I Accidentally Became A Superstar

The moment Risa and Zeno stepped onto the stage, the excitement increased.

Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was how quiet Zeno always was. Or maybe it was just Risa’s puffy, clearly-cried-in eyes—but whatever it was, every contestant leaned forward in their seat.

The LED screen behind them lit up with the word.

EXISTENTIAL CRISIS.

That was easily the hardest prompt in the batch.

Bacon PD leaned forward, clasping his hands together as the stage crew quickly rearranged the props. A simple background with a bed, a window frame with soft blue lighting, and a bookshelf filled with indistinct shapes. It was a quiet, almost melancholic space.

“This one’s difficult,” Bacon said under his breath, not even bothering to hide his concern. “It’s easy to go too shallow or too abstract with existential crisis. Half the time it just ends up sounding like a mopey online post.”

Ari hummed in agreement beside him. “Or an intro philosophy student’s term paper,” she added, adjusting her seat. “It’s rarely grounded. They always go straight to death, and not what it means to live.”

Bacon glanced down at the script folder he’d been given. “Let me take a quick look—”

“Don’t,” Ari said, stopping him with a hand. “We said we wouldn’t check the scripts until after we’ve seen the scene. Let’s stick with that.”

“But this one might be—” Bacon started, before freezing.

The title was on top of the script, in elegant handwriting, clearly not Risa’s.

The Mind Beats the Heart.

Bacon furrowed his brows. “What?”

Ari leaned over. “That’s not what I expected.”

“Same.” He looked at her. “It doesn’t sound existential. It sounds like a breakup piece or a medical drama.”

Ari looked visibly tempted to open the script. “Just a peek?”

“No,” Bacon said quickly. “We promised.”

Ari sighed but closed the folder with resolve. “Fine. I can’t wait, though,” she added softly.

Meanwhile, the contestants in the viewing room had grown quiet again.

“Did they cry while writing this one?” someone whispered.

“Zeno? Cry? No way.”

“I think Risa did. She looked wrecked.”

Zeno, standing in the middle of the stage now, was calm as ever.

Risa stepped beside him, the lights softening as the last cue was called.

From the judges’ table, Bacon PD and Ari exchanged one last glance, still intrigued.

And then, it began.

The lights dimmed until only the soft blue glow illuminated the stage. At a small wooden desk sat a young woman, Risa, hunched over, scribbling frantically into a worn-out journal. The pages looked disordered. The lines were crooked, ink smudged, handwriting slowly slipping into unreadable loops and scratches.

Before the scene could feel like it had begun, a quiet voice rang out. It wasn’t part of the usual format that the others did. It was a voiceover recorded by Risa.

Ian and Suho turned to each other with wide eyes. “They did something like this?”

“Well, they didn’t give us any limit with the medium,” Misha muttered.

Phoenix clicked his tongue. How did they even have the time to record a voiceover along with everything they’ve done?

“I’ve learned to live without new memories. Anterograde amnesia. I’m used to it now. It’s waking up to the same morning with no yesterday. It’s writing your name over and over, hoping it’ll feel like yours. It’s smiling at strangers who claim they love you. It’s pain without context. Joy without continuity. Love without a timeline.”

There was a pause. Soft music began to hum beneath the voice.

“They even added some background music?” Shin chuckled. “They’re really not holding back. I didn’t even think about this.”

“I built my world around repetition—checklists, routines, ink on paper. I stopped dreaming about new beginnings because I couldn’t keep them. I stopped hoping for change because I couldn’t hold on to it. I thought I had accepted it. That this was just how life would be.”

Another pause.

“Until I met him.”

Risa began to speak, voice hushed and tired. “Wake up. Wash face. Eat toast. Walk outside. Count the lamp posts—six. Smile at the bakery lady. Come back before the sun hurts. Write. Always write. Never forget.”

She flipped the page and recited it again, like a sacred chant. “Wake up. Wash face. Eat toast…”

A doorbell rang. Risa jumped slightly, startled.

From the opposite side of the stage, Zeno entered. He was casual, bright-eyed, with messy hair and a disarming grin.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “You dropped one of your journals yesterday. I figured you’d forget.”

Risa frowned, confused. “Did I… meet you yesterday?”

Zeno tilted his head. “Sort of. You were counting lamp posts. I waved at you and you waved back. Then, you fought with a squirrel.”

A few chuckles from the audience rippled in.

She stared at him. “Did I write that down?”

He retrieved the journal, a worn-out one. It was something she kept with her at all times, despite it being filled to the brim. It was her very first journal.

He handed it back to her. “You didn’t. But I brought your toast. I figured I should make an impression before you forget again.”

She hesitated, then offered a small smile, feeling weird that she just let this stranger read her journal.

From there, the scene became a patchwork of memories—short, vivid vignettes of routines and reintroductions. Every day, he met her. Every day, she wrote about him. Every day, she forgot. But slowly, she began to remember in fragments.

At one point, she read aloud from her journal. “Day… I don’t know. The boy came back. He made a new rule. We’re not allowed to eat toast unless we eat it together.”

The audience chuckled again, some “awws” following as the lights shifted into a soft park scene.

They sat together on a bench, sharing quiet.

“You ever think about the sky?” Zeno asked.

“Not really,” Risa replied. “I just try to make it to bedtime.”

“That’s why I like you. You keep things simple,” he said, and then leapt up before twirling around the lamp post, before acting like it fell to the ground.

It was a difficult action to pull through, but Zeno did it perfectly.

Risa laughed, truly and freely.

Laughter in the audience mirrored hers.

Risa wrote again in the journal. “He made me laugh. It’s something I want to remember. So I will.”

“I will.”

Suddenly, Zeno appeared at the doorway again, leaning heavily on the frame. He appeared paler than before. The makeup team had put on some concealer on his lips during Risa’s solo scene.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I wanted to see if you’d notice.”

She smiled until she noticed his strained expression.

“Are you okay?”

He waved it off casually. “Yeah. I’ve just been forgetting things too.”

Her smile faded.

“I went to the doctor,” he said, softer now. “It’s terminal.”

A quiet gasp swept the audience.

“It’s fine,” he added quickly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even this year. But it’s coming. Like winter in a drama.”

He tried to laugh. She didn’t.

“Don’t say that,” Risa whispered.

He brushed off her statement, not allowing himself to show her any weaknesses.

“Your journal’s almost filled,” he muttered.

“It still has a couple of pages,” Risa said, still feeling low.

“Use this one for me,” he said, handing her a new one.

She took it with shaking hands. “I don’t want to forget you.”

The stage dimmed slowly.

A sad piano melody began playing faintly through the speakers.

“What the heck? Do they want to make us cry?” Ian muttered, but he was already tearing up the moment Zeno revealed he had a terminal illness.

When the lights rose again, Risa was alone, tears in her eyes.

She read aloud from her writing. “Don’t forget him. Don’t forget his smile. Don’t forget the toast jokes. Don’t forget the bad dancing. Don’t forget he made you laugh when life didn’t make sense.”

She turned the page, her voice breaking. “Don’t forget even when he’s gone.”

And then she broke.

She cried hard. Her whole body trembled, clutching the journal to her chest.

Ari bit her lip, trying not to cry.

Bacon PD cleared his throat, looking away.

Back on stage, Zeno appeared again, stepping out from the shadows. He walked slowly to the desk where she’d fallen asleep and picked up her journal.

He looked at her, at the girl who now had no memory of him, and began tearing out the pages.

One by one.

Then, his voice echoed through the stage in a soft voiceover.

“She won’t remember me. That was the deal. She remembers the laughter. The sky. The toast. But not me. Making her happy during those moments was enough. I don’t want her to carry grief with her every day.”

“So, please forget. This is the only time I’m asking you to do it.”

He gently placed a new, untouched journal on the table, one that didn’t include him.

He took one last look at her.

In the viewing room, no one moved.

Zeno knew this was the perfect time to activate this booster.

[Instant Tears Activate]

His breathing grew heavier. His shoulders trembled. And when he lifted his face, tears welled in his eyes.

And then they fell.

One tear.

Two.

There was a collective gasp.

Even Phoenix sat up, mouth slightly open.

On stage, Risa stirred in her sleep and reached into her bedside table to grab her journal. She began reading out loud.

“Wake up. Wash face. Eat toast. Walk outside. Count the lamp posts—six. Smile at the bakery lady. Come back before the sun hurts. Write. Always write.”

She paused before the last statement, letting out a deep breath.

“Never forget.”