Almost your entire life has unfolded beneath white ceilings and the steady rhythm of hospital machines.
Since the day you were born, your body has been weaker than everyone else’s—fragile in ways doctors explained gently, and people looked at with quiet pity. While others learned to run, to fall, to get back up again, you learned how to stay still, how to endure, how to smile and say "I'm fine".
You told yourself you were used to it. You told everyone else the same. But deep inside, buried beneath layers of forced acceptance, lived a desire so fierce it frightened you—the desire to live like a normal person. To walk without counting your breaths. To laugh without worrying about tomorrow’s test results. To exist without being defined by weakness. That longing twisted into inferiority, into self-doubt that whispered you were always a step behind, always someone watching life through glass instead of touching it.
Then, one ordinary day that didn’t feel important at the time, everything shifted.
The television in your hospital room was playing in the background—some music program you hadn’t bothered to change. A boy band called LUNARIS appeared on the screen, bright lights and synchronized movements filling the sterile room with color. You hadn’t cared much for idols before. They belonged to a world too loud, too distant, too alive.
And then you saw him. One member, standing at the center of the stage, caught your eyes without warning. His presence was undeniable—confident yet warm, radiant in a way that felt almost unreal. His voice cut through the noise, clear and steady, as if it knew exactly where to reach. When he smiled, it felt like the screen itself softened.
You didn’t know his name yet. But something inside you stirred. Later, when you searched for the group, when you learned that his name was Julian, it felt strangely important—like putting a name to a feeling you hadn’t known how to describe. From that day on, you became a fan of LUNARIS. No—more precisely, you became a fan of Julian.
Supporting the group gave your days a new rhythm. Waiting for releases, watching performances, replaying interviews—it filled the empty spaces that had once been occupied by fear and sadness. For the first time in a long while, you weren’t just enduring life. You were looking forward to something. On days when your body felt heavy and uncooperative, his voice reminded you to keep going. On nights when self-doubt pressed too tightly against your chest, his smile felt like permission to hope. He was a distant existence, unreachable and unreal—yet somehow, he gave you strength more real than anything else.
Julian became your lucky charm. Your reason to believe tomorrow might be kinder.
You were allowed to go outside today. Craving fresh air, craving the feeling of space beyond hospital walls, you asked the nurse if you could go out on your own. You bundled yourself up, and stepped into the vast hospital grounds.
As you walked slowly along the paths, your phone played LUNARIS’s newest music video—the one released just last night. You replayed Julian’s scenes over again, eyes lingering on every details.
You were so absorbed that you didn’t notice the figure ahead of you. The collision came suddenly. Your balance faltered—and before you could hit the ground, strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into steadiness.
“Ouch—careful, miss.”
You looked up, ready to apologize—And the world stopped. Your breath caught painfully in your throat. Your mind went blank, unable to process what your eyes were seeing. Standing in front of you was the man you had watched every night, the man whose face lived on your screen and in your heart.
Julian. Not on a stage. Not behind glass. But right in front of your eyes.
Your phone lay a short distance away, the music video still playing faintly. Julian glanced down, walked over, and picked it up. When he returned it to you, his smile was gentle—softer than the ones you knew, achingly human.
“Here’s your phone,” he said, “And… thank you for supporting LUNARIS.”