If someone asked me what the past two months felt like, I wouldn’t know how to answer.

Because they didn’t feel like time at all. They felt like noise and color and light — blinding, relentless light.

There were days I woke up before dawn, blinking at the ceiling, trying to remember which day it was.

Monday? Friday? It didn’t matter.

All I knew was that we had to be somewhere — a music show, an interview, a recording, a fitting — and that Garam’s voice would soon echo through the dorm, telling us to move faster.

It was strange how quickly chaos became routine.

Two months ago, I still felt like a stranger wearing someone else’s name.

Now I could fall into formations without thinking, bow at the perfect angle, smile on cue, answer questions with practiced charm.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped acting.

And that scared me a little.

The dorm became our world — filled with noise, laughter, and the occasional death threat over stolen snacks.

The twins were always loud.

Boom blasted music at ungodly hours; Bang tried to make him stop and usually failed.

Geon lived in a constant state of half-dressed fashion shows, parading new outfits like he was auditioning for a drama no one else had heard of.

Jiahao, the leader, was both our father and our hostage. He tried to maintain order, but with six men in their early twenties sharing an apartment, “order” was a myth.

Renji, though — Renji was quiet amid the noise.

He had this ability to exist in the background and still pull focus, the way light naturally found him. Sometimes I caught myself watching him without realizing I was doing it.

It wasn’t intentional.

It just happened.

I started going to the gym with the twins after Garam commented on my stamina during dance rehearsals.

“You’re great on stage, Minjae,” he’d said, smiling kindly. “But you look like you’re dying by the third chorus.”

He wasn’t wrong.

So now my mornings started with weights and Bang yelling motivational nonsense.

“Think of your fans!” he shouted once as I struggled through squats.

“I can’t think of anything right now!” I yelled back, nearly dropping the bar.

Renji occasionally tagged along, mostly to laugh at me.

He’d stand near the mirror, arms crossed, pretending to be my personal trainer.

“Your form’s off,” he said once.

“Then fix it,” I shot back without thinking.

He stepped closer, pressed a hand to my lower back, adjusted my posture — slow, precise, and way too close.

I forgot how to breathe.

He smirked, clearly aware.

“Better,” he said, stepping back.

I hated how much I remembered that moment later that night.

The first time we appeared on a big variety show, I thought my heart would climb out of my chest.

The lights were bright, the cameras endless, and every host question felt like a landmine.

“So, Minjae,” one of them said with a grin, “you were gone from the industry for a while before debuting again, right? What made you come back?”

I smiled, exactly like we’d rehearsed.

“I realized there were still things I wanted to do,” I said lightly. “And people I wanted to do them with.”

The crowd cooed.

Renji glanced sideways at me — not a word, just a small smile that said good save.

If he knew the truth — that “coming back” was never really my dream...

Maybe he didn’t want to know.

Maybe I didn’t want him to.

By the end of the first month, the routine had consumed us.

Wake up. Practice. Perform. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Some nights we’d collapse into the dorm half-dead, clothes sticking to our skin, makeup still clinging to our faces.

Other nights, adrenaline wouldn’t let us sleep at all, so we’d stay up until sunrise watching our own performances, critiquing ourselves like lunatics.

Renji and I started sleeping in the same bed every night.

Somehow quitely, it became our thing.

At first it was harmless.

Two friends too tired to care where they fell asleep.

But comfort is dangerous. It breeds familiarity, and familiarity breeds things that shouldn’t exist.

There were nights I woke up half-asleep, aware of warmth pressed against my back, Renji’s breathing steady and close.

Sometimes I thought I imagined the way his arm would tighten around me.

Other times, I knew I didn’t.

I learned the strange rhythm of fan meetings too — the organized chaos, the trembling hands, the tears.

The first time a fan cried, I panicked.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “Did I do something wrong?”

She laughed through tears. “No, you’re just real, infront of my eyes.”

Real.

That word hit harder than I expected.

Because I wasn’t. Not really.

The person she loved — the “Minjae” she supported — was a story written by someone else.

That night, I went home and stared at my reflection, wondering which one of us she’d seen.

One day we filmed a commercial for a soft drink brand.

Geon kept messing up because he couldn’t stop making dramatic poses, and Boom sprayed cola all over the director when he tried to open the bottle too fast.

Renji laughed so hard he had to leave the set.

It was a disaster.

It was also the most fun we’d had in weeks.

Later, in the van, everyone passed out except me and Renji.

The city lights blurred past the window — Seoul glowing like a fever dream.

Renji glanced over. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” I said.

“Liar.”

He said it softly, but his tone left no room for denial.

I looked away. “You ever think about… how long we can keep this up?”

He hummed. “Being tired?”

“Being idols.”

He thought about it for a while.

“I don’t know. But if it ends tomorrow, at least it’ll be with you guys.”

That made something in my chest ache.

Because I couldn’t promise him the same.

The interviews got easier, the smiles more natural.

We learned to joke, to dodge questions, to laugh on cue.

Somewhere between the rehearsals and the chaos, I stopped feeling like an outsider.

We were growing popular, fast.

Fans lined up outside every building we entered.

Banners, gifts, messages — all screaming our names.

It was intoxicating.

It was terrifying.

Because with every cheer, I felt the line blur more.

Who was Minjae now?

The man behind the mission — or the idol everyone loved?

I wasn’t sure anymore.

The company started letting us handle live broadcasts on social media.

A harmless thing — just seven guys chatting, eating snacks, answering fan comments.

One night, Renji went live while I was sitting beside him.

“Minjae’s here,” he said casually, turning the camera toward me.

The chat exploded.

‘RENJAE!!!’

‘They’re together again!!’

‘Married behavior as always 😭💕’

I buried my face in my hoodie. “Why are they like this?”

“Because you’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Renji said, grinning.

The comments went wild.

I threw a cushion at him off-screen.

The fans thought it was flirting.

During a fan meeting Renji sat beside me the whole time, signing our debut single, laughing with fans, occasionally leaning close to whisper a joke.

Our shoulders brushed more than once.

Cameras flashed every time.

Later, Geon teased us mercilessly.

“Do you two even realize how married you look?”

“Shut up,” Renji said.

I nearly choked on my drink.

Boom mimicked us dramatically: “‘Oh Renji, pass me the marker,’ ‘Of course, Minjae,’ slow hand touch—”

Jiahao threw a pillow at him. “Enough.”

Some days were harder.

There were breakdowns — quiet ones, hidden behind bathroom doors or masked with laughter.

I saw Renji cry once, after a grueling recording session for our first comeback, where his voice cracked mid-take.

He stayed behind after everyone left, head bowed, fists clenched.

I stood by the door for a long time before speaking.

“You were good,” I said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Not good enough.”

I crossed the room, sat beside him.

“Then you’ll be better tomorrow.”

He laughed quietly. “You sound like Jiahao.”

“I’ll take that as an insult.”

He finally looked at me, eyes still damp. “You always say the right thing.”

“That’s because I never think before I talk.”

He smiled, small and tired. “Thanks anyway.”

That night, he slept closer than usual.

The world outside called us “the next big thing.”

Magazine spreads, brand deals.

Every time our name trended, it felt surreal.

Apex Weekly didn’t contact me again.

Two months of silence.

Maybe they’d forgotten.

Or maybe they were just waiting.

But I didn’t press for answers.

Not yet.

Because I was terrified that the truth — the real reason I was here — would shatter everything I’d come to care about.

One evening, after a long stage, I found Renji on the balcony of the dorm.

The city sprawled below, glittering and endless.

He was smoking — a rare thing — the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I said, leaning against the railing.

He didn’t turn. “Don’t tell Garam.”

“I won’t. But he’ll smell it anyway.”

“Worth it.”

We stood in silence for a while.

Then he said quietly, “You look different lately.”

“How so?”

“Like you’re starting to enjoy it again.”

I didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

And I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

When I think back on those months now, it all feels like a dream that never stopped moving.

Sweat, laughter, exhaustion, fleeting happiness — all tangled together.

We weren’t perfect. We weren’t stable. But we were real in our chaos.

And somewhere in that mess, I found something dangerously close to peace.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so much —

knowing it couldn’t last.

Because deep down, I knew this light wasn’t mine to keep.

It was borrowed, fleeting.

And one day soon, the truth would take it all away.

But until then — until that day arrived —

I decided to let myself live in the glow of it a little longer.

Even if it burned.

The second month ended on a quiet night.

No rehearsals. No cameras. Just the hum of the city outside our dorm windows and the faint sound of Boom snoring from the next room.

It was one of those rare evenings that felt normal.

Renji was lying beside me, scrolling lazily through his phone. The glow of the screen washed over his face — soft, warm, familiar.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.

My body was tired, but my mind was loud.

Every laugh, every stage, every shared glance with Renji — they’d all blurred together into something that almost felt real.

And that was the problem.

Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped thinking of SDR as the enemy.

I’d stopped thinking of myself as a journalist.

I was just… Minjae. An idol.

One of seven boys trying to survive the industry.

But whenever I let myself forget, something always reminded me.

The whispered rumors about SDR’s “special contracts.”

The memory of that nameless girl from the leaked case file — the one who never came home.

The guilt always found me.

It crawled under my skin at night and whispered, You’re not here to live their dream. You’re here to destroy it.

I turned my head to look at Renji.

He’d fallen asleep halfway through scrolling, his phone resting loosely in his hand, the corners of his lips curved in that faint, peaceful way I rarely saw.

He looked younger when he slept. Softer.

And it hurt — really hurt — to realize that one day soon, I might have to break his world apart.