The man picked up the laptop he had left on the floor and shook it, looking at Sol who was staring at himself, tears streaming down his face endlessly. The laptop had been in that spot, unnoticed by Sol, for who knew how long.
In response to his actions, Sol wiped away his tears roughly with the back of his hand. Although his eyes were swollen and his cheeks felt raw from the rough wiping, he tried even harder to hide the tears belatedly, as if trying to conceal them from the man before him. At the moment their eyes met, he wondered if it was an illusion born from missing Ju-hwan so much, but upon closer inspection, he noticed various differences.
It was only then that Sol realized the person before her was not Seo Ju-hwan, but ‘Eun-gyeom’, the playable character he’d fought so hard to get.
Eun-gyeom was subtly different from Ju-hwan. Ju-hwan’s voice was lower, and his tone was much rougher. Having practiced ballet for a long time, Ju-hwan moved his legs in a straight line. Even when walking, his legs were always straight, and when standing still, he unconsciously adopted the 1st position, with heels together and toes pointing outward.
Ju-hwan’s eye shape was a bit more pronounced than Eun-gyeom’s, and upon closer inspection, there was a small dot between the lower eyelashes. Above all, the atmosphere was different. Seo Ju-hwan seemed somewhat carefree, with a characteristic, fickle feeling. The man before him looked a lot like Ju-hwan, but felt much brighter and more dazzling.
“I thought about waiting outside until everything was over...”
Once it became clear that he wasn’t Ju-hwan, Sol turned his back, belatedly wiping his face with more force. He pressed his fingers firmly against his fevered eyelids, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.
Eun-gyeom scratched the back of his head as he watched Sol’s embarrassed face as he tried to compose himself.
In fact, it was Eun-gyeom who noticed that someone was crying at the door of the practice room, but the members who passed him in the hallway asked him why he didn’t go in, he had no choice but to enter. If he hesitated, they would undoubtedly open the door, questioning why he was hesitating.
Eun-gyeom thought it would be better to enter rather than being caught crying by several people, but now that things turned out this way, he regretted his decision. He wished he had made excuses instead and come back later. But it was too late for regrets now.
He couldn’t stop the dam that had burst, no matter how hard he tried to hold it back with both hands. He tried hard to suppress his emotions, but they didn’t subside. As Sol, who turned away from him, continued to shake her shoulders, Eun-gyeom sat in a corner and turned on his laptop.
“Are you a new trainee? I haven’t seen your face before.”
“Yes.”
“I see. Being a trainee must be tough, right?”
Eun-gyeom, seemingly uninterested in Sol, continued to speak while looking at the laptop screen. Despite having a fair idea of the trainees’ faces, Sol’s face was nowhere in his memory. However, Sol’s face was by no means easy to forget. Once seen, it was an unforgettable appearance. Therefore, Eun-gyeom assumed that he was a newly debuted rookie.
Eun-gyeom, who had been in the industry for five years since his debut, felt like the five years as a trainee were as long as a millennium, but the five years after his debut seemed fleeting.
Since his debut, Eun-gyeom had been a member who swiftly rose to fame as a CF star. He transformed YC Entertainment, a relatively unknown small agency that many hadn’t even heard of before, into a moderately recognized mid-sized agency. Not only that, he played a crucial role in propelling his group, <D-Block> to success.
In reality, all idol trainees at YC Entertainment dreamed of becoming the next Eun-gyeom and had come to this place with similar aspirations. Despite debuting at a young age, Eun-gyeom served as a role model for the trainees with his mature and exceptional looks, singing abilities, and, above all, his shining personality. He wanted to offer comforting words to Sol as a sunbae.
“I cried a lot during my trainee days, too. Even now, if it gets too tough, tears still come.”
“...”
“I wanted to do well, but my body wouldn’t cooperate, and other trainees were excelling. I felt sad all the time and cried alone. It seems like this profession itself makes people emotional.”
The sympathetic words that Eun-gyeom uttered upon witnessing Sol crying alone in this place, akin to a deserted space where nobody sought, weren’t merely expressions of pity. In reality, like everyone else, they had all gone through incredibly challenging times. Someone with dreams of standing in front of people struggled with plummeting self-esteem, hiding away to practice in secret, avoiding others.
Misunderstanding Sol’s difficulties, as those similar to his own during the early days of being a trainee, Eun-gyeom sincerely expressed his thoughts. Although he could have ignored Sol, witnessing his sadness made it impossible. In fact, today, Eun-gyeom visited the practice room 6 with the same emotions as back then. Preparing for solo activities earlier than others, Eun-gyeom couldn’t easily shake off the anxiety, choosing to spend time here today. Perhaps because of this, Sol’s situation, resembling his own, seemed even more poignant.
“Don’t worry about me. Use this place comfortably. I came here to hide, too. Being here somehow eases my mind...”
When Sol remained silent, Eun-gyeom buried his nose in his laptop again. He swallowed his embarrassment and fixed his gaze on the black letters on the notepad. He’d been struggling for weeks with the song he’d started to write, hoping to tell his own story, but it hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. As he tried to focus, ignoring Sol’s sobs, Eun-gyeom heard a voice filled with tears.
“...What should I do when dancing terrifies me?”
“What exactly scares you?”
“I don’t know. Is it standing on the stage? Making mistakes on stage, failing in movements, falling, or getting hurt.”
“It might be off-topic, but if you’re in that state, I think you should stop and take a short break.”
“What if I can’t take a break?”
“Hmm, that’s difficult. If you want a realistic answer, though it might be sad... you might have to face it.”
Eun-gyeom slightly frowned at Sol’s trembling voice filled with tears. His chestnut brown eyebrows arched downward, wondering if he was lying when he said it was difficult. When Sol asked, Eun-gyeom’s first thought was stage fright. Stage fright was an illness.
Certainly, there were those who overcame it with their own strength, but Eun-gyeom personally believed in seeking treatment rather than confronting it head-on. His thoughts were, ‘If you’re experiencing such emotions right now, leave this place immediately and make an appointment with a mental health professional.’ However, he was well aware that reality didn’t always allow that.
“Right now, taking a break here might make you seem like a failure, but in the long run, it definitely isn’t. Forcing yourself like that will only hurt your heart deeply.”
“And when it does?”
“When what?”
“When the heart is deeply hurt. What should one do then?”
“I talk to my friends. I say, ‘I’m struggling so much that I feel like I’m going to die, so help me out.’ Like that.”
“....”
Sol fell silent at Eun-gyeom’s response. Even Sol couldn’t understand why he was asking such questions. Sol turned his head to look at Eun-gyeom. He resembled Ju-hwan, but he wasn’t Ju-hwan. Was that why he was able to say what he just said?
Before the situation turned out like this, Sol had never once told Yoo-chan or Ju-hwan that he was afraid of dancing. The moment he uttered those words, it felt like everything that made up his identity would crumble, and he would become a pitiful, insignificant human being.
Even when everyone who knew how much Sol shone on stage and how much he was admired told him to return to the stage, Sol simply kept his mouth shut. He only made feeble excuses to the question of why he was giving up. ‘My parents aren’t here, and it costs a lot.’ or ‘I hurt my leg, so I can’t do it anymore.’
Sol knew well that his legs were perfectly fine. He wanted to hide the fact that he was a weak human and couldn’t tell the truth to anyone. Each time he danced, he realized he no longer had a place in the world where he belonged. He couldn’t admit the pain he felt at the scene of the accident that day, as it was too terrifying to revisit the agony he experienced. He was afraid to disappoint himself in his weakness.
“If you say that to a friend, wouldn’t they dislike it? They’re already dealing with their own struggles.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Sol. Sung Sol.”
“I am Tae Eun-gyeom. Does Sol-ssi really think that way, unable to speak to friends about it?”
Sensing something in Sol’s face as he looked at him, Eun-gyeom looked at him with a puppy dog face full of concern. Sol lowered his head, as Eun-gyeom’s earnest, shining eyes seemed to question Sol’s thoughts with pure innocence.
“...No. It’s because I’m afraid they’ll get tired of ‘me,’ or disappointed, or that someone might dislike me.”
It’s still the same now. They were strangers, not even friends, but he couldn’t imagine saying something like this to Tae-oh or the other members who would probably be with him for a long time now that the situation was like this. It felt like exposing all his flaws. He’s not seeking understanding. Rather, if they understood and pitied him, it would be more dreadful.
“But if they’re friends, they won’t dislike you. They might even appreciate you for honestly sharing your difficulties. Because it shows that you’re relying on them...”
“Do you really think so?”
“Our work might seem glamorous and enjoyable on the surface. We achieved our dreams, so people might think we’re happy, but the reality is that the difficulties are even greater. Even now, you might feel it’s tough, but the future will be even tougher. It looks so dazzling that no one will know unless you say it yourself.”
“......”
Eun-gyeom looked at Sol and smiled slightly. The way Eun-gyeom smiled at him like a big puppy made Sol feel like he’s looking at Ju-hwan. Sol knew his actions were just unnecessary pride. Eun-gyeom’s voice, soft but strong, contained power. Thinking that he should have spoken to Ju-hwan like this sooner, Sol felt regret. If he had, everything might have been better than it was now. His mouth tasted bitter.
“You can’t overcome everything alone every time. That’s why there are managers, and also the company. You’ll have fellow members and friends. That’s how it was for me. The members became good friends.”
“Here... I don’t have any friends.”
