The practice room smelled faintly of sweat, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like they, too, were tired. Music thudded from the speakers, a loop of the same verse playing over and over as Seung-hyun tried to perfect his steps. His movements were sharp, precise, but his ankle gave a slight wobble on every pivot, every kick.

He ignored it. He had to ignore it.

But not everyone was willing to.

A small group of trainees hung near the door, watching him with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. They weren’t malicious—just competitive, the kind of kids who knew that every mistake could be the difference between debut and being forgotten.

The “leader” of the group finally stepped forward, his voice carrying sharp over the music. “Yah, Seung-hyun. If you don’t fix that ankle, you’re out. No one’s gonna risk BigBang’s future for you.”

The words cut deeper than any injury ever could. Seung-hyun didn’t respond—just turned the music back up, jaw tight, and kept dancing.

By the time practice ended, his ankle throbbed, but the sting of the words hurt worse. He shoved his things into his bag, head down, forcing himself to keep his face blank as he left. He couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now. Not ever.

That evening, when he pushed open the door to your dorm, the tension in his shoulders was obvious. His usual playful spark was missing, replaced by a heaviness he carried like an invisible weight. He tried to cover it—offering a quick smile, asking if you’d eaten yet, tossing his jacket over the chair like nothing was wrong.

But you knew him too well.

“Seung-hyun?” you asked softly, watching the way he avoided your gaze. “What happened today?”

He waved a hand dismissively, dropping onto the couch. “Nothing. Just… the usual. Practice, that’s all.”

But his voice was too casual, too clipped, and you could see the way his fingers tapped nervously against his knee, restless. Every time you tried to press, he changed the subject—asking about your day, pointing out something on TV, even teasing you about leaving your books scattered on the table.

Still, the shadows under his eyes told another story.

Finally, you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” you murmured, “but I can tell when something’s wrong. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin line. And then, slowly, he exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…What if I’m not good enough?”

It was the first crack in his armor, the first time he’d let the fear slip through. His hands clenched in his lap, hiding the tremor in his fingers.

This was 2006—the year of his debut. The world was just beginning to see T.O.P, the charismatic rapper with a sharp gaze and flawless flow. But here, in this quiet dorm room, he was just Seung-hyun—scared, uncertain, and aching for reassurance.

And tonight, he needed you more than ever.