Minjun spent the bus ride home staring at his reflection in the black window glass. Each stop jolted him closer to the neighborhood he'd wanted to leave since he was twelve — the cracked sidewalks, the convenience store where he spent his lunch money on instant ramen, the same half-broken streetlight flickering outside the old apartment complex.
He didn't get off right away. He stayed on the bus two extra stops, just to feel the motion carry him somewhere else. Somewhere better. Somewhere that matched the impossible new weight of the message in his pocket.
When he finally walked up the narrow stairwell to their third-floor unit, his mother's voice drifted through the thin door. She was on the phone with his aunt again — comparing whose son was studying harder, whose daughter got into a better hagwon. The sound of it made Minjun's chest tighten, but tonight the old ache didn't bite so deep.
He slipped off his shoes and tiptoed to his room. He had about fifteen minutes before his father came home from his night shift at the small auto shop downtown. Fifteen minutes to find the right words — if there were any.
He spread out his notebook on the floor, surrounded by open pages like a paper shield. His fingers drummed on the cover. He should feel excited — and he did. But beneath it, the fear pulsed louder: What if they say no?What if they say you're wasting your time?What if you ruin this before it even starts?
He thought about not telling them. He could just lie, say he was working overtime at the café. But then what? When they found out later — when he became a trainee, when the practice hours swallowed him whole, when he came home at dawn reeking of sweat and cheap practice room deodorizer — they'd know. And worse, they'd know he didn't trust them enough to try.
The door slammed in the hallway — his father's heavy steps, the quiet grunt as he took off his steel-capped work shoes. His mother asked if he'd eaten. He grunted again. The TV flickered on.
Minjun stood. He wiped his palms on his pants, stepped out of his room, and cleared his throat."Appa? Eomma? Can I talk to you for a second?"
His father didn't look up from the news. His mother did, brow furrowed, phone still clutched in her hand."What is it? Did you get in trouble at work again?"
"No. It's not that. I… I got an offer.""Offer?" His mother echoed the word like it was a foreign language."A company. An entertainment company. They heard my demo. They want to meet me. For a trainee spot. Maybe even a debut project."
His father's eyes flicked up for the first time. His jaw tightened, mouth a thin line. His mother put the phone down, slowly."Minjun," she said, voice too careful. "We've talked about this. So many times. It's not realistic. It's not stable. Do you know how many boys try this? Do you think you're so special?"
"I know it's hard," Minjun said quickly. "But they listened, eomma. They listened to my song. Not a cover — mine. They want to meet me. This could be the start —"
"— the start of what?" his father cut in, voice low but sharp as broken glass. "You think a company cares about your song? They'll change you. They'll tell you what to sing, what to wear. You'll be nothing to them. One in a line of hundreds."
Minjun's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I have to try. If I don't, I'll regret it forever."
His mother sighed, rubbing her temples. "We don't have money for this. Do you know how much trainees pay? Lessons, outfits, transportation —""It's not like that. Starline covers expenses if they sign you," Minjun said. He'd read every rumor, every forum post, every trainee's leaked Q&A. He knew the stories — the brutal hours, the screaming coaches, the kids who broke down and disappeared overnight. He knew. But he also knew staying here would break him faster.
His father stood. For a moment, Minjun braced for him to yell, to tell him to drop this stupid dream once and for all. Instead, the older man just stared at him — eyes tired, jaw shifting as if chewing on words he couldn't spit out."Do what you want, then," he said, voice flat. "Just don't expect us to catch you when you fall."
He brushed past Minjun on his way to the bathroom, the smell of oil and metal trailing behind him. The door clicked shut. The TV kept playing, too loud. His mother pressed her lips together, like she wanted to say I'm sorry but didn't know how.
Minjun nodded once. "Thank you," he whispered, though no one looked at him anymore. He slipped back into his room, closed the door, and sat on the floor, heart pounding in the dark. It wasn't a blessing. It wasn't support. But it was permission — or at least, no one had stopped him.
That night, he packed a small bag for Friday. A fresh T-shirt. His only decent pair of jeans. A USB drive with three demos — all rough, but real. His old guitar pick, tucked into his wallet for luck. He barely slept, eyes open in the shadows, mind playing the meeting over and over like a trailer for a life that still felt just out of reach.
At dawn, he found himself back on the rooftop, hoodie zipped tight against the early chill. He perched on the ledge, city stretching endless and alive below him. He opened his notebook and wrote one line, neat and careful:
"This is how it begins."