act for the audience.
The camera’s low-angle close-ups—accentuating his features and the shadows around his ice-blue eyes—do little to conceal the absurdity of it all.
The bank teller’s nearly imperceptible attempts to regain control stir sympathy in Rebecca—she’s no stranger to being overshadowed, at least in social situations. Yet alongside that sympathy, a deeper sense of threat emerges: she realizes she doesn’t want to hear him talk or for him to take the spotlight. He’s boring. Perhaps that’s what the viewers feel too, and maybe it’s what they’ll feel when it’s her turn on stage.
That night, once again, Rebecca finds it impossible to gain some sleep. After hours of tossing in her sheets, she steps onto the balcony in search of fresh air. The freezing wind, usually invigorating, offers only fleeting relief before the balcony’s narrow confines remind her how trapped she feels. Returning inside, she bypasses her bed and heads toward the door. She walks down the corridor, the emergency lights painting it blue, her fingers tracing an imaginary line along the sterile wall. Beyond it lies the arena—so close it’s almost terrifying.
In the very spot where, two mornings ago, she saw him broadcasting his new guitar, Reese now sits with his fingers dancing to an arpeggio. When he notices her, his expression shifts to one of quiet awe.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
“I needed air. I was starting to feel trapped,” she admits.
“Oh yeah? How can I help with that?”
“I don’t know… can you get me out of here?”
“I can try.”
Rebecca remains silent, fighting back a smile that threatens to break through. Reese takes her silence as an affirmation to something only he understands. He tells her not to move and tucks his guitar away in his room, before gesturing for her to follow him.