I woke up with a jerk, my phone ringing loudly beside me. Not to my surprise, it was my one and only chaotic best friend — Sujeong. We've been friends since childhood. And yes, I call her chaotic because she is, unapologetically, the human version of a storm.
"What am I gonna do now?" she said before I could even greet her.
"What if my father arranges another blind date for me?"
I groaned, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "What about Samuel? You said clearly he'd keep pretending to be your boyfriend."
"My dad told him off. You know he's a coward," she snapped.
I tilted my head on the pillow, careful not to hit my still-healing foot.
"Honestly, with your dad's attitude, any man would run. Maybe you should just go on an actual date instead of playing these weird games. He's not gonna back off."
"Are you kidding me?" she practically yelled through the speaker.
"I can't move on! I'm waiting for him — he promised me he'd come back!" she added, her voice dipping with uncertainty.
I frowned, rolling my eyes. Hoon's promise. Always the same. He'd disappeared two years ago without a word, leaving her with empty promises and unfinished dreams. I could see it — the way she still hung onto the hope of his return. It's ridiculous, really. He never even explained why he left.
"Yeah, he had to promise. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to promise anyone else either," I replied flatly.
"You can't talk about him like that. He's the love of my life! He went to Bangkok to work — to give us a future!"
"Oh, right. The selfless disappearing act," I muttered.
Maybe I should stop talking about him like this. I don't want to hurt her more.
She changed the subject quickly, but I could still feel the ache in my chest. I always wonder if Sujeong would ever see the truth about Hoon — or if I'd have to be the one to pull her away from a love that isn't coming back.
"Siwon, I gotta hang up. The boys are here!" she blurted, more like she was reporting an emergency than ending a call.
"Wait— did you seriously just call to convince me Park Hoon is a saint?" I started, but she was already saying her goodbye in a hurried whisper like a student afraid of getting caught by her teacher.
I heard faint chatter behind her, and then — beep... beep... beep. She hung up. Without even waiting for my response.
Of course.
Let me put it out there — I'm the last person who should give love advice. I've been single since the moment I came into this world, not because I wasn't interested, but because I never found someone who made me want to stay.
Sujeong and I are backup dancers. We've worked with tons of K-pop groups. Our lives aren't busy — they're busier. Originally, we had dreams of becoming idols ourselves, but that dream didn't quite fit our personalities. We were too... human. Too raw. Not curated enough for the idol machine.
But then... I can't lie to myself. I don't have a great track record of letting people in. When I was younger, I tried. I really did. But after losing my mom at 15 and being left to figure out everything on my own, I don't know if I'm capable of depending on someone anymore.
Beep. Beep.
My phone buzzed again. A message from Sujeong.
I already knew what it would be — a video of today's choreography. She sends them often, like little lifelines, especially now while I'm on medical leave from a fractured foot. I miss it — the practice room, the movement, the rush. Watching them push through exhaustion, their feet sweeping across the studio floor, dripping in sweat and drive — it makes me ache to go back. But part of me wonders if I can even go back.
I've spent so long pretending I don't need anyone. Maybe that's why the loneliness hurts so much. But I can't keep relying on people. I'm scared to rely on them, in case they leave. And with Sujeong — she's still so caught up in her past with Hoon that I don't know if she can see what's right in front of her.
"I miss the practice room," I typed, adding a sweaty-face emoji, and hit send.
I planned to go back to sleep, but when I saw the clock blinking 11:00, I knew that ship had sailed.
I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, and struggled into clean clothes — which is a full workout with a fractured foot. I've lived alone since I was fifteen, so I'm used to doing everything myself. But pulling jeans over a cast? Torture.
"Fighting," I whispered to myself, gripping a stack of novels on my dresser for balance. As I leaned into it — crash. The books tumbled down and slammed directly onto my injured foot.
The pain shot through me like lightning. I crumpled to the floor, tears spilling freely, my breath caught in my throat.
If fate exists, I don't understand mine.
At twenty-five, I've asked myself more times than I can count — why does everything always hurt? Why does every year seem to break me?
But I always get back up. I dry my tears, tell myself I'm strong, even if I don't believe it. Because that's what strong girls do — they keep going.
Eventually, I managed to change into a black top, a black blazer, and the hard-won jeans, then rolled into my sleek silver wheelchair — my temporary Benz — and headed out.
I grabbed an iced vanilla latte and an avocado sandwich on the way to the doctor, who probably knows my foot better than I do by now.
After a 30-minute wait, he finally called me in.
"Good afternoon. How's the pain?" he asked.
"Still alive. Got smacked by books this morning," I winced.
He chuckled, helping me up. "Let's see... if things look good, we'll remove the cast next week. You'll be walking again."
But I didn't care about walking. I wanted to dance. I just couldn't tell him that — he'd scold me. The old man actually cares.
Date: 27-12-24
Five days passed in a blur of healing, Netflix, and eating like it was a full-time job. My cast finally came off.
"Siri, do I have any notifications?" I asked.
"You have one message from Bastard Park," she replied sweetly.
Classic Siri.
I unlocked my phone. It was from him.
"I'm coming back ✈️"
I stared at the screen. Shocked. Confused. Why now?
I jumped out of bed — yes, jumped — and snatched my phone off the couch.
Why? I texted instantly.
His response came in under two seconds.
"I miss you guys. I miss Sujeong a lot... I want to visit and have a good vacation."
Vacation.
That's what he's calling it after disappearing for two years?
Did you tell her?
I typed, frustrated.
"No, I'm surprising her on Monday."
Of course.
She's working on a new choreo with a boy band. It's a huge project — her dream gig.
I sent it.
I don't know why I even told him. Maybe I just wanted him to know Sujeong had moved on. At least professionally.
He read the message. But didn't reply.
Was he shocked? Upset? Jealous? Who knew. I tossed the phone on my nightstand and pulled my blanket over my head.
After two weeks away from the studio, I was finally going back.
I changed into an oversized tee and joggers, grabbed my keys, and slid into the driver's seat for the first time in weeks. The traffic in Seoul was brutal as usual, but everything outside felt fresh — the morning air, the people, even the noise. Life, loud and unapologetic.
I work at MIF — Music Is Life, one of the busiest entertainment companies in Seoul. Staff running everywhere. Auditions. Comebacks. Award shows. Debuts. Chaos.
And in the middle of it all — us. The backup dancers.
Our job is simple: Show up when they need us, and work like we don't exist. There are strict rules: No dating the idols. No feelings. No fantasies.
But let's be real. Half the staff probably has daydreams about the idols — the company just pretends not to know. Though... they do know. One girl got fired for confessing her feelings to a trainee.
So yeah. I've done this for three years now. I've learned to keep my feelings in check. That's the rule: Feel, but don't show.
I parked and was walking toward the elevator when my phone rang again.
Sujeong.
"Where are you?" I asked. "I'm here. Wanna meet?"
"I'm sorry! I can't — I'm headed to the airport!" she rushed.
"The airport? Why?"
"Hoon's here! I knew he'd come. I'm not wasting a second. Fill in for me, okay? Your schedule's clear. Love you, bye!" Beep.
I stared at the screen. Call ended.
Damn it. I'd completely forgotten he said he was arriving Monday.
Ting!
The elevator dinged, and I stepped in, crammed between two staff members.
My mind raced. What if he breaks her heart again? What if she never recovers? But maybe I was overthinking. Again.
I stepped off the lift and was greeted with familiar voices:
"Long time no see!"
"How's your foot?"
"Welcome back!"
Familiar. Comforting.
Inside the studio, I saw Shiaan — short-haired, slender, glowing like always.
"You're late," she said, giving me a friendly pat.
"And you look like an idol," I replied, eyeing her beige top, short black skirt, and white sneakers.
She smirked. "You don't know, do you? We're practicing for a new track by the most famous boy group in Seoul."
"Who?" I asked, though a strange feeling twisted in my gut.
"LOVE2," she whispered dramatically, like she was revealing state secrets.
My heart stilled. LOVE2?
Every girl in Korea knew them — their every comeback topping the charts, their visuals unreal, their performances untouchable. Seven boys, each more magnetic than the last. They weren't just idols. They were phenomena. Every song hit the Billboard charts. Every smile made headlines.
I tried to play it cool, but Shiaan looked at my outfit and grimaced.
"Please tell me you're not practicing in that," she said, pointing at my oversized tee.
"What? It's comfortable."
"You know better," she said and walked off.
The room emptied, quiet and humming with tension. Then — the door opened behind me.
I turned just as someone walked in, colliding straight into him. Solid. Tall. Annoyingly attractive.
I stumbled back, my hands flying out to catch myself. My foot throbbed in pain, but the flush on my cheeks was worse. I quickly pushed myself upright, avoiding his gaze.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to steady myself.
But he didn't move away. Instead, he stood there, eyes locked on me, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It was the kind of smirk that didn't come from embarrassment or discomfort, but from someone who knew exactly what kind of effect they had on people.
He stepped closer, making the space between us feel even smaller. "You alright?" His voice was smooth, low, but there was something about it that made me pause. He was completely unbothered by the crash, almost like it was routine for people to bump into him — like the universe just knew where he was and decided to fall in line.
I nodded, trying to ignore the heat in my face. "I'm fine," I said quickly, stepping aside, ready to make my escape.
But he didn't let me off that easily.
"Wait," he said. "What's your name?"
"Siwon. Park Siwon."
He smirked slightly, gaze flicking down to his shoes.
I turned to leave.
"Aren't you going to ask my name?" He tilted his head, almost mockingly, but there was an edge of amusement in his tone.
I paused, my hand resting against the doorframe for balance. The words barely made it out, like I wasn't sure I even wanted to hear his name. "No, not really."
He laughed softly, clearly not bothered by the dismissal. Instead, he just leaned back slightly, as if amused by my discomfort. "You sure about that?" He cocked his head, his eyes scanning me for a moment longer than necessary.
And just then, the door opened again, and the rest of the group walked in — six more boys, each one more handsome than the last, all in sync as they greeted the room with practiced ease.
"1! LOVE2! Annyeonghaseyo, LOVE2 imnida!" they said together.
I froze.
LOVE2.
The group that had taken over the country. The seven boys with their golden voices and near-perfect looks, dominating every chart. The ones everyone talked about, but no one thought they'd ever meet.
"You're greeting her without me?" the guy beside me said, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.
"Am I not important enough for a hello, or are you just saving the best for last?"
I blinked, still trying to process what I'd just heard.
He was part of LOVE2?
"You seem interested now. Wanna know my name?" he asked.
"...Yes," slipped out before I could stop it.
"Ryan. Choi Ryan," he said, voice smooth.
But I wasn't listening anymore. My gaze had shifted behind him.
To him.
Sim Jae.
He stood slightly apart from the rest, his honey-brown hair tousled perfectly, lips parted in thought. Eyes like dusk — soft but unreadable. Breathlessly handsome didn't even begin to cover it. He looked like poetry. Like music. Like everything I'd spent years dancing to without knowing.
"Are you listening to me?" Ryan asked.
I blinked. "What?"
Ryan narrowed his eyes. "What?!"