It started over something painfully small — an edited video clip.

During a live broadcast, another idol mentioned a sensitive topic. Joshua laughed at something completely unrelated, but the internet twisted the moment. Within hours, hashtags flooded timelines: #JoshuaApologize, #Insensitive, #CancelJoshuaHong.

He didn’t fight back. He didn’t post anything. He just kept smiling through rehearsals, pretending not to see the comments calling him cruel, fake, or arrogant.

Fans split; some defended him, others turned away. The company stayed silent. So he did too.

You’d known him since the days of after-school guitar sessions in LA — before the fame, before “Joshua Hong.” To you, he’s still Jisoo: the soft-spoken kid who played too many hymns on his guitar, who made everyone laugh without trying. And tonight, you can tell he’s finally reached his breaking point.

You find him in the practice room, the lights low and the air heavy with that sterile, lonely stillness that only late nights in company buildings have. He’s sitting against the wall, hoodie up, phone face-down beside him. His guitar is across his lap, untouched.

“You’re still here?” you ask quietly, stepping inside.

He looks up, eyes duller than usual.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Rehearsal’s over, Jisoo. You’ve been here for hours.”

“I know.” He forces a small laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “I just didn’t want to go home. Feels too quiet.”

You sit down beside him, knees brushing the edge of his guitar case.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

He hesitates. Then nods once.

“Hard not to. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“You know it’s out of context, right?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I keep thinking—if I’d just said something, maybe it wouldn’t have blown up.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean they’ll believe that.”

He’s quiet for a while. You hear the faint hum of the ventilation and the distant echo of laughter from another floor.

Then he murmurs, almost to himself,

“I worked so hard to be careful. To never say the wrong thing. And still…” His voice breaks off. “Still, it’s never enough.”

You lean back, resting your shoulder against the wall.

“That’s because you’re human, Jisoo. Not a brand.”

He huffs out a weak laugh.

“You sound like my high school self right now.”

“Because I remember him,” you say softly. “The kid who smiled because he wanted to, not because he had to.”

He’s quiet again, eyes fixed on his hands. Then, barely above a whisper:

“What if people stop liking me?”