"You're tired, not defeated."
The city never really slept — not Seoul. It hummed with dreams that refused to fade, even past midnight.
Inside a dim training room, the mirrors caught only exhaustion: one boy, drenched in sweat, still practicing the same dance step that wouldn't come out right.
Rian Lee, eighteen, trainee of a company no one cared about.
The small speaker crackled; the same verse repeated again and again until it became a blur.
He collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving.
>"What's the point?" he muttered. "Even if I debut, who'll notice us? We don't even have mirrors without cracks."
The door opened quietly.
A soft voice said, "Then maybe you should dance like someone will."
Rian looked up.
Framed by the doorway was Lira Faith Sandoval — the famous foreign trainee from the big company across the street. Everyone knew her: half-Filipina, all-talent, already a legend among rookies.
She held a water bottle, eyes kind but firm. "Mind if I join for a bit?"
Rian blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating. "You… know who I am?"
Lira smiled faintly. "Not yet. But I saw you through the window yesterday. You looked like you loved dancing even when no one was watching."
He let out a weak laugh. "I don't know about love anymore."
She crouched beside him, handing the bottle. "You're tired, not defeated."
Her voice carried something steady — belief.
Rian took a sip, unsure why his chest tightened.
They practiced a few minutes together. She corrected his posture, counted steps, encouraged every small improvement.
No cameras, no audience — just two trainees chasing the same dream under buzzing lights.
---
When they finally sat again, the clock ticked past 1 a.m.
Rian asked quietly, "Aren't you supposed to be resting? You'll debut soon, right?"
Lira chuckled, brushing hair from her face. "People say that a lot. But nothing's sure until you're on stage. That's why I keep practicing — fear doesn't go away, you just learn to dance with it."
He watched her then — how her confidence wasn't arrogance but calm fire.
For the first time in weeks, he smiled genuinely. "You sound like someone who never gets tired."
"Of course I do," she said softly. "But I rest, and I start again."
When she stood to leave, she said, "I'll see you on stage one day, Rian."
He wanted to ask how she knew his name, but the words stuck in his throat.
---
After she left, the room felt different — brighter somehow.
Rian stared at the cracked mirror again, and this time he didn't see failure.
He saw someone who might one day deserve that kind of faith.
He picked up his phone and typed in the notes app:
> "For her, I'll become someone worth standing beside."
Then he pressed play,
and danced again — not because he had to,
but because someone believed he still could.