Just Another NCTzen

Barricading the Dreams

I typed a sentence out. Two. Backspaced it all.

Some days it flowed. Others it lagged like my phone on school Wi-Fi, like my brain during a math test, like food when it's heating in the microwave.

S o slowly.

I'd been trying to write for the past week, but I hadn't been able to concentrate. Not with my impending Driver's Ed final and the stack of homework awaiting me the second I returned from break. But with the dropping of NCT's new group album, I hadn't been able to focus whatsoever.

My eyes flicked over to the clock on my desk. Just fifteen more minutes, then the album would drop. And then I'd see if I'd gotten the code to be invited to the fansign.

I wouldn't, of course, as so few people did. But that hadn't stopped me from hoping—in useless, despairing, childish anguish. And while I'd convinced myself I wouldn't be invited, there would always be a piece of me that clung to the many fanfictions I'd read of the girl meeting the men of her dreams at the fansigns.

Pushing those thoughts out of my brain—thoughts anyone else would balk at from how embarrassing they were—I whirled myself around in my spinney chair and pushed myself up.

I stretched my arm, my back, my fingers. As I inhaled, the sweet scent of my candle tingled my nostrils. It matched the cozy vibe of my room, a vibe I'd been told by my therapist I'd been so eager to have because of the usual incapacitating anxiety I experienced when I was in an uncontrollable, expansive, empty or cluttered environment.

I'd just said she was jealous.

Jealous of the many posters of bands from Red Velvet to EXO to, of course, NCT. And there were non-kpop ones, of Shawn Mendes and One Direction and Beyonce, and about every star I'd ever listened to. It was nothing compared to the extensive Harry Styles, Ariana Grande, and Disney merch I had, though. And she'd of course be jealous of the accompanying stacks of photobooks, CDs, and light sticks. Oh, and the ample fuzzy blankets and pillows that covered my bed and the pictures that coated my walls in a not-so-aestheticly-manner.

My fingers trailed along my desk—a place I usually worshipped for the writing it usually entailed, which had always been my escape from this hellhole of a world—before grasping the envelope on my bedside table.

From the vintage lights—not LED lights like everyone else had, but bulbed, warm string lights—I reread the address.

To Saffron Everest

106 Drive, 6074

Carmel, Ohio

From Harold Publishing House

LA, California, I forget how to address letters

I swallowed, my fingers itching to tear the seal open and read the paper. But I couldn't open it. Just like I hadn't been able to two months ago.

So, it'd sat on my cream-colored, too small bedstand that I ran into daily. It'd been whacked off as I'd flung out a hand in the darkness of mornings to slam off my alarm clock before school. Food and water alike had been dropped on it as I'd snacked with it nearby, staring at me with all-too bold, blue, official looking letters and a deep red seal.

Like everything important in my life, I'd procrastinated dealing with it. Now I was too busy to even consider a future as an author. Sure, I'd written fanfiction and stories galore—even a whole novel—but I'd never actually thought of myself as an author. Let alone one who would be able to publish a book. The fear of being turned down, of having my unspoken dreams crushed, kept me from opening that damned letter.

I replaced the envelope to its stature and wandered to my bathroom, tying my hair back and humming to the songs that pounded through my headphones.

Yes, headphones, not airpods. Being in a family with six children meant you didn't get to experience the luxury of such products. It also meant lots of hammy-downs, noise, babysitting, diapers, messes, and screaming. And the smallest amount of room, home cooked meals, quality time with my parents, privacy, and attention possible.

Still, it was family, right? So I should love them to death.

If I could get over their chewing. Their coughing. Their chasing each other around the house and tripping and crying and knocking each other's teeth out and fighting over Mario Kart or who ate the last package of Little Bites. If I could block out their insistent whining, which was always audible through the paper-thin walls, as my blessed mother was pushed around by the little monsters, despite the fact she was their official teacher as a homeschooling mom.

I'd thought it was insanity, but that was another story.

I washed my face, wincing as I rubbed the bulging pimple that refused to vanish on my chin. I let my gaze wander down my body for about ten seconds before I spat out my tooth paste and rushed from the room.

In the security of my closet with no mirrors, I picked out the comfiest pajamas I had—pajamas with BTS's latest album logo on it. And, of course, with my Old-Navy-bought sweatpants. I only dared to wear such pants at night and in the confines of my own home. Goodness knew wearing them out in public, especially to school, would be begging to be called poor, off brand, pathetic. It would be a try hard attempt at looking trendy, like the girls saved onto my Pinterest board wearing all the clothes I was both too broke and too self-conscious to wear.

Still, I wasn't pathetic, I convinced myself as I pulled the sleeves down over my wrists and yanked on my fuzzy socks. I could draw and write and be funny at times with the right people. As long as the environment I was in wasn't too overwhelming. And as long as I knew at least one person there relatively well.

I tread down the stairs in the dark silently, a skill I'd acquired over the years from being the second oldest in a family of six. When the younger kids were in bed, I had to be silent. If I woke them up, they were my responsibility.

And I did not need any more of those.

And, of course, there was the problem of having strict parents. Ever since I'd begun attending a public high school two years ago in my freshman year, I'd been shocked to discover most people's parents didn't make their kids turn their phones in every night and go to mass every Sunday and meet every person they hung out with before the commencement of the hang out.

The charging station buzzed as I plugged my phone in beside my sisters. I wanted to cry as I pulled my headphones out and paused the song, Love Shot by EXO, the song that had gotten me into this obsession. And the song of which I knew every move of the dance.

I crept to my parents room and whispered goodnight to the darkness. No response. They were already out. It was 11 'o clock, but that was far too early for me.

Only our dog Murphy padded out and greeted me, his curly tail wagging. I crouched down and rubbed behind his ears. He yawned and bent into my touch, curling his small body against mine. There truly was no better dog than our apricot-colored, miniature golden doodle.

Up the stairs, to the bathroom, to the closet, to my desk. My fingers trembled as I clicked the YouTube album ad. My stomach rose in my throat as I clicked on my notifications to see if I got an invite—

And my stomach flipped. Fell. It took a moment for the words to really process through my sleep-deprived brain.

No. Another no. Another closed door.

But I didn't sulk for long. This was a common pattern in my life, these no's.

I glanced at my computer—a bulky old thing that my father refused was anything less than supreme—before picking up the nightly meditation book my mom gave me.

Like everything else, I was too indecisive. The smooth cover fit comfortably in my hands, like it'd been waiting.

But I had things to imagine, sleep to get, workouts to prepare for. I'd just... say a quick prayer when the lights were off. Yeah, I'd do that.

But as I nuzzled under the thick pink covers and stacked the duvets and throws on top and beside me till I was one blanket-burrito, I knew I wasn't going to get two words in before my mind drifted to the life I wanted, the life I didn't let myself believe during daytime hours for fear of letting myself down too strongly when reality hit.

And I let myself dream.