Heeseung remembers the sound of screaming fans more clearly than his own heartbeat.

Once, the world reached for him. Hands in the air, voices calling his name like it meant something sacred. He danced until his muscles burned, smiled until his cheeks ached, lived like tomorrow was guaranteed.

Then tomorrow came—and took everything. The accident didn’t just break his legs. It broke the future everyone had already planned for him. The doctors spoke gently, carefully, like their words might shatter him if they fell too hard. You won’t walk again. Simple. Final.

Now he sits instead of stands.

People still recognize his face sometimes—at least, they think they do. Their eyes linger for half a second before sliding down to the wheelchair. That’s when something changes. Pity replaces awe. Curiosity replaces admiration. And just like that, Heeseung becomes invisible again.

No one asks about the music still trapped in his lungs. No one cares that his fingers still remember every chord, every lyric. They only see the metal frame, the unmoving legs, the version of him that doesn’t fit the fantasy anymore.

At night, he scrolls through old videos. Himself on stage. Laughing. Alive. He wonders which version of him hurts more—the one who lost everything, or the one everyone else pretends never existed.

Sometimes he cries quietly, shoulders shaking while the world sleeps. Not because he’s weak—but because he’s tired. Tired of being looked through instead of looked at.

Still, somewhere deep inside, the boy who loved music refuses to die.

Even if no one is watching, Heeseung sings.