Moonlight

Past

Somewhere far away, I hear a loud noise. It sounds like a heavy book dropping on a wooden floor.

Then come the rushed footsteps.

“Aurora! Wake up!”

Rei shakes my shoulders so hard my teeth rattle. I groan, peeling my eyes open to see her face inches from mine. Her short black hair is a bird’s nest of static electricity, and her eyes are wide with panic.

“We overslept,” she hisses. “We are going to die. Get up. Now.”

She is already shoving my backpack into my arms before I can fully sit up. I stumble to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly. The morning light streams through the dusty windows of the practice room, blindingly bright.

I turn around, blinking the sleep away.

Haru and Abby are standing near the door. Haru has his hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. Abby is not even trying to hide it. He leans against the doorframe, laughing quietly as he watches Rie frantically stuff her shoes onto her feet.

“You two are enjoying this too much,” I mutter, my voice raspy with sleep.

“It is the highlight of my morning,” Abby says, checking his watch. “You have exactly four minutes to catch the express train. Good luck, sleeping beauties.”

Rie grabs my wrist. “Do not listen to him! Run!”

She drags me out of the room. We sprint down the hallway, our footsteps echoing like thunder. We burst out of the building and into the cool morning air.

By the time we collapse onto the train seats, my lungs are burning. The train rattles beneath us as we head toward our university.

Rie lets out a long, dramatic sigh of relief. She checks her phone, looking incredibly proud of herself.

“See?” she says, smoothing down her skirt. “I am an amazing alarm clock. We are right on schedule.”

I lean my head back against the window, trying to catch my breath. “If by schedule you mean sprinting for our lives, then yes. You are a genius.”

“Exactly. It is cardio.” She taps her chin, calculating. “Okay. If we reach the dorm in twenty minutes, we have ten minutes to shower, five minutes to dress, and...” She pauses, frowning. “Three minutes to run to the lecture hall. We can do it.”

“Three minutes?” I ask. “Rie. The lecture hall is across campus.”

“Then we run fast,” she says with a grin. “Like we are in the Olympics.”

And we do.

When the train doors slide open, we shoot out onto the platform like runners hearing the starting gun. We rush through the station, rush through the dorm showers, and rush across the campus.

We slide into our seats at the lecture hall exactly as the professor walks in.

Rie turns to me, her face flushed pink from the run, and gives me a silent thumbs up. We stifle our laughter, covering our mouths with our hands.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I check it under the desk. A notification from the group chat.

Abby: Sent a photo.

I open it. It is a picture of me and Rie from last night. We are curled up on the practice room floor, fast asleep. My head is resting on Rie’s shoulder, and her mouth is slightly open. The lighting is soft, capturing the dust motes in the air.

Abby: Look at the dedication. Or narcolepsy. Hard to tell.

Haru: Let them sleep. They worked hard.

Abby: I am printing this and framing it.

I show the screen to Rie. She turns bright red and buries her face in her hands, but I can see she is smiling.

From that day on, a routine settles over us.

It is exhausting. It is chaotic. It is perfect.

We attend university classes during the day, struggling to stay awake during lectures. As soon as the final bell rings, we head straight to the company building. We practice until our muscles ache and our voices go hoarse.

Every night ends the same way. We run to catch the last train.

The station platform is always empty at midnight. The fluorescent lights hum above us, casting long, stark shadows.

Haru and Abby always walk us to the station before heading back to their dorms.

“You are dragging your feet,” Abby comments one night, walking backward so he can face us. The wind messes up his blonde hair, but he still looks like he stepped out of a catalog.

“I am in energy saving mode.” I reply, adjusting my scarf.

Haru walks beside me on the side closest to the road. He does not say much, but he always notices when I am cold. Tonight, he silently hands me a hot can of coffee from the vending machine.

“Warm your hands,” he says.

“Thanks, Haru.”

Rie links her arm with mine. “We should get street food tomorrow. I saw a food truck near the park. I need sugar to survive this week.”

“Deal,” Abby says. “But you are paying.”

“You are the one with the modeling gig!” Rie argues, sticking her tongue out. “You pay.”

“I am saving up for a yacht,” Abby deadpans.

We laugh, the sound drifting up into the night sky. These small moments, the bickering, the hot coffee, the sound of trains passing, become the glue holding us together.

Then, the day finally arrives.

Evaluation Day.

The waiting room is tense. Dozens of trainees stretch and vocalize in the hallway. The air smells of hairspray and nervous sweat.

We sit next to each other on a bench. My leg bounces up and down uncontrollably. Haru places a hand on my knee to stop it.

“Breathe,” he says gently. “We are ready.”

I nod, taking a deep breath. “I know. I just... I do not want to mess up.”

“You won’t,” Abby says. He is checking his reflection in his phone screen, fixing a single strand of hair. “We practiced until our feet bled. Literally. I have the band-aids to prove it.”

Rie is looking at the other groups performing through the glass window of the evaluation room.

“Wow,” she whispers. “That group is really good. Look at their synchronization.”

“Don’t look at them,” Abby says, nudging her. “Look at me. I am much more inspiring.”

Rie rolls her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“And yet, you love me.”

Rie bursts out laughing. It is a loud, joyful sound that cuts through the tension in the hallway. Several people turn to look, but Rie does not care.

“Group A-4,” the coordinator calls out. “You are next.”

We stand up. The laughter fades, replaced by a sharp, focused silence.

We walk into the room. The mirrors line every wall. The judges sit behind a long table, their pens poised over clipboards.

“Introduce yourselves,” the head trainer says.

We bow in unison.

“Music. Start.”

The beat drops.

We move.

For three minutes, I stop thinking. My body takes over. I feel Haru’s presence to my left, solid and grounding. I see Abby’s sharp movements in my peripheral vision, guiding the formation. I hear Rie’s clear, bright voice harmonizing with mine.

We do not miss a step. The transitions are clean. The vocals are stable.

When the music stops, we hold our ending pose, chests heaving.

The head trainer taps her pen against the table. The sound echoes in the silence.

“It was... clean,” she says finally. “You made no technical mistakes. Your harmony was accurate.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“But,” she continues, her eyes narrowing slightly. “It was safe. You followed the rules perfectly, but you did not break them. It was good enough. But it was not a show-stopper.”

She writes something down on her paper.

“You may go.”

We walk out into the hallway. The adrenaline crash hits us all at once.

“Good enough,” Rie repeats, slumping against the wall. “I guess that is better than terrible.”

“It gives us room to improve,” Haru says logically. “If we were perfect now, we would have nowhere to go.”

“That is the most Haru thing you have ever said,” Abby says, clapping him on the back.

The door opens again. The coordinator steps out holding a stack of papers.

“Schedules for the next quarter,” she announces, handing them out to the trainees.

She hands one to me and one to Abby. Then she hands a different colored sheet to Rie and Haru.

I look at my paper.

Acting Workshop. Modeling Etiquette. Camera Angling.

I look at Rie’s paper.

Advanced Vocals. Rap Composition. Recording Studio Basics.

“Wait,” I say, looking up. “Why are they different?”

The coordinator glances at her clipboard.

“Based on your evaluation, we are splitting your focus. Aurora and Abby, you have high visual chemistry and expressive faces. We are pushing you toward the acting and modeling track.”

She points to Rie and Haru.

“Rie, your vocal tone is unique. Haru, your pitch is perfect. You two will focus on the music production and idol track.”

The words hang in the air.

“Does that mean...” Rie’s voice trails off. She looks at Haru, then at me.

“It means your schedules will not align anymore,” the coordinator says simply. “You will be training in different buildings starting tomorrow.”

She walks away.

We stand there in the hallway, holding our papers. The noise of the other trainees fades into the background.

We are still a team. I know that.

But looking at the different schedules in our hands, I feel a sudden, sharp pang in my chest.

The late-night trains. The street food. The shared practices.

Our time together just ran out.