OG's situation no longer felt like a fall.
It felt like being suspended in midair—neither rising nor completely crashing.
They were stable enough to exist, but not strong enough to matter.
Their songs no longer appeared on charts. Not even at the bottom. Comeback announcements passed quietly, buried beneath louder names and brighter debuts. Music shows stopped inviting them altogether, and when they did perform, it was on side stages, at odd hours, streamed to audiences who clicked away halfway through.
No wins came.
Not even nominations.
The trophies that once filled their shelves now felt like relics from another lifetime.
To survive, they did what idols were never supposed to do.
They sold tickets themselves.
On weekends, OG stood on busy streets wearing simple hoodies and caps, holding small posters with handwritten details about their upcoming performance. There was no security, no staff—just the five of them and a folding table.
"Excuse me," Hana said to a passing couple, bowing politely. "Would you like to come to our show?"
The couple glanced at the poster, then shook their heads apologetically.
Some people recognized them and looked away, uncomfortable. Others stopped out of curiosity.
"Aren't you that group from before?" one man asked.
"Yes," Yuki replied with a practiced smile.
"Oh," he said, uncertain. "You used to be famous."
The tickets sold—but slowly.
And cheaply.
Prices were lowered again and again, until they barely covered the cost of the venue. Sakura watched Hana count the money one evening, her hands shaking.
"This won't be enough," Hana whispered.
Sakura nodded. She already knew.
Soon after, the company called them in.
Their salaries were reduced.
Not by a little.
By half.
No one argued. They couldn't.
Then came the dorm change.
Their old apartment—once filled with laughter, late-night snacks, and celebrations—was gone. They were moved into a smaller place on the edge of the city. Two rooms. Thin walls. Furniture that had seen better days.
Boxes piled up in the corner as they unpacked in silence.
"This feels like trainee days," Yuki joked weakly.
No one laughed.
At night, Sakura lay awake listening to the sounds of the city outside—sirens, footsteps, distant trains. She thought about how fragile success was, how easily it slipped away when the world stopped looking.
Aiko spent more time alone now, earbuds in, eyes distant. Hana picked up small side jobs—voice lessons, choreography tutoring—to help cover expenses. Yuki cooked cheaper meals, stretching ingredients as far as possible.
They were surviving.
But just barely.
And yet, something strange happened in that middle ground.
They stopped pretending.
There were no fake smiles for cameras. No pressure to trend. No expectations to win.
When they performed now—even for a handful of people—they sang honestly.
Their voices weren't loud.
But they were real.
One night, after a small show where only fifty people attended, a fan approached Sakura.
"I know you won't win anymore," she said softly. "But I still want to hear you."
Sakura bowed deeply, tears threatening to spill.
In that moment, she realized—
OG wasn't famous anymore.
But they weren't gone either.
They were standing in the quiet space between being remembered and being forgotten—holding on, not for charts or trophies, but simply because letting go hurt more than staying.