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's not loud. Not flashy. She doesn't try to be the center of attention—yet somehow, the world tips toward her every time she moves. Like gravity itself gives in.
I wish I could say I noticed her first. That the second she walked in, I just knew.
But that's a lie.
I fought it.
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'd joined our styling team during comeback promotions, and my hair was being difficult that day. I saw her from the corner of my eye—black slacks, fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up, her hair in a loose ponytail, face fresh and glowing despite the 6 a.m. call time. She moved with quiet confidence, lips curved into that soft smile she wore like armor.
Then she stepped closer.
No hesitation.
She reached up, clipped my bangs with a tiny pink pin—just for a moment—so the lead stylist could finish the look. Her fingers brushed my forehead.
I forgot how to breathe.
"Cute," she said absently, like it wasn't meant for anyone to hear.
But I did.
And I've been spiraling ever since.
I started watching her when no one else was looking.
The way she hummed when she focused.
The way her fingers danced while arranging jewelry trays.
The way she looked exhausted, always, but still smiled like she owed the world kindness.
I knew I was in trouble the moment I started tailoring my jokes just to make her laugh.
What kind of fool memorizes someone's laugh?
Me.
There was this one time—we were filming a late-night segment. Everyone was half-asleep. I was supposed to focus on my lines, my angles, the cameras flashing from all sides.
But there she was.
Leaning near the monitor, arms folded, soft shadows under her eyes, lips tugged up in a sleepy little smile.
I waved.
She blinked, surprised. Then raised her hand—just two fingers, a lazy little wave.
My heart punched through my ribs.
I know how this sounds.
It's reckless, getting this attached to someone I can't have. But feelings don't sign contracts. They don't follow rules.
And mine?
Mine are wrecked.
You want to know the worst part?
She has no idea.
She walks past with her soft voice and messy ponytail, not knowing I hold my breath when she's near. Not knowing I replay every look, every word, every accidental brush of her fingers.
Maybe to her, I'm just a face on a schedule.
But to me?
She's the moment.
I remember the first time I almost told her.
We'd just won a music show. Everyone was cheering backstage. Lights, confetti, chaos.
And then I saw her.
Alone in a hallway, sitting on a folded chair, head tipped back, gently rubbing her sore feet.
"Don't you ever take a break?" I asked, leaning against the wall.
She looked up, grinning. "Don't you?"
Touché.
I stared too long. The corridor lights washed over her skin, giving her this soft, unreal glow.
I opened my mouth. I think I said her name.
But someone called me. My cue.
I looked away.
And just like that—I missed my moment.
Since then, it's gotten harder.
Harder to pretend I'm fine.
Harder to smile when she laughs with someone else.
Harder not to reach for her when she's clearly hurting but pretending she's not.
I want to be the one she texts when her day's too much.
The reason she smiles at her phone.
The one she trusts with the pieces she hides.
I want her to know that every song, every look on camera, every moment I don't speak—it's all about her.
Foolish, right?
Yeah. I know.
But love doesn't ask for permission. It just happens.
And I… I fell for her without meaning to.
Now I don't know how to stop.
I'm foolishly obsessed with her.
And maybe—just maybe—one day, she'll look back and see me. The boy who stood in the background, quietly waiting. Hopelessly hoping.
Until then…
I'll keep stealing glances.
Catching moments.
And holding on to the reckless hope that someday—
She'll be foolish enough to love me back.