voice over flours
by Kelly Murashige
According to Google, it is possible for her to become a K-pop idol, even though she is not, technically speaking, Korean. She can sing, though. She can dance too, or at least doesn’t trip over her feet, the way she would before. She may not be K-pop-idol good yet, but she’s sure she’ll get there, with time.
Unfortunately, there’s one other problem with her burgeoning K-pop dreams: She does not look much like a K-pop idol. She’s not… shaped like them. She’s not lean the way they are, with teeny-tiny waists. Her legs are short. Her face is big. Her chest is flat, practically concave, and her eyes are small, even when widened or taped or caked in so much eye shadow, she looks less K-pop idol and more drowned raccoon.
It doesn’t matter, though. It won’t matter. No one will care once she sings. Once she dances. Once she ducks her head in interviews and says, in that high, PR-team-approved voice, I owe everything to my fans.
They’ll see then. They’ll see. She can do this. She has to. Otherwise, what’s the point? She’s not good at English. She’s not good at math. Everyone tells her she should be, since she’s Asian, just not Korean, but numbers and grammar and long-ago dates get all jumbled up in her brain. Music is the only thing that’s ever made sense.
That’s why she needs this. To be famous. To be loved.
Once school is over, the neighbor comes to pick her up. They’ve arranged this, the thee of them. The neighbor and her parents. Monday through Thursday, the girl is all on her own. Friday, the best day, she gets a ride home.
The neighbor is nice, albeit chatty, and always gives her something sweet. The girl never eats them, of course. K-pop idols don’t eat sugar.
She thanks the neighbor anyhow, stuffing the bunny-eared package into her backpack. Once she reaches her apartment, she throws her bag on the floor and takes out her phone. Rather than doing homework, the way she knows she should, she watches interviews. Stares at fancams. Scrolls, for hours, through fan edits.
Breaking News! the gossip-rag reporter in her head shouts. You Cannot Osmosis Your Way Into K-Pop Stardom! If You Want It, You Have to Practice!
So that’s what she does. She practices and practices. Sets her phone up. Films herself dancing. Hates the way her legs jiggle.
Then it’s late, and she’s hungry, and her parents still aren’t home. They rarely are. They’re not like her. They don’t get it. They don’t like music. They’re perfectly content with their normal, boring jobs.
They’ll get it, though. They’ll know. Once she’s a star, they’ll be her fans. She can see it, in her mind, her mother screaming for her.
THAT’S MY DAUGHTER, she will shriek. THAT’S MY DAUGHTER OVER THERE!
The girl spins into the kitchen, sweat sticking to her back. There’s no food in here. There never is. Her parents eat at their offices, leaving her to her own devices. She’s lost count of the number of times she’s eaten instant macaroni and cheese.
K-pop stars don’t do that. They don’t eat macaroni or cheese.
Heat floods her face, spiraling in her cheeks. Burning with anger, she plunges a hand into her bag.
It feels like a dance, the way she sticks her arm in there. She pulls out the first thing she touches, the plastic package crinkling as she twirls through the kitchen. She hits her arm on the counter but just keeps on pirouetting. Dance through the pain. That’s what real stars do.
She stops. Drops one arm. Extracts something from the package.
She studies the snack. A tray of red-bean mochi.
She licks her lips. Bites her tongue. She hasn’t eaten for so long.
BAD! the headlines read. K-Pop Stars Do Not Eat Carbs! They Make You Fat! Don’t Be Fat! No K-Pop Star Can Be Fat!
“Right,” she replies.
She starts eating anyhow.
What? She’s a growing girl.
Yes! Growing Because You’re Fat!
“Shut up,” she whispers. Then she shouts it: “JUST SHUT UP!”
She is eating. Keeps on eating. She eats all of them. All four.
When she finishes, she’s panting, a sick, desperate dog. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving, her face flushed. She ate so quickly, she bit her lip; metallic blood mingles with the sweet taste of azuki beans.
She closes her eyes, her heart thrumming.
She is such a stupid girl.
She makes her way to the bathroom, her pulse pounding in her head, and flicks the switch. Sickly light spews out across the top of her jet-black hair. She stares at herself in the mirror, horrified by the mochiko coating her dry, cracked lips.
Breaking News! her mental headline reads. Up-and-Coming K-Pop Star Caught in Cocaine Scandal!
No, no, she imagines herself saying, reporters’ microphones jabbing at her face. It wasn’t cocaine. Just mochiko. It’s flour. See? Just flour.
That’s worse, they all will say. No K-pop star eats the way you just did. You think they get those bodies from stuffing their faces all day?
“No,” she says, her eyes bloodshot. “No. I know they don’t.”
She watches her reflection. A lone tear slides down her face.
The best performances, she decides, are the ones no one ever sees.
Photo of Kelly Murashige
BIO: Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novel THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN and Adam Silvera’s July 2025 Allstora Book Club Pick, THE YOMIGAERI TUNNEL. Her 2025 short fiction has been nominated for Best Small Fictions.