All the Unsaid Things (enhypen)

|| Exaggeration? Not my style ||

warnings: profanities

rue - pov

I had just arrived at the location sent to me and sat fixated on one specific stool as the staff around me rushed in preparing. I was meant to be there 3 hours prior but with nothing else to do and the gut-wrenching feeling of nervousness, I had pulled over in their parking lot with my friend about an hour earlier. This, of course, was an advantage, but they weren't ready for me yet, so Xiao and I headed to the changing rooms to try and adjust the outfits and maybe try different combinations of everything we had brought.

I noted more than one camera hovering about the area, something I had yet to experience, professional videography. I was hoping the result would be a cool video with the perfect lighting effects syncing to the beat of the music or the fade of pastel lighting shimmering the makeup on my face in the camera.

The first outfit I had tried on was certainly my favourite and as much as I highly prefer wearing male or unisex clothing, I did enjoy feminine attire from time to time. The outfit was complex, filled with trinkets. An asymmetrical denim skirt with belt details down the longer side that went up to my waist; a wrap top, that almost perfectly matched the colour of my skin which I found hilarious; clip-on earrings to make it seem as if I had more piercing than I let on; combat boots paired with leg warmers; fake bandages wrapping my forearm and fingers for a more edgy feel. I analysed myself in the mirror, spinning around and taking photos and videos for our vlog content.

About an hour later I had been sat down in a chair, getting my makeup done professionally and even having a say on what I liked and what I didn't, which felt new. I had kindly requested a more male look but as someone who rarely does a full face of makeup, I had a feeling that the makeup looks were neutral. As soon as the makeup artist had finished applying glitter on my eyelids, the hair stylist began slightly dampening my short-cropped hair to turn it into something presentable. Somehow, I was out of that chair within the hour, leaving time for one last costume rehearsal with the backup crew and my instructor who had dropped by to cheer me on.

In the last few minutes of wait, I was settled on a chair, back perfectly straight as my leg shook and fingers fidgeted with nervousness. I frequently got up and took a stroll for barely ten seconds before sitting back down, the juices in my gut not feeling the best, and sipping water like I had been deprived of it for days.

The sudden rush of sound and movement snapped my head in the direction of the entrance, but my makeup artist ushered me back into the chair for last-minute fixes. The soundcheck was soon over too, as I had tried out a few verses and asked for sound adjustments, trying to find the ideal placement of the earpiece and practising how I would position the handheld microphone while dancing. I myself had requested the handheld mic since I always wondered how it felt to be dancing with one and also because I wasn't confident with my left hand; leaving it only to the simple task of handling the mic.

I stole glances at the board displaying the number of waiting accounts, ready to watch, and something caught in my throat as the viewers increased as the time neared.

857,000 waiting.

The rough sound of failure drowned out my confidence as every part of my body shivered, and every face that looked at me was disgusted, disgusted by my weakness. With a few last stretches and quick hydration, I delved into foreign lands, slipping on stretchy pink accessories on my fingers.

It started rough, so much rougher than performing online. I was a mess as the countdown decreased by the second on the prompter hidden behind the cameras' view. We took positions as the countdown reached 50 seconds to spare, me in the centre, the other backup dancers arranged me like a flower, my flowy pink mini-dress contrasting sharply against their dark clothes.