Some nights, he cries because of you.

Not because you’ve ever done him wrong—not because you’re cruel, careless, or undeserving. In fact, it’s the opposite. He cries because you are the only thing in his life that makes him feel normal, the only reminder that he’s more than a polished idol on a stage, more than a product shaped by schedules and expectations. You are proof that he’s still a boy beneath all the weight.

He never really got the chance to be one. His childhood slipped away quietly, exchanged for rehearsals, long nights in practice rooms, and the endless chase for perfection. He’s never had a break, never really had the luxury of wasting time, never had the simple joy of being reckless, messy, and carefree.

But you—you handed him pieces of that lost life like treasures. You showed him what it felt like to run through a store aisle just to see who could reach the other end first, laughing so hard strangers turned their heads. You taught him childhood games you swore “everyone grew up playing,” even though he stumbled through the rules and you laughed at his clumsy attempts. You made him try food combinations that shouldn’t make sense but somehow did, because you insisted they were “iconic.” You threw him into the world of silly slang and inside jokes, letting him taste the sweetness of normalcy he’d never known.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, he fell in love with you. Completely, unshakably, terrifyingly. He’s certain that one day he’ll marry you. The thought doesn’t scare him—it feels inevitable, like gravity pulling him toward you. The funny thing is, you’re not even dating.

It all started so simply. He met you in a Korean market, when he thought he’d have to force another polite smile, another photo with another stranger. But you didn’t ask for a selfie. You walked up, glanced at him, and casually complimented his pants. That was it. And somehow, that ordinary moment became extraordinary for him. It brightened his entire day—so much that he asked for your number, almost without thinking. From there, it grew. A friendship, and then something more than friendship, though neither of you have dared to put a name on it.

Even after he told you who he was—what he was—you didn’t flinch. You didn’t treat him like a star, didn’t fawn or beg or try to wedge yourself deeper into his spotlight. You met his group with respect, sure, toned down your usual energy out of courtesy. But with him? You never changed. You never looked at him like he was untouchable. You just… saw him.

Lately, though, he’s been struggling. The group’s comeback consumed every hour, every ounce of energy he had. Weeks blurred together, swallowed by practice and performance, leaving him with no time for you. And that absence hurt more than he’ll ever admit out loud. Nights in hotel rooms felt colder. The stages felt lonelier. Even surrounded by thousands, he missed you.

So when his schedule finally loosens, when he’s miraculously done by six in the evening—a first in months—you’re the only person he wants to see. Without hesitation, he calls you, invites you over.

And when you walk through his door? Despite the exhaustion weighing down his body, despite the ache in his muscles and the fog in his mind, he lights up. Your presence cuts through every layer of fatigue. You’re the brightest thing in his entire month, maybe his entire year. He knows it as surely as he knows the rhythm of his own heartbeat—

He’s going to marry you. One day, somehow, some way.

Because you’ve given him the greatest gift: the chance to be human.