Pop Star || Yoongi x Reader

30. Hannah Montana (The Dance Pt.1)

The mauve gown shimmers in the evening light when you walk out of the dressing room. Lily takes your arm, "May I have a photo? For the grandchildren?"

You burst out laughing.

"Oh my, even her monkey laugh looks elegant now," Monica comments.

You push a stray strand of hair away from your face in faux coyness. The smoky eyes, the messy bun, the minimal Chopard earrings - it's no Grammy outfit, but it's more than enough to turn heads.

When you step out of the dark limousine onto the little red carpet, it suddenly dawns on you how little it affects you. The flashing lights, the attention, even your name...the realization is unsettling. You worked so hard to be here - not just here at the party - but here in life.

Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles. They know you now. But you don't care and the feeling is deeply unsettling. You were supposed to be euphoric.

Perhaps it is just a mood swing.

All you need is a drink and a chat with your lifelong idols. Yeah.

You cast your most vibrant smile at the cameras and go in. No media allowed inside. It doesn't take you long to take a customary glass of champagne in your hands and find people to talk to. You and your heartwarming smile, your practiced attention to detail in conversations lets you win over people easily. You could almost deceive yourself tonight, the ease with which you show interest in things you couldn't care less about.

The venue is magical for sure - sparkling fountains of champagne, decorated palm trees, ridiculously lush tents with fire-lit torches - and on the far end - a softly lit stage with a slow band.

"GIRL FROM THE AIRPORT!"

You twist your neck so fast that it hurts. Oh my god. It's Miley.

Miley Cyrus in a shimmering silver dress and red lips and her best grin directed at you. You excuse yourself and run into her arms - this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"Look at you, girl!" she beams.
"Where am I?" you laugh. "Wow, I am so frickin' honored to meet you!"
"All mine, babe, all mine," she says while greeting a few newcomers with a nod.
"You smell heavenly, what is that?" you ask.
"Hairspray. It's Codille - you know Codille?"
"My hairdresser's raving mad about him -"
"Oh girl, you come over sometime and I'll let you borrow the bottle and the man," she whispers.

You feel dizzy. This is insane. Miley Cyrus wants you to come over. A tiny part of you is aware that there's about 0.1 per cent chance of that happening - but after ages someone has awoken the fangirl in you and you're cherishing this big time.

"I'm one call away, Miley," you squeak. She laughs.

"I swear I got in and I say this party looks dead as fuck, and then I see this familiar girl in violet - and it clicks! You wanna meet my friends? Yeah - come on," she takes you away by the arm.

You whizz past a ton of people. Greetings, banters, hugs, giggles - so well practiced that they're realistically unreal. You're hyper-aware. Restless.

"You don't like this much, do ya?" Miley peers at you sideways.

You gape at her. "For the first time in my whole life - no. I think I lost a screw back there..."

"Naw, babe. You spend enough time chasin' somethin', you start questionin' its worth. And this -" she waves a careless hand, "- is never worth it. Write a song, Y/N. And another. Fall in love with yourself. And keep those who love you close. Find 'em and stick close. Fuck the rest!" She winks and clicks her tongue.

You nod. There's a lump in your throat for some reason.

"Bring it in, girl..." she gives you a bear hug before leaving. A train of people follows her while you're left wondering if you've been valuing the wrong things all along.