Margaret raised an eyebrow, tilting her head to the side as she tried to bridge the gap between Wyne's cryptic analysis and the girl they both knew.
A realization began to dawn on her, connecting the dots of Trizha's current instability.
"Wait... so, are you telling me that she already had extreme anxiety back then?"
Margaret asked, her voice softening as she hit upon a hidden truth.
Wyne's thoughtful, distant look vanished instantly.
She snapped her head toward Margaret, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and genuine flabbergasted surprise.
She looked as though Margaret had just performed a magic trick, pulling a secret directly out of Wyne's own skull.
"Eh? How did you get that right so fast?!" Wyne blurted out, her composure briefly shattered.
"Ah, probably because I think faster than you give me credit for," Margaret replied, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"...That's sarcasm, isn't it?" Wyne asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Perhaps," Margaret admitted, leaning forward. "But now that you've basically confirmed I'm right, how did it actually happen? If you know the story, that is. You've known her the longest."
Wyne sighed, her shoulders dropping as she conceded.
She stood up from her chair and approached the small table where her purse sat.
She rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out a small, rectangular slip of paper.
She sat back down, her expression turning neutral, and softly handed the item to Margaret.
Margaret took the ticket with a mixture of intrigue and confusion.
She held it up to the light, observing its worn appearance.
The paper was dirty and yellowed with age, stained with spots of rust that suggested it had been kept in a metal tin or near iron for years.
As she studied the faded printing and the ornate logo, a flash of recognition sparked in her eyes.
"This ticket... it's for..." Margaret trailed off, her breath hitching.
"Yeah," Wyne confirmed, her voice sounding older than her years. "It's an Asia's Got Talent audition ticket from late 2015. Exactly nine years ago."
Margaret's head snapped up, her eyes shining with astonishment.
She gripped the fragile piece of paper with a sudden burst of excitement, though she tried to keep her voice steady.
"Are you telling me that Trizha actually went for an audition on Asia's Got Talent?!" Margaret whispered loudly. One of the few shouts she has done.
"Uh-huh," Wyne nodded, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Trizha was still a reckless, impulsive idiot back then. Even more than she is now. Just… formerly more cheerful. Reallt cheerful. No mask, no facade, it's all just her."
Wyne reached out and took the ticket back.
Her touch was incredibly gentle, as if the paper might crumble into dust at any moment.
As she stared at the faded ink, nostalgia hit her like a physical blow to the chest, and her eyes glistened under the clinic's fluorescent lights.
"She had this crazy idea that I also had talent worthy enough to enter the audition with her," Wyne said, her voice trembling with a suppressed chuckle.
"Without hesitation, without even asking me, she recklessly paid for two tickets—one for her, one for me. I was still in the middle of recovery back then, barely having survived the worst of the cancer treatments. She viewed the audition as a celebration of my survival, a sort of 'reward' for not dying."
Wyne paused, her gaze fixed on the 2015 date.
"It was a sweet proposal, in her own twisted way. But I declined. I knew I wasn't meant for the stage. I didn't want to become an idol like she did. I just wanted to be normal."
Margaret crossed her arms, the initial excitement fading as she looked at the reality of their current situation.
She looked at the polished, influencer version of Trizha they knew today and realized the gap.
"...And I'm guessing she failed?" Margaret asked.
"I guess... she never actually told me," Wyne admitted, her voice dropping an octave. "In fact, she never spoke of the audition itself again. When I told her I wasn't going, she told me to just wait for her to return to the hospital the following day. She said she'd come back a star."
Wyne's expression lost its nostalgic spark, replaced by a heavy shroud of sadness and concern as the memory of that week returned to haunt her.
"She didn't return the next day. Or the day after that. Or the next. I sat in that hospital bed for a full week, wondering if she'd finally realized I was a burden and moved on. Then, she finally showed up."
Wyne gripped the ticket tightly, her knuckles turning white.
"When she walked into my room, she told me the audition was 'fine' and that she did great. But then, she suddenly started bragging that being a pop idol was actually only her second dream. She claimed being an Influencer was her top priority all along. It was so strange, so sudden. She spoke with this tremor in her voice, this tiny hesitation that she couldn't hide. I could tell right then. She had a massive panic attack the moment she saw the crowds and the judges. She froze."
"That means..." Margaret started, the pieces clicking together.
"Yeah," Wyne said, her gaze turning cold. "She lied to cover the shame of her fear. And now, she lives to suffer in that same lie. she wanted to make the 'Influencer' dream real because she was too terrified to admit she couldn't handle the 'Idol' stage. She chose a ROUTE built on a foundation of panic."
"I see," Margaret sighed.
She lay back flat on her bed, her right hand instinctively caressing her left elbow.
She stared at the same sterile ceiling Wyne had been studying earlier, the weight of the story settling over her.
"No wonder you always get so frustrated watching her," Margaret mused. "You hate that she acts like she's chained to this life, when she was always free to run toward a different path. You hate that she chose to be a puppet for an audience because she was too scared to be herself. And of course, she's been blowing it since day one."
Wyne let out an annoyed, huffed sigh, though there was a playful undercurrent to it.
She stood up abruptly, grabbing her purse and stuffing the ticket back into its hidden compartment.
"I hate that you always guess everything right," Wyne grumbled, though her eyes weren't angry. "It completely breaks the dramatic tension! I was trying to be mysterious!"
She began to gather her things, moving toward the door frame.
She stopped to slide her shoes on, balancing herself against the wall as she spoke back to Margaret.
"Anyways, I'm taking my leave. I have to meet my dad outside to discuss the recovery plans. They start late Monday, so I probably won't be joining the Prom night... which is a relief, honestly. Anyway, tell me what you want from the shop while I'm getting ready, and I'll buy it for you."
Margaret sat up slowly, her gaze fixed on Wyne.
The playful atmosphere vanished, replaced by a sudden, piercing gravity.
"Sure," Margaret said, her voice steady. "But first, I want to ask you a question."
Wyne froze, one foot halfway into a shoe.
She slowly turned her head back toward the bed, raising an eyebrow in silent invitation for the question.
"If Trizha were to come to us, apologize, and truly decide to take a different route this time... would you accept her back?"
Wyne stared blankly into Margaret's eyes for a long, breathless moment.
The silence in the clinic was absolute.
Without a word, Wyne finished putting on her shoe, turned her back, and stepped out into the hallway.
"I won't," she muttered, her voice disappearing into the corridor.
Once the sound of Wyne's footsteps faded into nothing, Margaret grabbed her pillow and hugged it tightly against her chest.
She stared at the floor, a tiny, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Liar." she whispered to the empty room.