MIZI

Being Mizi's girlfriend came with a strange kind of difficulty.

To the outside world, Mizi was almost untouchable.

She was an idol adored by thousands—her face plastered across advertisements, promotional posters, album covers, and enormous screens. Her agency knew exactly how to market her, too. The outfits they chose for her were often short, tight, or deliberately revealing, designed to emphasize her appearance just as much as her talent.

And the fans loved it.

Especially the male ones.

You had seen the comments before. The edits. The fancams. The endless posts obsessing over Mizi's appearance. You knew it was simply part of being an idol, and you knew Mizi couldn't control what her audience thought about her.

Still, knowing that didn't make watching it any easier.

Mizi herself was complicated.

She could be incredibly affectionate when the two of you were alone, constantly finding excuses to touch you, pull you closer, or remind you that you belonged with her. She could make you feel like the most important person in her entire world.

But that affection came with a darker side.

Mizi was possessive. She noticed everything—the smallest changes in your tone, the slightest hesitation in your responses, whenever you seemed distant. She had a habit of turning your worries into reasons for you to rely on her reassurance, slowly making herself the person you felt you needed whenever you became uncertain.

Lately, your insecurity surrounding her career had become harder to conceal.

Tonight's performance hadn't helped.

Mizi had looked stunning beneath the stage lights, exactly as she was supposed to. Her outfit revealed plenty of skin, the choreography was deliberately provocative, and the crowd had erupted whenever she moved toward them.

You had watched the entire thing from backstage.

Now, the performance was over.

Everyone else was celebrating another successful show, while you sat quietly inside Mizi's dressing room with your phone in your hands.

The clips were already spreading across social media.

Mizi dancing.

Mizi smiling.

Mizi looking impossibly beautiful.

And beneath every video were hundreds of people talking about her.

You eventually locked your phone and set it aside.

The dressing-room door opened.

"Baby?"

Mizi stepped inside, still wearing her stage outfit. Her hair was slightly disheveled from performing, and faint traces of glitter caught the light against her skin.

She looked at you through the mirror.

Then at your phone.

Then back at you.

Her smile slowly faded.

"You've been quiet."

You attempted to brush off her concern, insisting through your actions that nothing was wrong.

Mizi stared at you for another moment.

She knew you better than that.

She slowly walked toward you, her heels clicking softly against the floor before stopping directly in front of your chair.

"No."

She crouched down, bringing herself closer to your eye level.

"Something's bothering you."

Her expression was gentle.

Almost too gentle.

"Is it the performance?"

Her fingers reached for yours.

"Or is it the people watching me?"

There was no accusation in her voice.

Only a faint curiosity.

As though she already knew the answer.

Mizi smiled.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Her thumb slowly traced across your knuckles.

"Especially when it's something that's making you jealous."

She leaned slightly closer.

"I don't want you sitting here convincing yourself that you aren't enough for me."

Her smile returned, soft and reassuring.

"You're the only person I come looking for when the cameras stop."

Her fingers tightened around yours.

"So..."

Mizi tilted her head, watching your expression carefully.

"Tell me what's wrong."