And to think that, for the longest time, I believed I was the problem.
I spent years trying to improve myself for them, for the group, for the band, trying to become someone worthy of standing beside them.
But I was trying to fix something that was never mine to repair.
Back then, I didn't realize how deeply the damage had already settled inside me.
That mistake cost me more than I can ever explain.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had loved myself a little more… instead of searching for comfort in someone else.
Maybe things would have been different.
It wasn't because I didn't try.
If anything, I tried too hard.
Seven Years Earlier
Kim Sok-joo believed the worst had already happened.
The humiliation in the training room, the cold voices, the angry stares from Rider, the moment they made it clear they didn't want him there, felt like it should have been the breaking point.
But he was wrong.
The real breaking didn't come from loud words.
It came from silence.
The next morning Sok-joo walked into the studio building as if he were stepping onto fragile glass.
No one greeted him.
Two assistants stopped talking the moment he passed.
A pair of stylists glanced at him before whispering something to each other. One of them laughed quietly.
Sok-joo pretended not to notice.
He sat at his desk and opened the day's schedule.
Half the files he had carefully prepared the night before were gone.
His stomach tightened.
He searched through the system.
Nothing.
"Excuse me," he asked a coworker nearby, trying to keep his voice steady. "Have you seen the rehearsal files I left here last night?"
The woman barely looked up from her phone.
"Maybe you deleted them."
"I didn't delete them."
She gave him a thin smile.
"Are you sure?"
Heat spread across his face.
The feeling was painfully familiar.
Just like school.
Just like the days when people hid his books and then blamed him for losing them.
Sok-joo swallowed and began rebuilding the files from memory.
An hour later the director walked past his desk.
"Where are the updated schedules?" he asked.
Sok-joo froze.
"I gave them to the assistants earlier."
The director frowned.
"I don't have them."
Behind him, two staff members exchanged a look.
"Maybe you forgot," one of them said casually.
"Again."
The word hit Sok-joo like a slap.
For a moment the office disappeared.
Instead he saw a classroom.
A chalkboard.
Rows of desks.
Children laughing behind him.
"Did you forget again?"
"Why are you so slow?"
"Can't you just be normal?"
And then his mother's voice.
Soft.
Tired.
I wish you could just be normal.
Sok-joo blinked hard, dragging himself back into the present.
The director had already walked away.
But the whispering remained.
He could feel the stares.
The judgment.
The quiet laughter.
By lunchtime someone had changed Rider's rehearsal time without telling him.
When the band didn't show up, the blame landed directly on him.
"I told you we don't need a manager like you," one of the members muttered while passing by.
Sok-joo said nothing.
He simply stood there gripping his clipboard until his fingers hurt.
Inside his chest something fragile began to crack.
Later he stepped into the supply room to search for printed contracts.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Two assistants stood near the shelves.
One of them laughed.
"You really think you belong here?"
"I'm just doing my job," Sok-joo said quietly.
"Your job?" the other scoffed.
"You got this position by accident. Everyone knows it."
They brushed past him, knocking his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
For a moment Sok-joo stood frozen.
Because suddenly he wasn't in the supply room anymore.
He was fourteen again.
Standing in a school hallway.
Books scattered across the floor.
Students stepping over them.
Pretending they didn't see.
His breathing grew shallow.
When he finally reached the bathroom he locked himself inside a stall and slid down against the wall.
Why does this keep happening?
He stared at the floor.
I left school.
I grew up.
I got a job.
So why does it still feel the same?
The mirror above the sink reflected a pale face.
Not a confident manager.
Just a tired boy who had never truly learned how to fight back.
The bullying continued all afternoon.
Someone sent him to the wrong meeting room.
Someone erased his notes.
Someone told Rider he hadn't delivered an important message.
Every mistake somehow became his fault.
By the end of the day Sok-joo felt hollow.
As he walked past the practice room he stopped.
Inside, Rider was rehearsing.
Music thundered through the speakers while the members moved perfectly in sync.
Under the bright lights Charlie stood at the center.
Confident.
Controlled.
The perfect leader fans adored.
For a moment Sok-joo felt the same quiet longing he had years ago while watching them through a screen.
The childish hope of belonging somewhere.
But he didn't belong there.
Not with them.
Not anywhere.
"You okay?"
Sok-joo flinched.
He turned.
Charlie stood behind him.
Up close the idol looked different than he did on stage.
The confidence was still there—but there was also something else.
Exhaustion.
The kind that came from carrying too much responsibility for too long.
Sok-joo opened his mouth, but no words came out.
He simply shook his head.
Charlie glanced down the hallway where a few staff members were still whispering.
"They shouldn't be treating you like that," he said quietly.
Sok-joo blinked in surprise.
"They think you're their enemy," Charlie continued.
"But you're not."
For the first time all day, something warm slipped through the cold weight in Sok-joo's chest.
"I'm just tired," he admitted.
Charlie studied him for a moment.
"I know."
That evening Sok-joo walked home like someone drifting underwater.
The city buzzed with life—cars rushing past, neon lights glowing, people laughing—but none of it felt real.
His thoughts were still trapped inside the studio.
The whispers.
The humiliation.
The crushing feeling of being small again.
He didn't notice when he stepped off the sidewalk.
A horn screamed.
Bright headlights flashed.
Sok-joo froze.
For half a second too long.
Then someone grabbed him.
A powerful shove pushed him out of the road.
His body spun.
The pavement rushed toward him.
A car roared past where he had been standing.
Then everything went dark.
When Sok-joo opened his eyes again, the world was quiet.
White walls.
Soft light.
A steady beeping nearby.
He was lying in a hospital bed.
His head throbbed.
His body felt heavy.
Someone sat beside him.
A young man about his age with worried eyes and messy hair.
When Sok-joo moved, the stranger leaned forward immediately.
"You're awake," he said with relief.
"I was starting to worry."
"Where… am I?" Sok-joo asked weakly.
"The hospital," the young man replied. "You walked straight into traffic. I pushed you out of the way."
The memory returned slowly.
The headlights.
The horn.
The shove.
"You saved me," Sok-joo whispered.
The boy shrugged shyly.
"I didn't really think about it."
He hesitated before adding,
"My name is Junhoo."
Emotion rose unexpectedly in Sok-joo's chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Junhoo smiled.
"I'm just glad you're okay."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Only the soft beeping of the monitor filled the room.
Sok-joo looked at the stranger who had saved his life.
And after the longest day of humiliation, loneliness, and quiet cruelty…
he felt something unfamiliar.
A small, fragile warmth.
The feeling that maybe…
just maybe…
he wasn't completely alone anymore.