She turns to face me, her head cocked a little. Her eyelids sparkle with makeup. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’m not here to rub it in. Though, yes, you were kind of a shitty friend,” she says ruefully. I cringe as she’s talking. But before I can try to apologize again, she continues. “The reason I had to come to talk to you is because I get it.”

Oh. This is definitely not what I expected, but then nothing about her presence right now, in my bedroom, casually fiddling with the tassels on one of my pillows, is expected.

“Thank you.”

“Some crazy shit can go down in this industry, huh,” she offers.

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

“I would know,” she adds. The moment feels fragile, like it could shatter at the slightest touch. But I’m surprised when she sighs, her shoulders sagging, and begins to open up, as if I’ve genuinely asked her to tell me about it. “Things were always tough, even when I was training at DB. But after I got traded, it just got a lot worse. I was set to debut with TeenValentine, but at the last second, they decided to kick me out. My mom had to beg the label to take me back. She said she’d pay for every single plastic surgery they wanted me to do.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“Not many people do. So that’s what happened. I did it all. They took me back and put me in the group. All it took was my mom forcing me to get new eyes, a new nose, and a new forehead. But there’s a piece of it I haven’t told anyone, not even my mom.”

She looks at me with so much sadness and depth, it almost takes my breath away.

“And you want to tell me? Why?” I ask, genuinely curious. My stomach has tied itself in knots. I know this sort of thing happens in our industry all the time, but the vulnerable, broken way she has just admitted it—it hits home with renewed power. It’s one thing to have surgery to alter your appearance by choice. And another thing to have it virtually forced on you, a condition if you want to continue to pursue your greatest love.

“I don’t know why. Maybe because, after all these years, I have regrets too. I don’t know. Maybe I needed you a long time ago and I was too afraid to admit it. And then we’d grown apart and it felt like it was too late.”

I have the urge to wrap my arm around her, but I don’t. “I’m listening now,” I tell her.