The flashbulbs popped like gunfire, too bright, too fast, too many. Jae-min smiled anyway.
He had mastered the art of the mask.
His jaw didn't twitch. His eyes didn't betray the ache crawling behind them. The sleek airport fit, the silver chain, the dyed silver hair — it all shimmered perfectly under Seoul's cold morning light. But he hadn't slept in 27 hours.
"Hyung, this way," Seok, his manager, guided him through the terminal, shielding him with a hand.
The fans were loud. Banners waved. Some screamed his name. Others cried just seeing him walk past.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't.
By the time he reached the black van parked outside, his throat was sore from keeping quiet.
Inside the van, he leaned against the window, letting the cold seep into his cheek.
"Good job, Jae-min-ah," Seok said gently.
"Thanks."
The schedule flashed on Seok's tablet screen:
9:00 AM: Arrival from Tokyo
10:30 AM: Music show rehearsal
12:00 PM: Dance practice
2:00 PM: Brand shoot
5:00 PM: Radio appearance
8:00 PM: Return to dorm
Jae-min closed his eyes.
Sleep came in splinters. Never more than a few minutes. His mind didn't know how to shut off anymore. It was always choreo, pitch, poses, cameras, hashtags.
Even dreams felt like stage rehearsals.
By noon, he was in the practice room.
SOLARIS's studio was a modern maze of mirrors, speakers, and LED panels. The floor vibrated under the bass as the five members practiced their choreography.
"Five, six, seven, eight!" the choreographer shouted.
Jae-min's movements were precise. Always had been. He never missed a beat. But today, his foot landed slightly off time. He knew it. The others didn't say anything, but he caught Min-jae's glance through the mirror.
Again. And again. And again.
Until his limbs burned.
Until he couldn't hear the music anymore — only the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears.
When the break came, he collapsed onto the floor, towel around his neck. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Min-jae handed him a bottle. "You okay?"
Jae-min nodded. "Yeah."
"You've been zoning out a lot lately."
"I'm fine."
"Jae-min—"
"I said I'm fine."
Min-jae backed off. But his gaze lingered.
That night, after the shoot — all sharp angles and perfect expressions — he returned to the dorm.
He took the stairs. Slowly.
Each step felt like it might collapse beneath him.
When he reached his room, he found the letter.
A pink envelope. No return address. No name.
His hands froze.
He didn't open it immediately. He knew what it was.
There had been more of them lately.
The last one had a photo of him sleeping — taken from outside the dorm building.
He locked the door and drew the curtains.
Finally, he opened the letter.
Inside was a crude drawing of the two of them — him and a girl with long hair and vacant eyes. Their faces were close. The word "FOREVER" was written in red lipstick across the bottom.
He didn't panic.
He had passed panic months ago.
He just sat down, back against the wall, staring at the fanlight lamp on his shelf. It had been gifted by a real fan — a girl who had traveled from another country just to attend their first fan sign. She had cried, but not out of obsession. Out of respect.
He remembered her eyes.
She had said, "I don't need you to love me back. I just want you to be okay."
He had smiled genuinely that day.
But her face had blurred in his memory.
He hated that.
His phone buzzed.
Another DM from an anonymous account:
"I saw you. You looked at me. You know we belong together. Why do you lie to them? I'll fix it soon."
He turned the phone off.
Threw it across the bed.
And turned on music instead.
Not SOLARIS.
Not K-pop.
Just a soft instrumental playlist. Piano and rain.
He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until the dream came.
A girl standing on a rooftop, holding a fanlight like it was sacred. Her eyes didn't plead. They promised.
And behind her — shadows.
A voice said:
"You're not alone."
He woke up sweating.
Heart racing.
The dream stayed with him — not for what it showed, but for what it gave.
Hope.
For the first time in months, Jae-min didn't feel like he was drowning.
Even if just for a second.
Even if it was only a dream.
And somewhere, in a different part of the world, the same wind brushed across a girl's terrace.
As if carrying the echo of a name.
"Aarohi..."