Adanna never realized how heavy silence could be until she found herself standing in her small room, clutching the glass jar that had lived on her shelf for years. Her Purple Jar—filled with coins, folded naira notes, and the quiet sacrifices of countless days—was finally empty.
The jar wasn't just money. It was midnight prayers whispered after double shifts, sketches she sold on the roadside, birthdays celebrated without cake, and clothes she patched instead of buying new. Every coin she'd dropped inside carried a story. And tonight, for the first time, it carried her dream across the ocean.
As the plane ticket confirmation loaded on her cracked phone screen, she stared at the blinking cursor like it was some kind of miracle. The digital words felt unreal: "Flight confirmed: Lagos to Incheon International Airport, Seoul."
Her hands trembled. For years she had written Eclipse7's lyrics in the margins of her schoolbooks, sung their songs when no one was listening, and filled entire sketchbooks designing clothes inspired by their stages. They were never just idols to her. They were a compass. A promise that even in the corners of Lagos where the lights went out, someone somewhere was singing about hope.
And now, she wasn't just going to hear them through her earphones. She was going to stand in the same room as them.
Her mother's voice broke the silence from outside her door. "Adanna? You haven't eaten."
She quickly hid the jar under her bed, even though it was empty. The habit was too ingrained. "I'm not hungry, Mama," she called back, her throat thick with emotions she couldn't explain. How could she tell her mother that every plate of food refused, every skipped new pair of shoes, had been for this one impossible moment?
Instead, she whispered to herself, "Just one chance. Just let me see them once."
---
The airport in Lagos was a blur of voices, rolling suitcases, and heartbeats that seemed louder than the announcements. Adanna's braids brushed against her cheek as she hurried through the line, clutching her single suitcase like it was her shield.
Her purple hoodie—the same one she wore to every Eclipse7 livestream—was zipped to her chin. It wasn't just clothing; it was armor.
As she waited at the gate, she noticed a small group of other young women around her age. Their conversations floated to her ears: "Eclipse7's comeback showcase…" "I heard Jinwoo wrote the lyrics himself this time…" "Do you think we'll get to see them outside the venue?"
Adanna's heart squeezed. These were her people—ARMYs of Eclipse7, though from different corners of the world. Yet she sat alone, afraid to speak. To them, she was just another fan chasing a dream. But for her, it was deeper than posters and autographs. She didn't just want to see them. She wanted to understand them. And, maybe, to be understood.
---
The flight stretched long and sleepless. Through the window, clouds drifted like soft secrets. Adanna kept her journal on her lap, flipping through the unsent letters she had written to Eclipse7's Jinwoo.
Letter #17: "I don't know why, but your voice feels like home. Sometimes when Lagos is too loud, I close my eyes and imagine I'm on another street, in another city, where someone like you could understand someone like me."
Her cheeks burned as she re-read it. Foolish words. No idol would ever see them. Still, they made the distance feel less impossible.
When the plane finally touched down in Seoul, dawn was painting the sky pink. Adanna pressed her forehead against the glass, drinking in the sight of a country she had only seen in dramas and music videos. Neon signs flickered awake, taxis rushed past, and somewhere in this city, Eclipse7 was rehearsing, breathing, existing.
Her chest tightened. She was here. She had really made it.
---
Seoul was a storm. The language, the speed of the subway, the way people flowed like water in every direction—it swallowed her whole. Adanna clutched her phone, following the map app with desperation. She had booked the cheapest hostel she could find, and the owner barely spoke English, but the tiny room was hers.
On the wall above the bed, she taped a single photo from her journal: Eclipse7 during their last concert, smiling into the crowd. She traced Jinwoo's outline with her fingertip. "Just one meeting," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Even if you never know me, let me see you once."
But fate, she would soon discover, was far less predictable than the plans she had carefully laid.
---
Two days later, the stadium was already alive hours before the concert. Lines of fans wrapped around streets, holding banners, lightsticks glowing faintly in the afternoon sun. Adanna clutched her ticket, her heart thundering so loudly she thought people around her could hear.
Inside, the arena swallowed her in light. Purple waves rose as thousands of fans lifted their glow sticks. The bass vibrated through her chest. And when Eclipse7 finally appeared, stepping out into the roar, Adanna's knees almost gave out.
Her eyes locked on Jinwoo. He wasn't just an image anymore. He was here, breathing the same air, sweat glistening under the stage lights, his voice cutting through the noise like a promise.
She screamed with the others, tears streaming down her face, her purple glow stick shaking in her hand.
But destiny didn't just want her in the audience.
Halfway through the performance, a surge from the crowd pushed her too far. Security moved swiftly, but in the chaos, Adanna stumbled into a side passage, her ticket slipping from her grip.
By the time she looked up, the noise of the stadium had faded behind her. She was standing in a dim corridor, the hum of equipment echoing through the walls.
And then she saw him.
Jinwoo.
Not on stage, not under blinding lights. Just Jinwoo—breathing hard, a towel around his neck, his eyes widening in surprise as
he spotted her.
For one suspended moment, the world forgot to breathe.