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I tilted my head to the right. Then to the left. Right again.
My jaw wasn’t symmetrical.
I’d never noticed this before. Before the company, before the debut, before stardom. My whole life people had told me I was good-looking, some more directly than others. When I was younger my mother's friends would stop us on the street, squeezing my cheeks and cooing at me like I was a doll. I'd show up to things I wasn't explicitly invited to and no one ever asked why I was there, never made me feel unwelcome. Girls would find excuses to touch me, adjusting my collar, brushing something off my shoulder, fixing my hair even when it didn't need fixing. Old women at the market me and Dae liked to go to after school would consistently slip me extra fruit (a few extra strawberries in the bag, an apple pressed firmly into my hand), and see me off with an endearing smile.
I learned quickly enough to smile a certain way, wide and genuine-looking, to let my eyes crinkle at the corners. To bow deeply and say “thank you, halmeoni!” with just the right amount of warmth and a slightly higher pitch, because then suddenly the persimmons went tumbling into the bag, free of charge. My friends used to joke about it, used to send me to buy snacks because vendors liked me, because I'd come back with discounts and free samples none of them could get.
In high school I had only classmates who were funnier than me, smarter than me, more interesting than me, but I was the one who got approached at parties by people I'd never met. I was the one who could show up late to class and have the teacher just sigh and wave me to my seat. You know, at times I’d almost felt like I was magnetic north, the point to which people couldn't help but orient themselves toward.
But now I could see it; the way my right jaw sat slightly higher than my left — or maybe my left sat lower, did I have it backwards? I pressed my fingers into the hinge of my jaw, first the right side, then the left, trying to feel if the bone structure was different, if there was some tangible proof of what my eyes were telling me. I was sure it must hurt but I could barely feel it. I pressed harder. Watched my fingertips go white. Felt a dull, throbbing ache spread down my neck and into my teeth.
If I angled my head just right, tilted it a few degrees to the right, the asymmetry disappeared. The shadows fell differently and suddenly I looked almost normal, almost acceptable. Byung-ho always turned slightly to the right in photos. Was this why?
I turned my head the other direction and it got worse. You'd deny it to my face, I'm sure, but it looked lopsided, unbalanced in a way I'd never noticed before. Had everyone else seen it, too? Had they been looking at my face this whole time thinking about how uneven it was, how my jaw didn't quite line up? How if you looked at me straight-on I was suddenly, shockingly hideous?
Dae-jung photographed well from every angle, though. That was just true, objective fact. He could turn his face any direction and still look — I couldn’t even describe it. Ethereal? Divine? The words seem too small to encompass it all. Three-quarter profile, straight-on, that angle from below that makes everyone else look like they have three chins, it didn't matter. The light hit his cheekbones the same perfect way every time. I'd watched him at photo shoots, the way he'd move without thinking, and somehow every frame was just, well, flawless.
The cameras loved him. The fans loved him. Everyone loved him.
And I understood why. Oh, I understood.
I pulled my lower eyelid down and stared at the pink-red flesh underneath, checking for signs of exhaustion they'd comment on, signs of strain. Checked my teeth for stains even though I'd brushed them twice already. The whitening strips left them sensitive but they'd told us once that teeth photographed darker than they looked in person, and of course they’d edit that away in the final results (“rest assured!”) but surely we wanted to stay ahead of it either way, surely we wanted to make a good impression, no?
I shifted my head again and watched the shadows retreat like tides, trying to memorize which angles made me look gaunt and sunken versus which ones gave me dimension. Which ones might pass inspection and which ones they'd circle on their tablets and discuss in low voices as if I wasn't standing right there.
Yes, I suppose I was beautiful, but I didn’t fit their charts. Their diagrams printed on glossy paper that showed the golden ratio, the phi proportion, 1.618, the divine number that separated the dazzling from the common folk. They’d measure the distance between your eyes and compare it to the width of your face. Trace the line from your lips to your chin, muttering about ideals that were off by millimeters. Compare the color of your irises against your lips against your skin and then hand you colored contacts that itch and make your eyes water, all so you’d look more “memorable.” So don’t you dare ever, ever, be seen in public without them or you’re finished.
When they ran my face through their specialized programs they informed me that my eyes were set too far apart by 3 millimeters. That my nose was 2 millimeters too wide at the bridge. My lips, when measured against the width of my chin, hit 1:3.8 when they should have hit 1:4.
My body wasn’t up-to-standards, either. I was slim — I'd always been slim, even before the diets, before the weigh-ins, before the months of eating nothing but chicken breast and vegetables portioned out on a scale. But I was slim in a way that read as fragile instead of lean. My shoulders weren't broad enough to fill out jackets properly. My waist was too defined, too feminine and thus “created the wrong silhouette in tailored clothing.”
Now, I did have some things going for me, thank God. I was tall, for one. Tall enough that it had made the recruiters practically vibrate with excitement when they'd first measured us during auditions. Secondly, I wasn’t too fat. They measured our body fat percentage down to the decimal point. Checked our weights weekly, sometimes twice a week during comeback season. They had an ideal weight range for us; low enough that it ensured you looked good on camera (which added approximately ten kilos to everyone's appearance) but not so low that you looked sickly, that fans would worry and create trending hashtags about your health and force your respective label to release embarrassing statements about your safety and wellbeing.
I overheard our coach screaming at Han-gyeol once, about six months ago. I'd come back to the practice room to grab my water bottle, which I'd forgotten in the corner by the mirrors, and heard it from down the hall.
My mother raised me with manners and the understanding that other people’s business was their own, that you didn't eavesdrop or pry or stick your nose where it didn't belong, but I just couldn’t help myself. I should have kept walking but something in me needed to hear this and so I stopped anyway, hand hovering over the handle.
“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Coach Yoon’s anger had poured out into every word. “Do you think fans want to see this? You look like you've been eating for three people, you godforsaken pig.”
In the silence that followed I could nearly hear the fluorescent lights humming overhead, my own heartbeat, Han-gyeol’s breathing on the other side of the door.
“I’ve been trying—” His voice was so small. I'd never heard Han-gyeol sound like that, and he had always been careful with his words; a little reserved, but not like this.
“Trying isn't good enough. You're dragging down the entire group's image. Every time you're in a photo, people are looking at you and thinking we don't have standards. Do you understand that? You make all of them look bad just by standing there.”
Silence again, was he crying?
“You're lucky anyone even bothered to debut you looking like this. One more kilogram—one more fucking kilogram, Han-gyeol—and we're having a very different conversation. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Coach.”
Hearing this felt good. Felt like cold water amidst the desert heat. Coach Yoon’s voice tearing him apart, Han-gyeol's small defeated responses, the whole pathetic scene playing out on the other side of the door — I drank it in. Stood very still and let the satisfaction wash over me. Allowed the vindication to lessen my thirst.
In all honesty, I wanted to hear more. Wanted him to keep going, to find new ways to catalogue Han-gyeol's flaws. There was this perverse need curling in my chest and it was begging for more, more, more. I pressed closer, held my breath so I wouldn't miss a thing, but it had ended, and footsteps were moving toward the door.
I’d slipped away, my body suddenly feeling lighter, looser.
Later that day Han-gyeol would skip lunch. I watched him sit at the table with us, watched him drink water and pretend he wasn't hungry, watched his hands shake slightly as he raised the glass to his mouth. My shoulders had dropped and I’d felt a tension I hadn't known I was carrying drain out of my neck at the sight of it.
This was terrible. I knew it was and could recognize it intellectually but oh, for once the usually bland food tasted better than it had in months. Went down easier. Finally sat in my stomach without the familiar accompanying nausea.
Someone was knocking on the door.
“Ye-jun?” Byung-ho’s voice was thick with sleep. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
I stared at my reflection. “Sorry. Going to bed now.”
The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. “Are you all right? You’ve been in there a while.”
Byung-ho and his endless performance of leadership. Treating me as if I was some problem he needed to solve, a box he needed to check before he could go back to sleep with a clear conscience.
I opened the door. He was standing there in his sleep shirt, hair messy, eyes puffy.
“I’m fine.” I said. “Look alive. We’ve got a full day tomorrow”
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
Five people sat in chairs arranged in a half-circle. Manager Kang, two women from styling whose names I'd never bothered to learn, someone from publicity, and Director Nam from the main agency. Tablets glowed in their laps. Coffee cups clustered on the floor beside their feet like little shrines to their authority.
The walls were an ugly shade of pure white, lit by uglier whiter lights that made everything look sterile and soulless. The room contained a metal scale in the corner and a small platform in the center with tape marking where my feet should go.Behind me, a full-length mirror consumed the entire back wall
“Ye-jun Im.” Director Nam smiled pleasantly as I walked in. “Thanks for coming in. Have a seat for the moment.”
There was a single chair facing their cult-like semicircle. I sat, made sure my posture was relaxed. Smiled back at him, easy and warm.
“Of course. Thank you for having me.”
“We've been very pleased with your progress,” said Manager Kang. “Your vocals have improved significantly. Your dance execution has gotten much sharper. The effort shows.”
“Thank you.” I was back at the market again, adjusting the pitch of my voice and tilting my head ever so slightly. “I've been working really hard. It means a lot to hear that.”
Now to wait for the but.
Director Nam leaned back. “So, we've been looking at metrics across the board—fan engagement, social media, that kind of thing. Just making sure we're positioning everyone in the best way possible for this. Your numbers have been steady, not so bad, but we want to talk about some opportunities for improvement. Ways we can help boost your visibility, make sure you're standing out in the right ways.”
This was all part of the rebrand. New head of the label, new vision, new strategy for how to market us. I didn’t mind as I’d always held a deep-rooted hatred for the previous leadership. Dae had confided in me once about all the NDAs they’d made him sign about his transition. Stacks of them, he'd said, each one thicker than the last. They’d told him in no uncertain terms that if any of it ever got leaked they'd terminate his contract. No discussion, no second chances.
He’d agreed because what choice did he have? And because (though I maintained then and maintain now that martyring himself for two grown men who could — and should! — handle their own problems by themselves was the stupidest, most self-destructive reasoning I'd ever heard) he knew what termination would mean for Byung-ho and Han-gyeol, who'd both come up through intensive training programs that cost more than most people in this country made in a year. They were drowning in debt, needed every paycheck just to stay afloat, and certainly couldn't afford the scandal of a member getting terminated right after debut.
We’d gotten lucky in that regard, having come via the talent company instead, arriving without that noose around our necks like so many others did. I suspect he might’ve felt guilty about it. So he signed. And signed. And signed.
This new head had different ideas about marketability. They saw Dae’s transition as an asset rather than a liability, something that could differentiate us in an oversaturated market. Progressive. Groundbreaking. Lookie here how supportive we are! So now Dae was allowed to talk about it, encouraged even, his transition now repackaged as inspiration, complete with a glittery bow on top.
I wasn't sure if that was better or worse. At least before, he'd had some semblance of privacy, however suffocating. Now they'd shoved him into the spotlight, which meant scrutiny from every angle, which meant online harassment and protests outside our venues and increasingly frequent "evaluations" to make sure his body was performing correctly for their brand narrative. To make sure he looked trans enough to be inspiring but not so trans that he made anyone uncomfortable — and yes, they’d quite literally phrased it that way.
And apparently the rebrand now extended to all of us. New vision meant new standards, new metrics for what made us marketable.
“I'm open to whatever you think would help,” I said. Kept my voice light and cooperative. They liked it when I did that.
“Good, good.” He smiled again. One of the styling women leaned forward slightly, looking at her tablet.
“We're thinking more long-term here,” he continued. “Building your individual brand within the group dynamic. Right now you photograph fine, but we think there's room to refine some things. Small adjustments that could make a big difference in how you read on camera.”
“What kind of adjustments?”
The styling woman glanced at Director Nam, who nodded. She tapped something on her tablet. “Well, we've been doing some analysis of your recent shoots and appearances. There are a few areas where we think some subtle enhancement could really optimize your visual impact.”
What they had been alluding to, it turned out, was plastic surgery. For my lopsided jaw, yes, but also my nose (too wide at the bridge, needed refinement). My eyes (they wanted double eyelid surgery, even though I already had double eyelids, but mine weren’t deep enough, weren’t the right shape). My lips (which they’d said were fine but could be fuller, just slightly, nothing too drastic!). And on and on it went.
They had a list. An actual numbered list on their glowing tablets, each item with a checkbox beside it like I was a car going in for repairs. Item seven: rhinoplasty. Item nine: eyebrow lift. Check, check, check.
“So,” Director Nam said after the woman had finished her presentation. “What do you think? We can start scheduling consultations as early as next week. Get ahead of the promotional cycle.”
I kept my expression neutral, kept my hands relaxed in my lap even though I wanted so desperately to dig my nails into my palms until I broke skin, until it would let me feel something sharp and real. “Could I have some time to think about it?”
The smile didn't change but something shifted in the room. Small things, barely perceptible. The publicity guy glanced at Director Nam. Manager Kang shifted in his seat.
“Think about it?” Director Nam’s voice was pleasant as ever. “I'm not sure I understand. We're offering you an opportunity here, Ye-jun Im. A significant investment in your career.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. I just—it's a lot to process. I'd just like some time to consider everything.”
“We don't have time.” The pleasantness was fading now, his voice getting flatter, more direct. “The album has already been announced. If we're doing this, we need to start now. Recovery, healing time—it all has to factor in.”
“I understand, I just—”
He leaned forward. “I’m not sure you do. You're by far the least biased member right now. You know that, right?”
Of course I was aware. I nearly had the numbers memorized — fan site followers, social media engagement, the length of my line at fan meetings compared to everyone else's. I’d watched those numbers stay flat while the others climbed.
Not that I cared, really. I wasn't so superficial as to measure my worth by Instagram likes or how many people wanted my photocard. That was pathetic, frankly, the kind of thing that maybe consumed Byung and Han, who checked their metrics obsessively like addicts refreshing a stock portfolio.
But it did bother me. A little.
Well, it bothered me that they were above me, anyway. Byung with his charm that fooled absolutely no one with half a functioning brain. Han with that simpering nice-guy act they’d told him to put on for the cameras. They were slimy, transparent, and not particularly bright, and yet somehow people ate it up. Somehow they had longer lines than I did.
“Your fan accounts have barely moved since debut,” said one of the styling women. "We've tried different styling, different angles. Nothing's worked. You're still the least captivating member to fans."
“Look, we're not trying to be harsh here,” this was Director Nam again. “But you need to understand where you stand. The fans have spoken. The numbers don't lie. Right now you're not connecting. You're not giving them anything to grab onto.” He sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “We're trying to help you here. We want to give you something that'll make you stand out, make people remember you.”
“The company's covering everything,” Manager Kang added. “All the costs, recovery, support. We're making this easy. This is a real investment we're willing to make because we think it'll work. You’ve worked so hard—this could help people see it.”
“And if I said no?” The words had already left my mouth.
The room went quiet. Director Nam sat back and looked at me for a long moment.
“If you say no,” he said slowly, “then I’m afraid we have to wonder about priorities. About who we're investing in for this season. About whether you're actually committed to making this work. Whether we're, you know, wasting resources.”
Oh, I see.