The city never really slept, but Jiho did — or at least, he tried to.
Most nights, sleep came like everything else in his life: in pieces. A few hours here, a few minutes there. His dreams weren't dreams anymore. It was just blurred images of places he used to know, and faces that blurred into whispers. Sometimes, the voices on TV or through his earbuds mixed with old memories, and for a moment, he could almost forget how empty the days had become.
Once, Jiho had a dream. One that felt like it could shape the rest of his life. He wanted to become a K-pop idol and was not for fame, not even for the applause. Just to be seen. To stand on stage and feel like he mattered.
He remembered the first time he sang in front of a mirror, copying every move from a music video. He wasn't good — not yet — but he felt something in his chest that night.
That small flicker of hope.
Then came school.
And the bullying.
At first, it was small. Teasing. Looks. Then, ridicule. Pushing. Rumors. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. It was slow, like a leak in a sinking boat.
No one noticed he was drowning until it was too late.
And when he tried to disappear — when he made that decision in the quiet of his room, thinking maybe the world would be lighter without him, life didn't let him go.
He woke up in a hospital bed alive and stuck.
His parents barely looked him in the eye afterward because of guilt. The school said they'd provide counseling. They didn't. His classmates pretended nothing happened. Jiho went back to class with a stitched wrist and dead eyes.
Now, at twenty, he existed more than lived.
He worked at a dingy convenience store on the corner of an alley that smelled like cigarettes and asphalt. His uniform was two sizes too big and always smelled faintly of instant noodles. His apartment was one small room with a mattress on the floor and a cracked window that let in the noise of passing scooters and drunk people all night.
Every morning, Jiho opened his eyes and asked himself: Why am I still here?
He didn't have an answer anymore. But the days passed anyway.
He didn't sing. Didn't dance. Barely spoke. Just moved through life like a ghost clinging to something that was long gone.
That night was colder than usual. The bright lights of the store buzzed above him as he clocked out. His limbs ached from standing too long. He tugged his hood over his head and made his way home with steps that were slow and tired.
He didn't notice the figure behind him right away. It was Seoul — someone was always behind you. But these footsteps didn't pass.They stayed close.
Too close.
He turned. A sliver glint caught his eye before he let out a sharp and deep gasp of pain.
His body stumbled backward. The world tilted. He didn't scream. There was no time. Just confusion, then cold.
And then darkness.
There was no tunnel of light. No heavenly voices. Just silence.
Until warmth.
A soft light filtered through sheer curtains.
A pillow beneath his head. Clean sheets. The smell of soap.
Jiho's eyes fluttered open slowly. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. It smooth, white, and uncracked. He blinked confused. He turned his head.
This wasn't his apartment.
This wasn't anywhere he knew.
He sat up too fast, the unfamiliar body responding with more energy than he was used to. His chest tightened.
His hands looked wrong. Slimmer. Paler. Not scarred like his had been.
Heart racing, he scrambled out of bed and stumbled toward the mirror on the closet door. The face that stared back at him wasn't his.
Handsome. Youthful. But the eyes…
The eyes were tired.
He backed away, breath shallow. His head spun. Am I dreaming? Is this a coma? Am I dead?
Panic gripped him like he was being chokes.
He searched the room, the desk, the closet, and drawers. Anything that made sense.
In one drawer, he found a small notebook. Inside, neatly written lines filled every page. Not his handwriting. Not his words. But they hit like a punch to the gut.
"Even when I'm perfect, it's not enough.
"I'm tired of being the person they want."
"I wish I could sing, even just once, without feeling like it's a waste of time."
The name on the inside cover: Yunjae.
And then he found them — pill bottles, tucked behind a stack of books. Empty sleeping aids and antidepressants.
Jiho's fingers trembled as he sat back on the bed. The meaning sank in slowly.
Yunjae had tried to escape too.
But his pain looked different. Dressed up in perfection, hidden beneath straight A's and clean shirts. Jiho could feel it in the air of the room — not sadness, exactly, but exhaustion. That same numbness he'd lived in for years.
He wasn't ready to accept it. He refused to accept it. He was in someone else's life. Someone else's pain. And yet that old feeling crept up from somewhere deep inside.
A voice — clear and unfamiliar, yet his — escaped in a whisper:"Why me?"
No answer came.
Only silence.
And then, from across the room, his eyes landed on a poster taped above the desk. A K-pop group who was mid-performance, bright smiles frozen in time.
Jiho stood there for a long moment, staring.
He hadn't let himself dream in years.
But somehow, that dream had followed him here.