First Broadcast

The anticipation was killing me. I sat on the couch, phone silenced, snacks untouched, waiting for the competition’s first episode to begin. It felt surreal, knowing that millions of people across the country would be watching Haeun tonight, just as I was. She had gone from being my high school sweetheart to someone who belonged not just to me, but to the world.

The intro started with dramatic music and sweeping shots of the contestants, each of them framed as larger-than-life characters. My heart jumped when Haeun appeared on screen. There she was, her doe-like brown eyes filled with determination, her striking features practically glowing under the studio lights. She was introduced as "**** Haeun, the hidden gem from Busan," and the camera lingered on her radiant smile longer than it did for most of the others.

"She’s really shining," I whispered to myself, feeling a swell of pride.

The episode moved on to the rankings. The announcer explained that the contestants had been divided into three classes—A, B, and C—based on their initial evaluations. The camera panned to A-Class, the group at the top, and there she was again, standing tall in the front row. She was wearing a white and gold performance outfit that highlighted her slender figure, and I couldn’t help but grin.

She looked like she belonged there.

As the episode progressed, the producers introduced the contestants through their struggles and triumphs during the first week. The editing was polished, the storylines carefully crafted. They showed a montage of Haeun training, her dedication obvious as she practiced late into the night. Her talent shone through every move, her voice carrying effortlessly in the studio.

Then came the first challenge—a group performance. The contestants were split into randomly assigned teams to learn and perform a new song within just a few days. My stomach tightened as the announcer called the names for each group.

"And for the last team, we have…"

The screen cut to shots of the contestants reacting. Haeun was shown looking calm, though her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

"**** Haeun… Lee Jihoon…"

My heart sank.

The name hit me like a punch to the gut. Jihoon. I knew exactly who he was—the handsome trainee from the photos, the one she claimed was just helping her. He was tall, confident, with sharp features and an easy smile that seemed to charm everyone around him.

The producers wasted no time leaning into the narrative. As the group prepared for the performance, there were frequent shots of Haeun and Jihoon together, their interactions highlighted with slow-motion footage and playful background music.

In one scene, Jihoon was shown helping Haeun adjust her dance moves, his hand lightly touching her shoulder. "They really look good together," one of the other contestants said in an interview clip, smiling knowingly.

Another shot showed the two laughing during a break, Jihoon handing her a water bottle as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. The camera lingered on their shared smile, as if to emphasize some unspoken connection.

By the time the team’s performance aired, I could hardly sit still. They were performing a high-energy pop track, their synchronization almost perfect. Haeun stood out, her moves sharp and her stage presence magnetic. But so did Jihoon. Their chemistry was undeniable, and the editors clearly knew it.

After the performance, the judges offered their feedback. "You two were the heart of this performance," one judge said, looking directly at Haeun and Jihoon. "Your chemistry is incredible—natural, effortless. It’s like you were made to perform together."

I clenched my fists, my mind racing. Surely, this was just clever editing, a manufactured storyline to make the show more interesting. That’s what these producers did, right? They spun narratives out of thin air.

But then came the end-of-episode preview.

The screen faded to black, followed by clips from the next episode. There were shots of the trainees in rehearsals, eating together, and then a brief moment that made my stomach turn.

Haeun and Jihoon were sitting close together on the floor, laughing softly. His hand brushed against hers, and she didn’t pull away. The tagline appeared in bold letters across the screen:

"Blossoming Romance?"

I felt sick.

The episode ended, and the credits rolled, but I was frozen in place, staring at the screen. I wanted to believe it was all just a clever ploy, an illusion crafted in the editing room. Haeun wouldn’t betray me like that—not after everything we’d been through.

I tried to push the doubts aside, telling myself I knew her better than anyone else. But the images wouldn’t leave my mind—her smile, the way she looked at him, the way they seemed so comfortable together.

She couldn’t tell me anything or explain herself during the competition, I reminded myself. The rules forbade outside contact, and she was not allowed to keep her phone with her in order to prevent leaks. I just had to wait, to trust her, to believe that what we had was stronger than anything these producers could fabricate.

But as I sat alone in the dimly lit living room, the weight of uncertainty pressed down on me.