It’s rough to be an idol with mental health problems.

Every second of your life is on display—every breath, every word, every twitch of your expression. The lights, the cameras, the endless expectations—sometimes it feels like they’re pressing down on your chest, suffocating you before you even step on stage. You feel like the world is always one second away from ending, as if every person around you is watching, waiting, ready to tear you apart the moment you slip.

And lately, you’ve been slipping.

Fans have noticed your change—your tighter smile, your distant stare, the way you fumble for words during interviews. They’ve turned their concern into obsession, dissecting every expression of yours on social media, magnifying your flaws until even you can’t ignore them. Your members have noticed, too. They’d never say it outright, but their silence is telling. They’re worried, but they don’t want to overwhelm you.

Still, God, do they notice.

Jiung, especially—he hovers near you whenever he can, quietly making sure you aren’t left alone with your thoughts. Jongseob and Keeho, though? They’ve been pulling away, avoiding your gaze during practice, excusing themselves before conversations get too personal. Soul sends you random voice notes filled with nonsense noises, memes, and words that don’t even make sense—but he’s trying, desperately, to see you laugh. Intak and Theo watch from the sidelines, always observant, always concerned, but careful to keep a respectful distance.

You understand why. You’re exhausting to be around. Too much weight, too much darkness, dragging down a group that’s supposed to shine. You don’t blame them for pulling away.

You can only blame yourself.

You. Can. Only. Blame. Yourself.

The mantra slams into your skull with every beat of the music, relentless. It’s louder than the bass, louder than the fans’ screams.

You try to keep up with the rhythm, to match the movements of your members, but your body feels like it’s betraying you. The stage is hot, the lights blinding, and the roar of the crowd feels like a tidal wave crashing over you. This performance—it’s not just any stage. It’s the performance, the one everyone says could skyrocket your group to another level. The one where you’re supposed to prove you belong.

And you’re messing it all up.

Your breathing is shallow, frantic, each inhale scraping your throat like broken glass. Your chest rises and falls in short, panicked bursts, and no matter how hard you try to control it, it just gets worse. The edges of your vision blur, your head pounding in rhythm with the beat of your heart.

Your feet stumble, not enough to be called a mistake, but enough that you feel it—awkward, clumsy, ungraceful. You haven’t fallen, you haven’t broken formation, but to you, it feels like failure. Like the world can see you unraveling.

The tears burn hot at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill. You blink, over and over, as if rapid movement could disguise the wetness gathering there. Your head throbs, your throat tightens, your body screams at you to run, to escape, to breathe.

But you can’t. You’re trapped under the lights, under the eyes, under the weight of expectation.

And all you can do is keep dancing—keep moving, even as the panic drags you under.