The stadium roared like a giant beast.
Thousands of voices shouted his name with a force that could pierce the skin. Lightsticks swayed in perfect waves, illuminating the air in impossible shades of blue, violet, and white. From above, it must have looked beautiful, almost magical. From inside, it felt like a storm that didn't let you breathe.
Seo Jun was at the center of it all.
He smiled.
He smiled with the precision they had taught him. The exact tilt of his chin, the controlled sparkle in his eyes, the constant energy even when his legs burned and his throat felt dry. He sang, twirled, jumped. Every step was etched into his body like an automatic reflex.
Perfect.
Flawless.
Unattainable.
But his chest felt tight.
It wasn't fear. Not entirely. It was a constant pressure, as if something heavy had settled inside him without permission. The last song came, bringing the hardest part of the concert with it. The white lights blinded him at times. Sweat ran down his temple. Still, he didn't drop the smile.
When the final chord exploded and the stadium screamed even louder, Jun raised his arm and waved. Blew kisses into the air. Walked to the front of the stage with the confidence everyone expected.
And then the lights went out.
The noise followed him like a persistent echo as he walked down the ramp toward backstage. He walked fast, not stopping, weaving between technicians, cameras, and managers. The hallway smelled of hot cables, makeup, and disinfectant. His ears still rang.
He turned into a narrower, dimly lit corridor and stopped. Pressed his back against the cold wall and closed his eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale again.
His heart raced. His fingers tingled. His throat was so dry he felt like he was swallowing air. He put a hand to his chest as if he could hold the heartbeat from the outside.
—It's just fatigue —he whispered to himself—. Just fatigue.
—Are you okay?
The voice was soft, not startling him.
Jun opened his eyes.
In front of him stood a boy he didn't recognize. No headphones, no tablet, didn't look like a technician, but neither did he have the excited look of a fan. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, and his hair fell slightly over his forehead. What struck Jun the most was his gaze: calm, without urgency.
—Yes —he replied out of habit—. I just… needed a moment.
The boy hesitated before speaking again.
—I'm Jinwoo. I work here. If you want, I can get you some water or a chair.
Jun blinked. Nobody ever offered him a chair.
—Water would be good —he finally said.
Jinwoo nodded and disappeared down the hall. Jun lowered his gaze, focusing on his breathing. A few seconds later, Jinwoo returned with a cold bottle and handed it to him.
When he took it, their fingers brushed ever so slightly.
It was minimal contact, almost nothing.
But Jun's chest loosened a little.
—Thanks —he murmured, twisting the cap.
He drank slowly. The water slid down his throat like it was returning a piece of calm. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, staring at the floor.
—Your last song —Jinwoo said suddenly— sounded different today.
Jun looked up.
—Different?
—Sadder —he replied—. Like you were asking for help without saying it.
Jun's heart skipped a beat. No one had ever said something like that. No one had looked past the stage.
—You shouldn't say things like that —he replied with a nervous laugh—. People could misinterpret it.
—I wasn't talking about rumors —Jinwoo said softly—. I was talking about you.
Jun looked away. Something moved inside him, like a crack that had been waiting to open.
—Still… thank you —he murmured—. Not many people notice those things.
Jinwoo smiled faintly. Not a big smile. Sincere.
—I do.
A click sounded behind them.
Neither of them turned. There were always cameras, phones, people passing by quickly in that place. The sound was lost among steps and murmurs.
They talked a little more. About how hot the lights were. About how hard it was to sleep after a concert. Jinwoo listened without interrupting, as if that was enough.
Before Jun's manager appeared at the end of the hall, they shared one more lingering glance.
—Thanks for… staying —Jun whispered.
—Anytime —Jinwoo replied—. I'll be here.
Jun walked away feeling something strange in his chest. It wasn't anxiety. It wasn't fatigue. It was something light, as if someone had turned down the volume of the world for a moment.
He didn't know what to call that feeling.
He only knew he wanted to feel it again.
Behind him, someone checked a freshly taken photo: a blurry image showing the perfect idol talking to an unknown boy in an almost empty corridor.
A small photo.
But one capable of changing everything.