I've been told I'm quiet. Stoic. Cold, even.
But they don't know what happens when she walks into the room.
Jiwon.
She isn't loud or flashy. She doesn't try to be the center of attention, but somehow, the world tips a little toward her every time she moves. Like gravity doesn't stand a chance.
I wish I could say I noticed her first. That the second she entered the room, I knew. But the truth is, I fought it. I told myself she was just another staff member. Just another stylist. Just another girl.
Until she wasn't.
It started with a hair clip.
Stupid, really.
She was helping our stylist team during promotions, and my hair was being difficult that day. I saw her from the corner of my eye, moving confidently with that soft smile she wore like armor. She reached out with a small pink clip and pinned my bangs back, just for a moment, while the stylist fixed the rest. Her fingers brushed my forehead.
I didn't breathe.
"Cute," she said absently, more to herself than to me.
And I've been spiraling ever since.
I started watching her when I thought no one noticed.
The way she hummed to herself when she was focused. The way her fingers danced as she arranged accessories. The way she always looked tired but smiled anyway.
I knew I was in trouble when I found myself anticipating her laugh. Craving it.
And worse—tailoring my jokes just to hear it.
What kind of fool memorizes someone's laugh?
Me. That's who.
There was this one time—we were filming a late-night segment, and the energy was low. Everyone was tired. Cameras were everywhere, and I should've been focused on my angles. But she was just standing near the monitor, arms crossed, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.
I waved.
She blinked, surprised, then gave me this tiny wave back. Just two fingers.
My heart punched me in the chest.
I know it's stupid. It's reckless, being this into someone I can't have. But feelings don't follow rules, and mine are completely wrecked.
You want to know the worst part?
She doesn't even know.
She walks around with that sweet voice and messy ponytail, not knowing that every time she brushes past me, I lose my grip on reality. Not knowing that I replay every conversation, every look, every accidental touch. Like it means something.
And maybe it doesn't. Maybe I'm just a blip in her day.
But to me?
She's the moment.
I remember the first time I almost told her.
We were backstage after a music show win. Everyone was celebrating, but I found her in a quiet hallway, sitting on a folded chair, nursing her sore feet.
"Don't you ever take a break?" I asked, leaning against the wall.
She smiled up at me. "Don't you?"
Touché.
I watched her for a second too long. The soft glow of the corridor lights lit her like a scene out of a movie. I opened my mouth. I think I even said her name.
But then someone called me back.
And I missed my moment.
Since then, it's been harder.
Harder to pretend. Harder to smile when I see her laughing with someone else.
Harder not to reach out when I see that she's hurting but still pretending she's fine.
I want to be the one she leans on. I want to be the reason she smiles at her phone. I want her to know that behind every song, every glance on camera, every unsaid word—I'm talking about her.
Foolish, right?
Yeah. I know.
But love doesn't ask for permission. It just happens.
And I... I fell for her without even noticing.
Now, I don't know how to stop.
I'm foolishly obsessed with her.
And maybe one day she'll look back and see me there—quietly waiting, endlessly hoping, hopelessly in love.
Until then...
I'll stay in the background, stealing glances, catching moments, and holding on to the hope that someday...
She'll be foolish enough to love me back.