The Spotlight Burns Cold
From the outside, it was perfect.
Minji's life was all lenses, rehearsals, glowing screens, and screaming fans. Every move choreographed. Every smile timed. The stage lights didn't just illuminate him. They swallowed him whole.
At 4:00 a.m., he was already in a dance studio, drenched in sweat. He didn't complain. Couldn't. The manager's eyes were always watching him cold, calculating, ticking every box in his contract like a surgeon wielding a scalpel.
"Minji-ssi, don't forget your livestream tonight. The fans are worried. You didn't smile enough yesterday."
Smile. Smile harder.
Even when his chest tightened with the weight of unread messages.
Even when his legs ached from dancing for ten hours straight.
He looked in the mirror. Under the styled hair and concealer, he barely recognized himself anymore. The boy who once wanted to make music… was now just a product. A perfect face. A name trending beside gossip.
And the comments.
The never-ending comments.
"Oppaaa!!! Will you be my husband?"
"Minji-yaaaa, saranghaeeeyo forever!"
"He's so perfect. Like… not even human."
"If he ever dates, I'll end my life. He's ours."
The love was loud. But it wasn't love. it was obsession with his looks.
He stopped reading after a while. But it never left his mind. He wasn't allowed to be tired. Or sad. Or real.
He was just Minji, the idol. Nothing more.
He craved silence. Not the kind in his empty apartment at night but the kind he'd seen in Hana.
The soft way she spoke.
The way her laugh didn't echo for attention but faded like sunlight on glass.
She didn't need to be seen to feel alive.
That evening, after another suffocating photoshoot, Minji ditched the black van that followed his every move. He wore the cap low again, his mask pulled up past his nose, and his hoodie wrinkled on purpose as no one ever looked for idols who dressed like ordinary people.
Minji had walked the same street twice this week, knowing exactly where the café was, hoping maybe she'd be there again.
And she was.
Same spot.
Same calm.
Sketchbook open, tea cup steaming gently beside her hand.
Hana looked up when he walked in. Recognition flickered in her eyes not surprise, not excitement just a quiet knowing.
"You again," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Minji nodded, adjusting his cap slightly as he took the table across from her. "Guess I like the tea here."
"I think you like the silence," she said, not unkindly.
He chuckled. "Maybe both."
He hesitated, then said, "Joon."
She tilted her head. "Is that your name?"
He nodded. It wasn't a lie that was the name his grandmother used to call him. The one that didn't belong to stages.
"I'm Hana," she said.
"Nice to meet you," he replied. And he meant it.
There was a moment where neither of them said anything. The soft hum of conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups filled the air. Hana returned to her sketching. Minji just sat there, letting the quiet seep into him.
"You draw beautifully" he said. finally.
She nodded, lifting the sketchbook so he could see. A boy sitting by a window. Soft lines, unfinished shadows.
He looked… tired. But peaceful.
Minji stared for a moment too long. "That's good."
"Thanks. He looked like someone who needed to be seen."
His throat tightened.
"What about you, Joon?" she asked, gently. "Do you… do something with music?"
He froze.
She wasn't guessing. It was in the way she asked. Careful. As if she knew, or half-knew but didn't want to break whatever was holding them there, in this moment.
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Hana didn't press. She just looked at him really looked and for a second, Minji felt the weight of his mask more than ever.
Because she didn't want anything from him.
And that made him want everything.
Minji's phone vibrated on the table.
Manager: Where the hell are you? We're waiting at the studio. You have 10 minutes before this becomes a scandal.
Another buzz.
Manager: Fans spotted someone who looks like you in Gangbuk. You're trending again. Get in the car now.
Minji's jaw tensed.
Hana noticed the way his hand hovered over the phone, then curled into a quiet fist. His calm faded, just slightly. Not in a way most people would see but she did.
"I should go," he said, standing too fast.
"Back to the noise?" she asked, her voice soft.
He gave her a small, tired smile. "Something like that."
She didn't stop him. Just nodded, eyes calm as if she didn't already know.
As the bell over the café door chimed behind him, Hana looked down at her sketchbook and slowly closed it. Her fingers lingered on the cover.
---
Hana's Point of View
She had known the moment he first walked into the café, days ago, the way he kept his head down, spoke so little, but carried the kind of silence that only came from being watched too much. The mask couldn't hide everything.
Minji.
World-famous. Always trending. Always glowing on camera.
And yet here he was… asking for tea like a tired boy, not an idol.
Hana had never been the type to chase fame. She didn't follow gossip threads or read fan theories. But even she couldn't escape his face which was plastered across buses, magazine covers, digital billboards that lit up Seoul's night sky.
But this version of him this "Joon" wasn't selling anything.
He was just… breathing.
And so she didn't ask. Didn't press. She let him have that moment.
Even though every part of her wanted to say: I know who you are.
Even though the ache in his eyes made her want to reach across the table and say: You don't have to go.
But she did none of those things.
Because she saw how hard he was trying to stay human.
And sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for someone is to pretend you don't recognize their scars.
So she watched him leave, and with a sigh, opened her sketchbook again.
This time, she didn't draw the boy by the window.
She drew a pair of eyes beneath a cap. Tired. And quietly begging not to be seen.