The rest of the day leading up to the concert was filled with back-to-back hair and makeup appointments and sound checks. And stretching. Lots and lots of stretching. The boys did quite a few vocal exercises to warm up too, but since Min-Soo was planning on singing the vocals backstage for me to lip-sync, there wasn't really a point in me warming up anything besides my already-sore body.

Now I'm just holing myself up in a bathroom backstage and pacing circles around the filthy tile floor thinking, am I going to get fired for not cleaning this? Did I even remember to call in sick? Why did I agree to this?

Unknowingly, my breath was coming in sharp, staggered gasps that shortened with every worry-filled thought. What if I forget the words? What if I mess up the choreography? What if someone realizes that I'm not Min-Soo?!

I crouched down, chest heaving with great effort against the wiry corset beneath my tight periwinkle shirt, and squeezed my arms until my knuckles turned white. The tips of my fingers tinged blue to match the contacts glued to my eyes, tremors running rampant throughout my entire body.

Stop dying, I told myself firmly, attempting to silence the anxiety looming over me. Nausea churned my stomach in protest. It's just one show, I only have to be out there for a few hours, and then I can go home. Wait—I don't have a home anymore. Crap.

Burying my face in my hands, I bit back a sob of frustration. I bet a real idol would never have a panic attack before a major event. What if I pass out onstage?

I've already lost feeling in my hands and feet—maybe I should run?

No, I promised Min-Soo I would do this!

Okay, what was that technique therapists usually say to do during a panic attack? Something about...five things you see?

All right, well, there's...fluffy grey dust bunnies gathering for an important meeting in the corner of the cramped unisex bathroom. Perhaps they're choosing a new leader, the bunny with the most decorative lint?

And just like that, I'm leaving.

Rising back up to a standing position, I staggered over to the crusty sink and splashed icy water over my hands and arms, hoping the cold would shock me back to reality. Right on time, too.

"Tara! Are you in there?!" Jae shouted behind the door, "we're about to start!"

Taking one more glance in the cracked mirror to ensure my wig was still in place, I unlocked the heavy wooden door and joined Jae backstage. The music and excited screams punched my ears almost instantly.

"Here!" Jae shouted again, presenting two gold-colored earpieces. "You'll be able to hear Min-Soo's vocals from backstage—and don't worry, your mic is off!" he added.

Frenzied screams dulled to a gentle roar, like waves crashing against the shore of a distant beach, thanks to the noise-canceling quality of the—ugh, I hate this word—earphones.

Grinning in excitement, Jae looped his ropy arm through mine and guided me over to the others. Sunni flashed a toothy smile my way as I completed the circle of members, most of them hyped up already. We huddled together American-football-team style with our arms slung lazily across one another's shoulders and our faces leaning inches apart.

"Il-gob mom!" Sunni yelled over the chanting audience nearby, the veins in his neck bulging.

"Han saengak!" the others answered, matching his energy.

"Il-gob mok so ri!" Sunni continued. My eyes flickered to Jae for help—I'm guessing this is some kind of pre-show ritual?

"Han ma eum!" the group replied.

"Il-gob usang!" Sunni cheered.

"Han yeonghon!" they roared at the top of their lungs, breaking up and whooping loudly.

"What just happened?" I questioned Jae curiously, dying to know what they said. To my astonishment, Sunni answered for him.

"Seven bodies—one mind. Seven voices—one heart. Seven idols—one soul," he explained, a sweet smile stretching across his cherry lips. Before I could respond, the music marking our grand entrance started blasting over the speakers, driving the crazed crowd wild.

God, I hope I don't mess this up.