Mornings in this house were loud.
I had barely finished plating the last of the breakfast when the sound of heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.
"Food!" shouted one of the boys—Bank, I remembered, the middle brother—as he skidded into the kitchen wearing mismatched socks. He grabbed a plate without a second glance, already shoveling rice and egg into his mouth like a vacuum.
"Good morning to you, too," I said dryly, offering a small smile.
Our younger brother, Ploy, was next, yawning so wide I thought his jaw might fall off. "Smells good," he mumbled, sleepwalking to the table.
"Morning, kids!" Dad's booming voice came from the hallway as he rushed by, already dressed for work in his scrubs. His keys jingled in one hand, a coffee thermos in the other. "Sorry, can't stay—early shift! Thanks, Thip, for breakfast!"
He kissed the top of my head in passing without even waiting for my reaction.
"Drive safe!" I called automatically, watching him disappear out the door with the subtle slam of someone constantly running five minutes behind.
Mom appeared next, still buttoning her blouse and half-fixing her hair at the same time. "Thip, did you remember the family reunion this weekend? Your Auntie Malee's organizing it again—don't you dare pretend you forgot."
"I remember," I lied smoothly, dishing her a plate too.
She shot me a grateful look and sat down, finally pausing for a sip of tea.
Just as I thought I was in the clear, my sister narrowed her eyes at me from across the table.
Beam.
Seventeen, sharp-eyed, and suspicious.
"You're... different today," she said, studying me over her spoon. "Since when do you cook before we even wake up?"
I laughed lightly, careful to keep my face easy and relaxed. "Trying to be responsible. New year, new me?"
Ploy snorted into his rice, and Bank made gagging noises.
Beam didn't look convinced.
She propped her chin in her hand, watching me too closely for comfort. "Right. And you totally didn't almost burn the house down last time you made toast."
I shrugged, feigning innocence. "Maybe I learned something."
"Maybe you hit your head," she muttered, but finally dug into her food, the tension loosening for now.
I let out a slow breath as they chatted around me about homework, the reunion, who would have to sit next to which cousins.
Good.
I didn't need them asking questions I didn't know how to answer yet.
I didn't even know how to explain that their sister had died once already.
Right now, all I could do was play along.
Stay quiet.
Stay unnoticed.
At least for a little longer.
Because deep down, under the jokes and the small talk and the aching pull of pretending, I was already making a silent promise to myself:
I wasn't going to let this second life slip away.
Not without fighting.
Not without chasing the dream that once meant everything.
Not without becoming someone again.
Korn might have died on that livestream, but I was still here. Kornthip. A new body, a new chance. The universe had ripped me away from everything I loved once—I wasn't going to let it win again.
I was not starting over from scratch.
I was fighting back.
It started small.
Late one evening, when the house had gone quiet again, I slipped into my room, shutting the door with a soft click. My light brown eyes swept over the space—noticing, for the first time, how cramped it really was.
A bed.
A desk.
A bookcase overflowing with papers and knickknacks.
A small, battered dresser by the window.
There was barely enough room to walk, much less dance.
I stood there for a long minute, chewing my lower lip, before pushing up my sleeves.
Fine. If this was going to be my training ground, then it needed to be ready.
I grabbed the desk first, clearing off the laptop and notebooks into a neat pile. Grunting under my breath, I heaved it across the carpet until it wedged itself into the far corner of the room.
The bookcase came next. I yanked the heaviest books off the lower shelves to lighten it, then slowly, carefully, tipped it against the wall beside the closet.
By the time I shoved the dresser two feet toward the door, sweat was slicking the back of my neck, and my arms trembled slightly from the effort.
I looked around, panting lightly.
The room wasn't perfect. The bed still took up a chunk of the space.
But now, there was a small square of open floor in the center.
Enough to dance.
I pressed my hand against my chest for a second, feeling my heart hammer.
It felt good.
Real.
Like maybe... I was still me after all.
The first stretches were brutal.
I dropped to the floor, sitting with my legs spread wide, and bent forward, reaching for my toes. My muscles screamed in protest almost immediately.
I winced.
"Seriously?" I muttered aloud. "You're seventeen, not seventy."
The stiffness wasn't just from the new body—it was from dying. From losing years, of hard-earned flexibility and strength.
My old body had been trained, polished, sharpened for years of idol training. Now I was back to something raw and unfinished.
Fine.
I'd start over.
One day at a time.
I forced myself to hold the stretch longer, counting the beats under my breath. I rotated through lunges, bridges, calf stretches, letting the soreness sink into my skin like a second layer of clothing.
When I finally stood again, breathing hard, my arms and legs were shaking.
But I wasn't stopping.
I opened the music app on my phone—a few instinctive taps bringing up old playlists I didn't even realize I remembered—and let the soft thump of a bass line fill the room.
The first moves felt clumsy.
A step to the right. A pivot. A sharp turn.
My balance wobbled, and I caught myself against the wall, cursing under my breath.
I wasn't used to this height yet.
Or this center of gravity.
Or the slightly different length of my arms and legs.
It was like dancing in someone else's shadow.
But I knew the steps. I knew them. Muscle memory hummed deep inside, stubborn and unbroken.
So I tried again.
Right. Left. Pivot. Pop.
Each move a little cleaner. A little more sure.
I worked through old routines I'd performed hundreds of times before. The ones I could still see behind my closed eyelids if I focused hard enough.
The glossy stages.
The screaming fans.
The feeling of flying.
I chased it desperately now, sweating through my hoodie, breathing harder and harder as the hours slipped by.
One move at a time.
Step.
Spin.
Drop.
My knees hit the carpet with a soft thud, and I held the final pose for a heartbeat, chest heaving.
In the silence that followed, I listened to my pulse pounding in my ears, a wild drumbeat of life.
Tears pricked my eyes, unexpected and sharp.
Not from the pain.
From the simple, overwhelming relief.
I'm still here.
Even if everything else was gone, even if the faces and names around me had changed, even if the world didn't recognize me anymore—
I was still Korn.
Still Kornthip.
Still fighting.
And I wasn't giving up.
By the time I collapsed onto the bed, every muscle in my body ached.
But it was a good ache. The kind that whispered: You moved today. You fought today.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above me as I stared up at it, exhausted but... lighter somehow.
Tomorrow, I'd wake up and do it again.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Until I could stand on a stage again.
Until I could see the lights and hear the cheers and know—really know—that I hadn't given up.
That Kornthip had been worth saving.
And that my dream was still alive.