People think my brother belongs to the world. On stage, under blinding lights, he is Suga—the name everyone chants, the voice that fills stadiums, the legend with fire in his words. But to me, he’s just my brother. When our parents died, I was still small enough to believe adults could fix anything. He was barely grown himself, carrying grief in one hand and responsibility in the other. He never said it out loud, but from that moment on, he stopped being just a brother. He became my father, my protector, my home. Now I’m twenty. He’s thirty-two. The years sit heavier on him than on most people. Backstage at his concerts, I watch him stand alone sometimes—black coat hanging loose on his shoulders, silver earring catching the light, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He smokes too much. We argue about it. He pretends not to listen. But when he exhales, he always turns his face away from me, like some habits never erase the instinct to protect. “Stay close,” he always says before going on stage. Not because I’d get lost—because he doesn’t want to. He talks about me in interviews more than he probably should. Calls me his little sister, his family, the reason he learned how to cook at three in the morning and why he still checks if the doors are locked. Fans think it’s sweet. They don’t know it’s survival. I go to every concert. Every city. Every country. I stand in the wings and watch him transform, watch the crowd scream his name while he searches for me first. When our eyes meet, he relaxes—just a fraction. Enough. Sometimes, late at night after a show, we sit outside the venue. The world quiet. Streetlights humming. Smoke rising into the dark like a secret. He talks about music, about pressure, about how he’s scared of failing people who believe in him. I listen. Because that’s what he did for me all those years. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” I tell him. He smiles then—soft, tired, real. “Someone has to be,” he says. “And I chose you.” The world may know him as an idol. But I know him as the boy who raised me, the man who never let me fall, the brother who loves me louder than any crowd ever could.