When I was little, I didn’t understand why strangers stopped my dad on the street, asking for photos and autographs. To me, he wasn’t “CI, the famous K-pop idol.” He was just Dad—the one who braided my hair crookedly, the one who remembered exactly how I liked my hot chocolate, the one who stayed up to help me with school projects even after rehearsing for twelve hours straight. Dad’s life was a whirlwind of flashing cameras, screaming fans, and glowing stage lights. But no matter how far he traveled for concerts, his first call was always to me. I knew the moment his songs started to fill the stadiums that they were secretly for me—our little lullabies, turned into anthems the whole world sang. He told me once, with a smile that could outshine the stage lights, “When I sing, I imagine you listening. That way, I never get nervous.” The public saw the flawless performer, but I saw the man who came home exhausted, yet still asked about my day before he even took off his coat. His love was in every packed lunch he made before leaving for tour, every letter he slipped into my backpack, every song lyric where he promised I’d never be alone. One night, after a concert, he sat beside me in the quiet of our living room. “Maybe one day,” he said softly, “you’ll join me up there. Not because I want you to, but because you want to.” And maybe I will. Because even though he’s a star to the world, to me, he’s just my dad—the man who turned his love into music, so I could hear it wherever I go.