the 1 | chaennie

1. The Beginning

"Isn't it strange how it all happens? All my life I dreamed about ... the bright lights, the big city. You know, they tell you it's going to be glamorous, and that you have everything ... they tell you that you're lucky. But no one tells you how lonely it's going to be. And they don't tell you, when you're twirling in front of the mirror as a child, what the papers are going to say about you someday. 'Cause they don't tell you they're building you up, just to try and knock you down. But they haven't yet."

She spoke mostly to herself, aware of the movement behind her, the crowded room full of cameramen, a makeup team, assistants and sound technicians. Her publicist was there, and her manager, everyone chattering as they called out orders, checked mics, made sure the blinding lights were bright enough to light up the comfortably staged looking area set up for the interview. Two brown wingback leather armchairs were angled towards each other, a low table set before it with two mugs of water, and a vase of freesias adding some colour. A Persian rug sat beneath it all, with the backdrop of one of Rosie's built-in bookshelves giving it a cozy feeling. It was the perfect setting to give off a natural air of ease once the cameras got rolling, but so many people in her apartment was making her antsy.

No one even paid her any attention as their voices filled the room with a loud cacophony, the voices indistinct as they melded together, and she put her back to it all, staring out of the tall window, taking in the miserable grey skies outside. It was due to rain, and already a few stray speckles wet the windows as she watched, dressed casually in a plain white shirt tucked into stonewashed jeans. Even the outfit was intentional, to give off a relaxed vibe, down to the thin silver necklace with the paper plane charm, the two rings on the middle finger of her right hand, and the neutral makeup. Her blonde hair waved slightly, not quite her trademark curls from her younger days, but making a return from the short, chemically straightened style she'd been sporting.

"Hm?" her assistant asked, acknowledging that she'd spoke, "were you saying something? Do you want more water?"

Turning away from the sight to give her a thin smile, Rosie shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Wringing her hands, she looked down at them, taking in the neatly cut nails for her guitar playing, painted with a clear nail polish, and the rings on her right hand, nervously twisting them as she waited for everyone to finish setting up. Drawing in a shaky breath, she turned back to her assistant, giving her a strained smile.

"Hey, Doyeon, actually, do you mind getting me some water? Thank you."

Giving her a warm smile in return, the shorter woman gently touched her on the arm, before walking off to get a bottle from the fridge. The camera crew had their own with them, but Rosie stocked a specific brand for herself, and she gratefully took the bottle from Doyeon when she reappeared a moment later. She wasn't particularly thirsty, but her mouth was dry with nervousness, and she needed to do something .

"Rosie? Where is- oh, Rosie, it's time for a mic test, can you come here?" her manager, Bae Irene, called out, waving her over as she located her over in the corner, far away from all the activity.

Sighing, she handed Doyeon her unopened bottle of water and gave the assistant a grateful smile as she wished her luck, before walking over to her manager. Arm going around her shoulder, Irene ushered her towards a man holding a tiny little mic. It was a lapel mic, which would clip onto the collar of her shirt and snake underneath it, connecting to the black transmitter clipped onto the back of the waistband of her jeans. She stiffly stood there as she let the man clip it onto her jeans, while she attached the mic to her collar and slid the wire inside her shirt, untucking the bottom and pulling it out the other end.

Letting herself be hooked up, she bit back a sigh as her makeup artist came over to run a brush over her face again for a few finishing touches, while her hair stylist ran a wide tooth comb through her dark waves. It was getting quite long again, Rosie mused to herself as she let herself be poked and prodded by numerous pairs of hands. It didn't even bother her anymore; she was so used to it that she sometimes forgot what it was like to have some resemblance of privacy.